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A vague memory floated to the surface of my thoughts: a strong arm circled around my waist, warm body flush against my side, callused hands working the muscles of my neck, a quiet voice telling me I’d done good.
Boone’s voice.
I wondered if he’d been the one to leave the Tylenol for me, knowing I’d be sore. My heart fluttered at the thought that he might care that much about me. Then I chastised myself for being so moony-eyed. As an employee, I was useless if I was too sore to move. He hadn’t cared about me personally; he just wanted to make sure I was able to work today.
Sufficiently chastised, I downed a couple of pills and guzzled the water. It was slow going getting down the hall to the bathroom, but once I finished showering, my muscles had loosened up some, and I was feeling a little better.
In fact, I felt practically light on my feet as I nearly skipped across the yard toward the main house, eager to see Boone and thank him for his thoughtfulness. Okay, so maybe I had the tiniest seed of a crush on my new boss. It wasn’t like I was going to do anything about it, but I couldn’t deny enjoying having someone so broad and masculine to drool over during my day.
Except Boone wasn’t at breakfast. And then he wasn’t at lunch. Or dinner. Or breakfast the following day. For several days, my eyes searched for him like laser-guided surveillance cameras, constantly scanning the ranch for the shape of him. Every now and again, I caught a brief glimpse of him or evidence that he’d been around. There’d be an extra plate on the kitchen counter for him, wrapped in foil to keep warm. Or sometimes, there’d be an empty plate by the sink, an indication that he’d already eaten and gotten back to work. And almost every afternoon, I found a stack of fresh notes written in Boone’s distinctive scrawl left by the computer in Jed’s office, telling me which information on the ranch’s unwieldy herd spreadsheets needed to be updated.
If I was lucky, sometimes I’d see Boone from a distance—talking to Jed or making his way to one of the barns. On my fifth night on the ranch, I was making my way across the yard to the main house for dinner when I caught sight of him riding his horse out in one of the pastures, silhouetted against the setting sun. The image was so striking that I slowed my steps and stared.
He was more outline and shadow than substance, a darkness against the brilliant oranges and pinks painting the sky over the distant mountains. As I watched, he pulled off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead. For a moment, he seemed to slump a little, like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. But then he straightened and returned his hat to his head, the strong cowboy once again.
I couldn’t resist slipping my phone from my pocket and snapping a picture. My timing was perfect—I caught him just as he urged his horse on, the photo capturing the coil of tension in both man and horse, the perfect symmetry between the two. Victory lurched forward, taking off across the pasture, and within seconds, the pair was out of sight.
I stood staring at the empty pasture, feeling an odd sense of absence. But then my stomach grumbled, and I shrugged and started again toward the main house. Without giving it a second thought, I posted the image on Instagram with some sort of meaningless caption and the wink emoji that was destined to generate loads of comments.
After nearly a week of Boone-less days, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching. I groaned, rolling over in bed and pushing my sleep mask up over my forehead. There was another scratch, followed by a soft whine. Birdie, I realized. She was sitting at the door, staring at it as if she could open it through sheer force of will alone.
“What is it, girl?” I asked. “Is Timmy stuck down a well somewhere?” If dogs could roll their eyes, I’m sure she would have. Instead, she let out a huff and pawed at the door again. Clearly, she needed to go out and required my help.
With a sigh, I pushed back the covers and swung my legs out of bed, swallowing a shriek when my feet hit the ice-cold floor. My Gucci slippers had seemed an inspired choice when packing for a month at a ranch, but in reality, they were no match against the freezing cold early mornings. Plus, without staff on hand to clean them, it was a bitch to get mud out of the shearling.
