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When I finally leave the barn, I find Lincoln and Hank right outside the barn door. They’re immersed in conversation and don’t notice me at first.

I’ve avoided Lincoln all day. I know the silent treatment is petty, but it’s humiliating that our kiss meant so little to him that he couldn’t even say goodbye last night, and obviously never tried very hard to find me today, either.

Lincoln is in a pair of jeans that hug his ass and thighs. They’re worn in, lighter around the seams and the knees. He’s wearing his cowboy hat and crossing his arms as he speaks to Hank. He trimmed his beard shorter to only a shadow of facial hair around his chin and cheekbones. I hate how my stomach dips at the sight of him.

The barn door clicks shut, and both men look up at me. Lincoln’s eyes widen in surprise, like he hoped he wouldn’t see me at all today. It hurts.

Hank smiles. “Hattie, I’ve barely seen you all day.”

I keep my eyes trained on Hank, avoiding Lincoln’s gaze. “Yeah, I was working with Dolly on the jump, but she’s not having it today.”

Hank chuckles. “Dinner should be ready if you’re hungry. Dad’s making pot pies.”

I clear my throat. “Oh, thanks. But I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

His forehead scrunches. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, a hot bath is calling my name. It’s freezing here for October.”

He laughs—jolly and charming—the total opposite of how I currently feel. “Yeah, we definitely don’t have those nice California winters.”

I manage a smile. “Well, goodnight.”

“Night, Hattie,” he says as I walk away.

Once I’m inside my small cabin, I slip off my riding boots by the door and immediately remove my bra and clothing, then change into my silk pajamas and thick socks. Comfort was my first priority, now food. Pot pie sounded amazing, way better than the instant oatmeal I’m about to make.

I need some time alone tonight, though. I know I should soak up every moment with Hank and Otto, but I’m in such a foul mood.

Filling a small pot with water, I set it on top of the wood-burning stove, then get to work arranging the firewood inside the stove with kindling and light it with a match. I’ve gotten decent at getting the fires started; it makes me feel like a real girl scout. The water for my oatmeal comes to a boil quickly on the stove, but I wrinkle my nose as I stare at it.

Oatmeal sounds…meh.

A knock from the cabin door startles me, my hand coming to rest over my racing heart. I cross the room and open the door a crack, trying not to let cool air inside.

To my annoyed surprise, I find Lincoln Galloway on my front stoop looking sinfully sexy. Which pisses me off.

“What do you want?”

He purses his lips. “I brought you a pot pie. And I have more firewood.”

Looking down, I see the pot pie resting in his big hand and a pile of wood at his feet. I reach out and grab the pot pie, still warm, and slam the door.

“Hattie,” his deep voice grumbles through the door, then a soft thunk like he banged his forehead against it.

“Thanks for the pie, but I don’t need any wood. I’ve had plenty of wood in my life. Actually, I think I need a break from wood.”

I hear him groan.

“Wood is quite overrated. Never worth the drama that comes with the warmth,” I continue.

“Just let me in.” His voice is louder now, like his face is right up against the door.

“Why?” I demand.

“I’m sorry for taking off last night, okay? Just let me explain.”

The tone of his voice is so sad, it tugs at my heart. I know I’m a sucker, but thinking of the handsome cowboy slumped sadly against my door has my defenses melting.