Our eyes hold across the short distance as his comment floats through the air and fades like the dust specks dancing in the sunlight.

  “That won’t work, you know?” I say.

  “What won’t?”

  “You trying to charm me every time you want something. I know your kind, Jack Sutton, and I’m not impressed by them.”

  “Is that so?” He shifts on his feet and adjusts his hat before re-crossing his arms over his chest. “And what kind is that?”

  “A man who uses his good looks and smooth words to get his way with people. A man who turns on the charm to disguise it.”

  His eyes darken and then narrow. “Just like you’re the woman who keeps living her privileged life . . . fiddling while Rome burns down around her?” he counters, making me want to scream that he knows nothing about me or how I live or what I’ve been through for the last year. A small part of me is shouting about how that was his point, but I tell the voice to shut up. “And if by good looks and smooth words, you’re implying I’m like Fletcher, I suggest you not infer that again.” That muscle in his jaw feathers in contempt.

  “I’m not the woman you think I am.”

  He twists his lips and stares at me in a way that feels like he is seeing right through me. It’s unnerving and unsettling, and I force myself not to look away because his silence is telling me that maybe he thinks I am.

  I’m not sure why that bugs me. Why I want him to see me as someone different.

  “I’m not even certain you know who that woman is either,” he says. Before I can process what he means, he continues, “Tell me about the complaints lodged against the ranch. They’re talked about but no one seems to know what they are or who’s making them. Any clue?”

  “They’re baseless and not relevant in the grand scheme of things.”

  “I beg to differ.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he studies me. “This is the part where you try to trust me, Knox.”

  Heat flushes my cheeks as I struggle with how to do this, how I start to let someone in. “I’m trying.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” He nods and doesn’t call me out on the panic he can probably see swimming in my eyes.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, who’s making these complaints and why? What exactly did Fletcher or you do to the people in town that earned you that look every time either of your names is brought up?” He shakes his head. “If you paid off all of your accounts in town with his life insurance benefits like rumor has it, what in the hell are you sinking your profits into? I know you said there hasn’t been a ton of foals, but Christ, Knox, where’s the money going?”

  Each question is like a blow to the face, and by the time he finally falls silent, I might as well be lying on the floor bleeding. I steal myself against the pain the answers to his questions bring and glare at him.

  “What I do with my money is my business. How I make it, how I spend it . . . my business. Last I remember, I kicked you out of here on day one for listening to the town gossip mill.” It’s my only defense and a shitty one at that.

  “Your money is my business. Did you forget that you hired me to make you more of it? I have to know what you have and what the budget is for me to make this magic happen.” He grabs a handful of hay off the bales stacked beside him and throws it to the ground as if everything he said wasn’t hard for me to hear. “It seems you need to be coddled. Not my style. Fletcher may have spent hours stroking that ego of yours, but rest assured, I won’t.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I wasn’t aware that was part of my contract.” His laugh is loud and rich and irritating. “Fighting the whole world isn’t an option, so it seems you have decided to constantly pick a fight with me. Is that what this is? Kick me out. Ask me to stay. Not give me the tools I need to do my job so you have someone to blame?”

  “This conversation is over,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Nah, we’re just getting started,” he says with a laugh and a smack of his hands, “because we’re finally getting somewhere. I’m finally figuring you out. I’m finally understanding why every couple of days you sink to the bottom of your pool and scream at the top of your lungs because you don’t think anyone can hear you.”

  I just stare at him, feeling more naked, more vulnerable, than I have in what feels like forever.

  Having to deal with what Fletcher did, how what he did made me feel, is one thing, but I learned my lesson. I told myself I’d never let myself feel that way again, and yet, something as simple as Jack seeing me in my weakest moments gets to me.

  “You’re a bastard.” My voice is barely audible as the shame and hurt course through me. “Get out. I didn’t invite you on my ranch to take shots at me left and right.” I point to the door of the stable, wanting space, needing distance.

  “Why are you constantly on the fucking defensive? Can’t you see that all I’m trying to do is to get you to talk? All I’m trying to do is to get you to trust that I’m going to try to help you.” He blows out a frustrated sigh that I can hear but that I can’t process being the cause of. “I’m on your side, Knox. I’m—”

  “No one’s on my side.” My voice is soft, even . . . raw with a vulnerability I hate. “I learned that the hard way.”

  11

  JACK

  She looks like a little kid who’s lost.

  Her eyes are wide, and her voice is soft but determined. Fuck if I don’t feel like an ass for slipping that I’d seen her in the pool—that I’d seen her in a private moment as she worked through her own shit.

  But it’s out there, so I can’t take it back.

  All it’s done is make her push me away harder and shut down faster. This is the second time I’ve seen her do this, so maybe it’s her natural defense mechanism? Guilt or anger or insecurity, I’m not sure, but blocking me out isn’t going to do her or this ranch any good.

  Sure, maybe she had it easy when she was growing up. Maybe when she first met Fletcher, the world was in the palm of her hand, but the hurt I see in her eyes right now is deeper than a spoiled primadonna throwing a tantrum because her husband died and now she has to get her hands dirty with work.

