Page 7 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

By noon, two concepts are done. My back aches from sitting too long in a kitchen chair that wasn't designed for eight-hour work sessions, and the cabin walls are starting to close in. I need air.

The creek seems like a good destination. My creek. On my property.

I pull on boots and a jacket, grab my phone, and head out the back door. Down the new step, which doesn't even creak. Across the yard through grass that really needs cutting. Along the eastern fence line where the new wire glints in the midday sun.

The creek is prettier up close. Clear water moving over smooth stones, shallow enough to see the bottom. Banks lined with wild grass turning golden in the September light. Cottonwoods leaning over the water with leaves just starting to shift from green to amber.

I sit on a flat rock at the edge of the bank, pull my boots off, roll my leggings to my knees, and stick my feet in.

Cold. So cold my teeth ache. But the sun is warm on my face, and the water moves in a rhythm that loosens something behind my ribs.

This. This is why I came here. For quiet that feels chosen. For a place that doesn't ask me to be anything other than what I am.

"You're gonna get frostbite."

My whole body jolts. Water splashes up my shins.

Tate Rawlins is standing on the other side of the creek, about fifteen feet upstream, arms crossed over his chest. He's on foot this time. Dusty jeans, work boots, a canvas jacket with the collar turned up. Hat pulled low.

"Jesus." My hand's on my chest. Heart slamming. "Do you just materialize? Is that a skill they teach at ranching school?"

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A twitch. Gone before it fully forms.

"Checking the fence along the upper pasture." He nods upstream. "Saw you walk down here."

"Surveilling me now?"

"Hard not to notice someone wading into a creek in September."

"My feet are in the creek. That's not wading."

He drops his arms, walks along the opposite bank until he's across from me. Those hazel eyes move from my face to my bare calves in the water. Stay there one beat too long.

"Creek's cold this time of year," he says. "Snowmelt feeds it from the ridge."

"I noticed." My toes are going numb. I don't pull them out. "Wanna join me? Since you're so concerned about its accessibility."

That jaw muscle again. The one that tightens when I push back. He's got a face built for scowling, all hard angles, but the eyes give him away. They're warmer than he wants them to be.

Came to talk about the fence."

"Shocking."

"The previous owner and I had an agreement." He shifts his weight, hands going to his hips. "He gave me creek access for the east herd. In exchange, I kept his driveway clear in winter, fixed anything that broke. Kept an eye on the place."

"Like porch steps?"

A pause. His gaze slides sideways. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Somebody fixed my porch step while I was sleeping. Brand new lumber. Professional job. And since the only person within five miles who owns a hammer and has opinions about my property is standing right there, I'm gonna go ahead and say thank you."

He looks at me for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression. Not softer, exactly. Less guarded. "Step was a hazard. Couldn't leave it."

"You could have told me."

"Could have." He doesn't expand on why he didn't.

I pull my feet out of the creek, set them on the warm rock. My toes are bright pink. "So you want the same deal. Creek access for ranch maintenance."