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Ezra looks like Cole with his chiseled jaw and dark hair. But he’s leaner, clean-shaven, and polished compared to Cole’s scruffy stoutness. He exudes calm and wears wire-framed glasses and a button-up, scrambling all my preconceived notions of what it means to be a rugged rancher.
Broad shoulders. Chiseled chips-of-ice blue eyes. Stetsons and big belt buckles and over-six-foot-tall frames. The Weston genes ought to be auctioned to the highest bidder.
“And who are you?” I ask the little girl. She’s wearing a unicorn dress.
“I’m Evangeline.” She props small hands on her hips. “I have a secret. Want to know it?”
“Of course.”
She looks at my heels. “I like your shoes. They’re very fancy.”
“Oh, well, thank you. I like them too.”
Ezra gives me an apologetic look. “We read The Secret Garden, and now secrets are all she can talk about.”
I think of my own secret burning a hole inside of me.
“Should we get started?” Ezra asks.
I force my mind to the present. “Let’s do it.”
Evangeline tugs on Ezra’s pant leg. “Daddy, I wanna go.”
Worry flickers in Ezra’s eyes. “Evvie, I don’t think—”
“It’s okay. She can stay. I don’t mind.” I like kids. She reminds me of Lucy.
Ezra loops his fingers through his belt loops and exhales. “Cole says you have bartending experience.”
“I do.” My hand lifts to my necklace. “I worked at a club where I bartended for a year. All I know are basic drinks, but I’m a quick study. I can pick up anything.”
“You’re helpin’ us out a lot, you know that.” Relief creases Ezra’s handsome features.
“Least I can do.”
“Do you know anything about whiskey?”
Yeah. I know a man who blew his brains out after drinking two fingers.
I force a smile. “Just how to pour it.”
He inclines his head. “C’mon. I’ll show you around. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk over to the distillery.”
I glance down at my heels, doubtful, but I’ve never been a quitter.
My heart swells as Evangeline slips her hand into mine.
“New friend for life.” Ezra’s gaze bounces to our linked fingers.
I smile down at Evangeline. “I’ll take it. My first friend in Tempest.”
Slowly, we tour the property. Rays of sunlight stream through the cloudless sky. Crisp mountain air fills my lungs. The scent of pine and honey. Copper Run Ranch is picturesque. It seems so strange for whiskey to be made in such a stunning setting, but it only adds to the charm.
“The ranch is divided into two halves,” Ezra explains, gesturing behind us where the Creek House sits. “To the west—where you’re staying—is Copper Run, which operates as a working ranch and animal sanctuary.” His hand stretches in front of us. “To the east, is the distillery, Weston Whiskey.”
I really want to see the ranch and the animals, but Ezra seems focused on whiskey, so I let him lead the way. As we pass over rock and long grass, I realize that my peep-toe pumps and sundress mean I dressed poorly. But it’s not like I had a choice. I’m completely out of my element.
“You work here?” I ask, gingerly stepping over a mud puddle.