  It’s more than that.

  And I need her to see it.

  I need her to realize this is hers now.

  Not Fletcher’s.

  “I’m not on your side?” I ask. “I’m not here trying to turn your horseshit into diamonds for you?”

  I stare at her proud shoulders and petite body, at the gray in her eyes and the wisps of hair that curl around her cheeks, at the swell of her breasts through her tank top and the tight fit of her jeans around her hips.

  And I wonder how I can want her and not really like her at the same time.

  Her unique beauty is undeniable, and I’m not sure I’d ever want to tame her temper or mood swings.

  “I’ve been busting my ass nonstop for a year to try to make this work. I know I hired you to help, but it seems you spend more time questioning me than anything.”

  “Maybe if you’d answer the questions, I’d stop asking them.”

  “What’s the question this time?” She asks, but I doubt she’ll answer the one I’m going to ask.

  “What’s your end game?”

  “My end game?” she asks, that fire of hers faltering momentarily.

  “Yeah, your end game. What is it you hope to get out of this? Make the ranch successful and sell it off? Make it profitable and live out your days here with a new husband and the two point five kids? Walk away in a month without a glance backward? What?”

  Confusion flickers across her face followed by determination, but she doesn’t respond.

  “You ever run a breeding ranch before? Have you ever even been to one before Fletcher bought this one?” I ask, switching gears.

  “What’s your point?” Her hands are on her hips, and her lip is curled up in anger.

  “How’d you learn to do all of this?” I point to the pasture beyond the stable and to the feed scoop in her hand. “If you never learned how to do all this, then how do you plan on succeeding?”

  “He taught me a few things. Others I picked up from watching the hands we had. Some from research on the internet. I’m doing the best that I can.”

  “How do you know you’re doing it right?” I push.

  There it is . . . the look I knew she’d give me.

  Insecurity, nice to fucking meet you. I’ve been waiting for you to show, waiting for her to acknowledge that you’re why she’s continually sabotaging my success.

  So I push harder.

  “Just how do you know you’re doing it right? Is it Fletcher’s fault you weren’t more prepared? Will it be his fault if this ranch fails? Will it, in part, be his achievement if it doesn’t?”

  “I’ve got work to do.” She glares at me.

  “It was Fletcher’s dream, wasn’t it?” I ask, ignoring her comment.

  “This conversation has nothing to do with him.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I chuckle and push her buttons again. “He brought you here and then screwed you over. No one would blame you for walking away. No one would blame you if the ranch failed. Hell, sell off the horses and give them a better life on some other ranch and you can move on.”

  She growls out in frustration, and when I smile at her response, I swear to god she balls up her hands to punch me.

  At least that would be more cathartic than screaming under water.

  Does she not see what I see?

  “You gave up your dream to chase his, didn’t you?” I take a step closer, and the fisting of her hands doesn’t relent. “Photography, right? You gave up all that creativity you thrived on to live this lifestyle. I bet that wasn’t part of the bargain when you moved here. I bet that wasn’t something you thought would happen.”

  “Him dying wasn’t part of the bargain either, but it happened,” she says with a chill to her voice. “And you don’t get to waltz into my life and act as if you know what’s best for me and for my horses.”

  There you are, Tate. Good to see you again.

  “You invited me in, though, didn’t you?” My smile is mocking.

  “Let’s get something straight.” She jabs her finger in my direction. “I don’t have to explain to you that this sure as hell was his dream, not mine. Not in the least. But after every single thing I’ve been through, maybe I want to prove to myself—to my parents, who wrote me off; to the judgmental cows in town, who do nothing but talk shit; to my dead husband, who screwed me over—that I’m nothing like they think I am. That I can succeed. That I can make this place what he never could. Then maybe, just maybe, everything I lost in the process might have been worth it.”

  Our eyes hold and question and challenge before she turns back to the grain in front of her. But all she does is grip the edge of the counter and breathe in the truth she just allowed herself to voice.

  My voice is soft when I speak to her back. “Don’t look now, Knox, or you might stop questioning yourself and realize you’ve kept this place afloat. You. Not Fletcher. Not the people in town. Not your parents. You. So, the next time someone asks you to defend what you’re doing, stand behind it. Don’t let them tell you you’re wrong, even if you’re secretly questioning if you are. You own this place now. You’ve been running it. You fucking defend it.” I take another step closer and give a quick shake of my head she can’t see. “You want to fight? You want to go scream in the deep end of your pool? Be my fucking guest. But remember who you are. Remember that this is your dream now and you’re going to fight like hell for it.” I take a step back. “I’ve got work to do.”

  12

  TATE

  Discord still rides like a tidal wave through me as I stalk my ass down to the bunkhouse. It has been this way all afternoon, ever since Jack told me to keep standing my ground.

  For the first time in forever, I swear to God something other than despair fills me. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I’ll take it.

  If giving Jack Sutton what he wants will help prolong this feeling, then I’ll do just that, I’ll give him everything I have. I’ll kill him with kindness in the form of breeding schedules and bloodline histories on our horses.

