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PROLOGUE
The tall gambrel ceiling of the horse barn stretches overhead in long planks of dark, durable oak. The morning sunlight peeks in through the high-set windows, creating long fingers of golden-white glass and revealing dust particles dancing in the air like tiny orbiting planets. Far below, two naked men lie side-by-side, one awake, one asleep, slick with sweat from head to toe.
That’s me … and him.
Straw is caught in our hair and glued to our chests and arms. Ghosts of our kisses last night swim in my ears, taunting me. The way he moans is so unexpectedly sweet, it drives me wild. And my reply each time, in the form of whimpers I can’t suppress when his mouth is on me, making a snack out of every inch of my body.
But it’s all over now. Just our heavy breathing lingers. And the sweat dripping off of our bodies. And my tortured thoughts as I lie here awake.
And the long planks of dark, durable oak staring down on us.
I just let him inside of me—this cocky new farmhand I barely know. After all of the fighting. After the words I shouted at him—at this know-it-all, eighteen-year-old rookie.
I should have been stronger that one day and not let him kiss me. I should not have given in to his eyes, to his lips … to my own pounding heart. Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?
It all started when he first stepped foot on this farm one hot summer day, ready to work hard, eager to prove himself …
Determined to ruin me.
Chapter 1
Harrison
I crouch by the fence and bring a hand to the side of Peepers’ wooly face, who scowls back at me with two beady, charcoal eyes. Peepers is our rogue ewe who keeps getting out of her enclosure like a regular Houdini. In other words, she’s a total pain in my ass.
“But I love you anyway,” I tell her, “even if you cause me so much grief that I’m going gray in my eyebrows.”
She snorts and pulls her head away, heading off to the rest of the flock. I rise and lean against the fence with a sigh. My arms ache and my hands are something raw after a hard day, but the love I feel in my heart for this place makes all the effort worth it. Hmm, it’s already about time to shear the sheep again, I realize, gnawing on the inside of my cheek as I observe the flock.
The years sure fly by fast in Spruce, Texas. Seems like it was just yesterday that I was at my ten-year high school reunion.
It’s the start of yet another hot, blistering summer, and I’ve got a smile on my face. I know it may seem strange, but there is just something about the hard, thankless labor of working on Gary Strong’s farm that makes me feel complete. It’s humble, honest work. And it never ends.
And there’s just something about getting lost in that humble, honest, never-ending work that fills my heart right up to the top, giving me the chance to forget about everything else.
Like how dang quiet my place gets at night.
So quiet, I swear I can hear chickens farting in the coop across the field.
And I’m pretty sure something has made a home beneath my floorboards. I just hope it’s of the cute and cuddly variety and not the lethal, bitey kind.
“Harrison!” yells Fred, a fellow farmhand. His bald head is always sunburned like a cherry, and he’s tall, lanky, and fifty-something. “Can I get some help luggin’ these?”
I’m not sure if it’s my football build (which has grown bigger over the years) or just that I never say no, but I’m always the guy everyone calls on for help—especially involving physical stuff. Though I’m technically not the foreman, I pretty much act as one, with everyone coming to me when a problem arises, and with the owner Gary himself carrying out certain orders through me to the rest of the farmhands. Guess that’s what I’ve earned for having put twelve long years into this place: an assumed seniority.
I think it’s important to make yourself useful in life. There are so many purposes to fulfill, ones that don’t seem so significant at first. Like hoisting bags of feed. Brushing a horse’s flank. Patching up a fence. Hell, that fence could be the difference between our beloved Peepers remaining a fluffy pain in my ass, or becoming road kill. I much prefer the former.
I’ve got a sack of chicken feed over my shoulder, following Fred to the coop, when I catch sight of an unfamiliar face making his way to the bunkhouse. I watch him, curious. He looks like a sturdy teenager in jeans and sneakers, complete with a cowboy hat and plaid shirt. One arm is bulged from the effort of carrying a duffel bag at his side. Even completely clothed, I can tell from his confident, energetic walk that the kid’s got muscle and strength, which are two things we can never have enough of running this place. Is this the new guy Gary wants to bring on for the summer? Whether he’s a recruit from Fairview or a local, I hope he’s not just here to solicit a new brand of horseshoe or peddle insurance.
