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Three months, I remind myself. Three goddamn months.
“How many tractors do you have? And how many acres? And what about your employees?”
“Two tractors, and 17,000 acres.” Sweat streams down his brow as Charlie looks at me under the brim of his dusty cowboy hat. A hard scowl creases his handsome face. “Do you really need to know all this?”
“I do. It’s my job,” I remind him. “Employees?”
He tugs a cluster of weeds from the side of a shed. My stomach squeezes as I note the rippling muscles in his sculpted back. “We have a twenty-six-person crew. They live on the ranch from April to September.”
Without waiting for me, he starts across the gravel road toward the barn. I blow out a frustrated breath and chase after him.
He’s a man of few words. I’ll give him that.
I’ve trudged along with him for the last several hours asking him questions while he works. Watching while he chopped firewood and fixed the tractor in the shop. Listening while he chatted up one of the hired hands about taking a new group fishing down at Elk River.
So far I’m impressed with Charlie Montgomery. Runaway Ranch is a well-oiled machine with a solid backbone behind it. The staff seem happy and the guests are having fun. In my opinion, the video was bad, but not bad enough to warrant the negative response. The woman almost acted as if she wanted to cause a scene. There was no reason for Ford to continually get ridiculed in her comments.
“What about activities?” I huff, trying to catch up with Charlie.
“What about ‘em?” he shouts back.
I hide a smile at the ice in his tone as he stalks toward the barn.
That Charlie Montgomery looks like he’d rather have a fatal disease than me following him around only increases my desire to wear this man down.
I’m going to make him smile if it kills me.
All I need is a week to familiarize myself with the ranch, then I can work my magic in solitude. Me and Charlie Montgomery never have to see each other again. Even if the thought sends an ache deep into my belly.
I puff out a breath and hustle up to the man who left me in the dust. “Just do your thing,” I say, slightly winded. “Don’t let me slow you down.”
“You already are,” he grumbles.
The corner of my mouth turns up. I’m used to people scoffing at social media. I saw the doubt on their faces earlier this morning. The smugyeah, rightglances that passed between the brothers. They don’t think I can do it.
I can’t wait for the chance to prove them wrong.
“What’s that?” I point at a large red building that sits kitty-corner from the barn. The sign out front readsWarrior Heart Home.
“That’s Davis’s,” Charlie says. “He rehabs military working dogs. Works with them until they’re healthy, then either re-homes them, or we let them live out their days here.”
“Really?” I make a note on my phone. “That’s cool, Charlie.”
He lifts his hat, dragging a big hand through his disheveled hair. “When we have a group of kids on the ranch, we bring them here. Teach them how to always be kind to animals.”
My heart stutters at the sentiment.
It’s beautiful. I wonder if he knows that.
I pause and snap a photo of the habitat, gathering photos for the Instagram feed. When I look up, Charlie’s disappearing through the double Dutch doors that lead into the barn.
I chew on my lower lip and then hurry in after him.
Soft nickers greet me.
“Oh, my goodness,” I breathe.
The massive barn could double as a second home. The stained and painted interior has stalls lining both sides of the barn. On the far side, there’s a large hay storage room and a small kitchen with a cot and a bar. But it’s not the size of the room that catches my breath. It’s the three horses poking their noses over the stall doors, their dark eyes wet with curiosity.
