Page 5 of Rescued By the Mountain Man Cowboy
Gabe's voice. Clipped. Tight in a way it hasn't been since that situation with the missing cattle last summer.
I unclip the radio from my belt. "Yeah, boss. At the south stable. Buttercup needs her hooves looked at before that guided ride tomorrow."
"Leave it. Come to the main office. Now."
I pause with my thumb on the button.
Gabe doesn't do now. Gabe does when you got a minute and no rush. The one time he did do now was the morning a mare went into bad labor and we almost lost her and the foal both.
"On my way."
I clip the radio back, and give Buttercup one last stroke down the length of her nose. She watches me like she knows something I don't.
"Don't give me that look."
I cut across the back pasture. The property spreads out in every direction, three hundred and eighty acres of timber and meadow and creek. The ranch distillery sits in a sprawling building to the east, already hosting a tour with a bachelorette party and some guy from Seattle who keeps asking if there are bears. There are bears. But he should be more worried about the cougars.
My boots crunch gravel as I hit the path toward the main house. Already, my jaw's tightening. Whatever Gabe wants, it's gonna cut into my afternoon. I got a fence line to walk, a saddle to oil, and a pile of quiet I've been saving up for myself since sunrise.
The office is in the far wing of the main house, set apart from where distillery visitors check in. I push through the side door.
And stop.
Madison Moore is standing in front of Gabe's desk with her arms crossed, her blonde hair twisted up off her neck, her whole posture the kind of tight that happens when a lawyer's already three moves ahead of everyone in the room.
That's not what stops me.
What stops me is the woman sitting in the leather chair in the corner. Small. Dark hair pulled back loose, like she did it without looking. Hands folded in her lap, knuckles white. Dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that's too warm for the weather, like she grabbed the first thing she could find and didn't care. There's a purse at her feet. A small duffel beside it.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Jesus.
She's got this face. Sharp cheekbones, full mouth, dark eyes ringed in the kind of shadows that mean she hasn't slept in days. She looks at me the way a deer looks at a hunter. Frozen. Assessing. Deciding if I'm the thing that's about to kill her.
I clock the exits without meaning to. Old habit. Two doors, one window, no obvious threats in the room.
"Luke." Gabe's already standing. "This is Anna Kim."
I tip my hat at Anna because my mama raised me not to be a complete asshole. "Ma'am."
She doesn't answer. Just keeps looking at me.
Gabe clears his throat. "Need to talk to you outside for a minute."
"Sure."
I follow him out onto the wraparound porch. He pulls the door shut behind us, and the second it clicks, I know.
"No."
"You haven't even heard me yet."
"Don't need to."
Gabe leans against the porch rail and pinches the bridge of his nose. He's my age, give or take. Black hair gone a little salt at the temples, amber brown eyes, the kind of quiet authority that makes men fall in line without him raising his voice. He gave me this job when I came back from the desert with a head full of static and no plan past the next twenty-four hours. I owe him.
But I owe myself more.