  “Jack!” I shout as I approach the bunkhouse, a box full of enough binders and spreadsheets that his eyes will cross after studying them heavy in my arms. “Jack!” I kick the front of his door before setting the box down on the porch.

  “Yeah?” he calls from somewhere on the side of the house.

  And right as I turn the corner to go tell him what I’ve left for him, I run smack dab into him. Since he had been jogging toward me when we collided, he knocks me backward with his momentum.

  I land on my back with a thud.

  And he lands right on top of me.

  Every long, lean, hard, shirtless inch of him.

  The strangled cry that comes from my mouth has so much more to do with the assault on my senses than the shock of our collision.

  “Well, shit.” He laughs in that easy manner of his that tugs on the latent desire in me I want to ignore as it vibrates through his chest into mine.

  “Oh. Sorry. I mean—”

  Then a split second after he pushes off me and before I can sit up, he squats beside me, eyes intense. “I guess that’s as good of an apology as any,” he says with that lopsided, boyish smile of his.

  “Apology?”

  “Relax, Knox.” He clasps my hand in his to help pull me up. “I was teasing you.”

  “Yes. Of course. I, uh . . .” I forget what I was going to say because he’s standing there shirtless and I want to look but don’t want to admit that I want to look . . . “Yeah. That.”

  “That?” He chuckles as he runs a hand through his hair, each and every one of his muscles, which I’m not supposed to be noticing, are suddenly impossible not to look at. “What’s that?”

  I clear my throat and point to the box on his porch he can’t see, his shirtless torso distracting me more than I’d like to admit. “That’s it. The box, I mean. It’s what you asked for.”

  He steps around me to peek around the corner, giving me an unhindered view of all the striations in his shoulders and back. “I’ve asked for a lot.”

  He faces me and lifts a lone eyebrow when it takes a second for my eyes to snap to his instead of his body.

  “Yes. You do. You bet. I’ll get some for you.”

  He bites his lip with his smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. “You will?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I nod because I have no clue what I am agreeing to but can’t seem to get my brain to work.

  “Good thing, then.”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “So, when should we plan it for? Tomorrow night? The day after?”

  “Wait—what?” I ask, suddenly wary.

  “Dinner.” That damn smile of his causes things to stir in my belly that I haven’t felt in years.

  “Dinner?”

  “Yep. I said I liked steak and potatoes, and you said you loved to cook and were excited to finally have someone to cook for.”

  “You’re insane.” I push against his chest in jest but then realize what I’m doing and yank my hand back. “I did no such thing.”

  “Yes, you did,” he says as his eyes sweep down the length of my body. “Here.” I jump as he reaches out and dusts something off my hip. “You had some dirt. My fault.”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “See?” He laughs, and it’s such a welcome sound when it isn’t that haughty, know-it-all tone he normally uses. “You just agreed again to dinner later this week.”

  “Whatever.” I wave both of my hands at him. My own smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “The box has the breeding lines and blood schedules inside it.”

  “You mean bloodlines and breeding schedules?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Do I make you nervous, Knox?”

  “Of course not,” I say as I almost trip over my feet in my haste to take a step backward.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s just been a long day. It’s just been . . . you know how it’s been.”

  “I do.” He takes a few steps toward the front porch and bends over to pick up the box. “Should I pick up some steaks when I head into town tonight?”

  “Jack.” His name is an exasperated sigh.

  “If you’re cooking, it’s the least I can do.”

  “Sure.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll get right on that.”

  “Cool.” He nudges the handle on his door to bring the box inside as I stare at him, mind spinning.

  “So that’s why you go into town every night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Earlier today. In the stable.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder as if he understands it means when we were fighting. “You talked about the rumors about my finances. Is that where you heard them? Do you go to the bar to catch up on the latest gossip about your boss?”

  Careful, there, Tate. You sound like a conceited, controlling woman with comments like that.

  “Why assume I’m at the bar?”

  “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” Nerves lace the edge of my voice. “What I meant was—”

  “I’m not out to get you, Tate. I promise I’m not going into town to try to get dirt on you.”

  “Of course, you aren’t,” I say, feeling like such an idiot. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” Why am I so tongue-tied all of a sudden around him? “What I meant—I just . . . never mind.”

  “Who says I don’t head into town because I’m a shitty cook and need to eat?”

  There’s an intensity to his stare that I can’t make myself look away from. It’s almost as attractive as that little ghost of a smile that plays at the corners of his mouth. “There’s always peanut butter and jelly.”

  “A man can only live on so many PB&Js, Knox.”

  “True.”

  And just when I’m certain this conversation is over, Jack takes a step back toward me and says, “I go to town every night—sometimes the bar, other times the diner—because the pulse of a small town is always felt in the people around you. Who’s doing what. Who’s screwing who. Where you can catch a break.” His smirk is a slow smolder as his eyes take a long minute to skim lazily over my body, feeling like a trail of fire heating my skin, before meeting mine again. “That, and it’s a hell of a lot easier sitting in town each night than sitting here, knowing you’re less than two hundred yards away looking like that.”