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People think that’s a cliché, but in design and home décor, it’s the endgame.
There’s a huge difference between a house and a home. Ridge needs to make his place truly his.
Standing, I lean against an empty stall, scanning the barn again. There are ten nice wide ones, plus two larger stalls that I assume are for birthing and a good-sized indoor exercise area for the bitterest winter days.
“Have you made any headway on the master plan for this place?”
“I’m thinking classic cattle ranch.” He sits down on a bale, chewing that straw between his teeth. “I have the acreage for a real operation, but I’d also love to keep a herd small and organic. There’s a hell of a market for that right now. Grass-fed beef is the gold standard.”
His legs shift apart, bowing out at the knees, turning him into the perfect picture of the rugged North Dakota rancher.
Oh. My. God.
Whatever else he needs help with, the Western McHottie vibe comes naturally.
He’s got the clothes down pat, the sculpted body of a god, and eyes that could make blue nights seethe with jealousy.
“True,” I admit, hating how flushed the rosy heat in my cheeks must be making me.
“I’ll rustle up more chickens, too. Maybe a few to help teach Corny some manners. The brat could use them.” He looks at me then and grins. “Hell, maybe someday I’ll even carve out a whole field of pumpkins. Always liked Halloween.”
I burst out laughing at the absurdity of a big, messy pumpkin patch next to his fields. He’ll probably run the sort of place that looks immaculate and shows up in magazines and travel shows, tidy crops and a lawn so green it sears the vision.
“They’re more work than you think,” I point out, lifting a finger. “And if you don’t have people lined up to grab them, the compost job alone—”
“Darlin’, when I go, I go all-in. Never thought about a field full of jack-o-lanterns before you showed up, but I bet it was fun. Having people coming out, picking them, taking hayrides and having bonfires. This would be a good place for that. People would have to drive a while to get here if I ever get more than Dallas townies, so I’d better have things for them to do.” He shrugs. “Besides gawk at my famous, easily annoyed ass, I mean.”
“Good luck. Say goodbye to your low profile if you ever did any of that,” I warn him, raising a brow.
His firm, easygoing smile disappears.
I shake my head, sensing he’s disappointed over reality setting in.
“It’s probably not the end of the world,” I say. “You didn’t exactly keep a low profile last night, either. Stepping in the way you did.”
“That was different,” he rumbles, his voice low like thunder. “I had to.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t obvious? Because I can’t fucking stand pricks like—” He pinches his lips together, glancing around before finishing, “Guys who pick on women.”
“He didn’t do it for the fun of it. Not that it matters, I guess,” I say glumly. Feeling I owe him some explanation, I look up, meeting those piercing blue eyes. “He was hired to follow us.”
“Yeah, I figured that much. Why? What the hell does your dad owe these jackoffs?”
I shake my head, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.
“I know, I know it’s your father’s story, yada yada yada…still, it involves you. So it’s also yours, Grace.”
Ouch.
I can’t really argue with that.
I huff out a breath. “Dad just got mixed up with the wrong crowd years ago for reasons I won’t go into. It was stupid, and he realized his mistake and left that world while he still could. Trouble is, no matter how hard he tries, it won’t leave him.”
“And someone in that crowd wants you,” Ridge says slowly, tightening his jaw on the straw. It crunches between his teeth.
My stomach clenches at how easily he figures it out.
Right on cue, my pulse doubles, bad memories coming in a hot, sickly flash of images.
“He wants everything.” My throat burns as I admit it.
“Sounds like he’s already taken most of what you had.” He holds my eyes while his right hand forms a fist, knuckles pressing deep into his thigh. “What else is left?”
This man isn’t all savior.
He’s too smart. Too intuitive. Too much trouble.
There’s no sense in lying, so I nod. Barely.
“You’re safe here. I give you my word. Anyone trying to get to you has to go through me.” He thumps his chest with the same fist, a rebel glint in those lightning-blue eyes.
From anyone else, it’d be almost comical how exaggerated it seems, this man talking like we’re part of an action script.
But the severe dark tone in his voice leaves no doubt how serious he is. Or what lengths he’d go to live up to his word.
Crap. I can’t let him do this.
