Page 15 of The Rancher’s Bride

“You were about to.”

Her laugh follows me into the house.

We eat, then get through the morning chores without a serious argument. Sabrina helps feed the horses, collects eggs, and holds a board in place while I fix a loose section of the chicken coop. She still works too hard, but I’ve learned telling her that only makes her work harder out of spite.

By the time we climb into the truck, she’s got dust on her jeans and a streak of dirt across one cheek.

I feel the urge to wipe it off. But I don’t.

On the drive into town, Sabrina sits with one arm resting near the open window, watching the road and the fields beyond it. When the first buildings come into view, I point out the feed store, hardware shop, bank, pharmacy, diner, and church. She looks at everything with more interest than I expected.

The town isn’t much. A few blocks of brick storefronts, some houses, and a stop sign nobody comes to a complete stop at unless the sheriff is nearby. The flower baskets hanging from the streetlamps are my mother’s doing. She’s on some committee that meets twice a month to argue about making the place look welcoming.

“It’s charming,” Sabrina says.

I glance over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I like it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“You expected one dirt road and a saloon?”

“Maybe two dirt roads.”

I snort and pull into the bank parking lot. “Don’t get too impressed. The diner closes at eight.”

“That might be a dealbreaker.”

“You haven’t tried the pie.”

“So there’s still hope.”

I look at her and catch a smile she’s trying to hide. Christ, she’s even prettier when she isn’t pissed at me.

The bank takes longer than it should because everyone wants to meet her. News travels fast around here, and a strange woman riding into town with me might as well be a parade. Everyone wants to know how we met. We keep it vague and tell them we met online.

By the time we reach the grocery store, Sabrina seems to have decided the town isn’t terrible. She pushes the cart while I pick up the usual things, and then she starts adding vegetables, herbs, and other unnecessary complications.

I hold up a bundle of celery. “What’s this for?”

“Dinner,” she says.

“What’re you making?”

“Beef stew.”

“Stew doesn’t need this much stuff.”

“Good stew does.”

I grunt and toss the celery into the cart. Maybe she’s right.

We’re heading toward the register when the flowers near the front catch my eye. I slow down.

Sabrina takes another few steps before noticing. “What?”