Page 4 of The Rancher’s Bride

I jerk at the voice behind me. Water hits the back of my throat wrong, and I cough into the sink, pounding a fist against my chest.

“Jesus Christ.” I turn around, still coughing. “You trying to kill me?”

Sabrina stands in the doorway with her arms folded. “All I did was ask you a question.”

“You came out of nowhere.”

“I walked through the doorway.”

“Well, stomp next time. Clear your throat. Something.”

Her mouth flattens. “I’ll try to remember.”

I finish the water and put the glass down. “Fence post gave out. Cattle got through. They’re back in now.”

“Were any of them hurt?”

The question takes some of the edge off me. “No.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

I look at her standing in my kitchen, and the whole damn situation hits me again. There’s a woman in my house. Not someone dropping by. Not a neighbor needing help. Sabrina has two suitcases with her and thirty days to decide whether she wants to marry me.

Assuming I decide I want to marry her.

The whole thing sounded a hell of a lot less insane after half a bottle of whiskey. That’s when I filled out the application. I’d come in late, eaten cold leftovers over the sink, and spent another night listening to the house sit empty around me. I’d seen the advertisement before and thought it was bullshit. Then I got drunk enough to stop pretending I liked eating alone every night.

A wife didn’t sound so bad. Someone to talk to. Someone in my bed. Kids running around the place someday.

I’d thought about all the parts I wanted and none of the ones that came with them. Another person in my rooms. Touching my things. Asking where I’m going and when I’ll be back. Watching me closely enough to notice every shitty habit I’ve built over the years.

Sabrina looks like she notices plenty. Maybe this was a stupid fucking idea.

I push off the counter. “Might as well show you the place.”

I don’t wait to see whether she agrees. There isn’t much to explain anyway. Kitchen, living room, office, bathroom downstairs. Three bedrooms upstairs, though one is mostly filled with boxes and another hasn’t been used in years.

I point to the back door. “You’ve got to lift it when you lock it or the latch won’t catch.”

“All right.”

“Hall closet sticks. Pull hard.”

She nods.

In the living room, I gesture toward the shelf beside the fireplace. “Don’t rearrange the records.”

Her gaze goes to them. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“And the chair stays where it is.”

She looks at the old leather recliner, then at me. “Why would I move your chair?”

“Women move things.”

One eyebrow climbs higher than the other. “Women?”

“My mother comes over and decides everything’s in the wrong place.”