Page 14 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

She smiles, actually smiles, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen all day. “Okay.”

I force myself to walk away, one step at a time, to leave her standing on that porch instead of pulling her close and showing her exactly how much I want her to stay. I can feel her watching me go. When I glance back from the bend in the path, she’s still there. Still smiling.

Still choosing to stay.

And for the first time in four years, the dove I’ve been carving doesn’t feel like hope I’m afraid to finish.

It feels like a vow I’m finally ready to make.

Chapter five

Jessie

The chicken wire cuts into my palm when I grip it too hard.

I watch clouds build over the western hills from the fence line, purple-black and heavy with the kind of rain that I’ve learned turns Texas dirt to rivers. The air has gone thick and electric, pressure dropping so fast my ears pop. Every animal on the ranch has already taken shelter. Smart creatures. The sky looks like a bruise. I should be heading to the lodge or back to Bluebonnet, but my feet won’t move.

Four days at Granitehart Ranch. Four dawns with Eli at my door holding coffee made the way I’d make it myself without me ever telling him. Four mornings of his push broom strategy keeping Ruckus at bay while I collected eggs and pretended my hands weren’t shaking. Four nights of lying awake in Bluebonnet replaying the kiss that happened in his cabin doorway, the weight of his hands on my waist, how he’d pulled back before I was ready for him to stop.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out. Dr. Meekins again. I’ve been ignoring her texts since I responded, but this time there’s a voicemail. I press play before I can stop myself.

“Jessie.” Her voice is tired, worried. “It’s been a week. The hospital administrator is willing to let the abandonment charge go if you come back. We’re offering you Nurse Manager. Day shifts only. Full benefits. Everything you worked toward since you’ve been with us.” A pause. Static. “You’re a good one. Maybe too good to waste on chickens, sweetie. Call me back.”

The message ends. I stare at the screen. Too good to waste on chickens. The words sit in my belly like stones. Nurse manager. Day shifts. Everything I worked toward. The life I walked away from is offering me an exit from the emergency that broke me, and all I have to do is get back in my Honda and drive north until Texas is a memory.

Thunder rolls across the hills. The first fat drops of rain hit my shoulders, warm and heavy, and I shove the phone back in my pocket without deleting the message or calling back. The fence post is solid under my hand when I push away from it. My boots sink into earth already going soft, and I turn toward the lodge because standing in an open field during a lightning storm is the kind of stupid that gets people killed.

I make it three steps before the chickens scatter across my vision. All twenty hens are loose beyond the fence line, clucking and flapping in confused circles because someone, probably me this morning when I was distracted thinking about Eli’s hands, didn’t latch the gate properly. The gap is visible from here, wire door swinging open in the wind. The birds are spreading out fast.

Rain comes harder. I climb through the fence and chase them through mud and beaten-down bluebonnets, my shirt plastered to my skin. The hens scatter in every direction. I lunge, miss, and land on my knees in mud that squelches up through my jeans. This is absurd. I’m going to lose all twenty birds because I can’t latch a gate properly. Sloane is going to fire me, and I’ll have to drive back to Ohio and take the nurse manager position and spend the rest of my career wondering what would have happened if I’d just stayed.

A laugh bubbles up. I don’t know where it comes from, somewhere deep and cracked open, but once it starts, I can’t stop. A hen runs straight at me. I grab her, tucking her against my body while she tries to peck my collarbone. Victory feels like rain and feathers and the kind of absurdity that breaks through every too-serious thought I’ve had since walking out of Mercy General.

“Need help?”

His voice cuts through the storm. I look up. Eli stands at the fence line, rain streaming down his face and his Henley clinging to every muscle I’ve been trying not to obsess over. His hair is plastered to his head, his boots are caked in mud, and he’s staring at me like I’m the best discovery he’s made all week. My laughter dies. The hen in my arms goes still. Rain pounds between us, turning the world to water and noise, and my pulse kicks up hard enough that I lose track of the cold.

“I didn’t latch the gate,” I manage. The confession costs me. “They got out.”

“I see that.” He climbs through the fence with easy grace, landing in the mud beside me. Water runs down his throat, disappearing into the collar of his shirt, and I track the movement before I can stop myself. “Let’s round them up.”

We work together in the rain. He moves with an efficiency that comes from years of knowing exactly what needs doing, herding birds toward me while I grab and collect. The meadow is slick and treacherous, and twice I slip. Both times his hand is there steadying my elbow, gripping my wrist, keeping me upright while the world tries to pull me down.

By the time we’ve corralled the last hen back into the coop, we’re both covered in mud and soaked through. The rain has turned torrential, lightning cracking overhead near enough that I taste metal. Eli latches the gate properly, securely, how I should’ve done this morning, and turns to look at me.

“My cabin’s closer.” He states the fact in his low voice, bypassing my brain entirely. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for me to speak, just starts walking. I follow because the alternative is standing alone in a field getting struck by lightning. His cabin materializes through the rain, elevated and dry, smoke curling from the chimney because apparently he’d started a fire before coming to find me. Inside, the temperature shift is immediate. My teeth start chattering. Water pools at my feet, dripping from my clothes and hair, and I’m shaking so hard my vision blurs at the edges.

Eli strips off his Henley. The fabric hits the floor with a wet slap. And then he’s shirtless, rainwater tracking down abs I’ve been pretending not to notice. My brain shorts out completely.

“Bathroom.” He points. “Grab the clean shirt on the hook. Get out of those wet clothes before you go hypothermic.”

I nod and move on autopilot toward the bathroom, my fingers already numb and clumsy on my shirt buttons. The borrowed flannel is ruined, caked in mud and sticking to my skin. It takes three tries to work the first button free. Behind me, Eli moves around the cabin, and I hear the scrape of wood on stone as he feeds the fire, the sound of a towel being wrung out.

The bathroom is clean with steam already gathering on the mirror from the heat bleeding through the walls. I peel off the flannel, then my sports bra. My jeans are next, denim clinging to my thighs and requiring a full-body shimmy to work them down my legs. The shirt on the hook is another Henley, soft from washing. I pull it over my head, and it falls to mid-thigh, the fabric immediately clinging to my damp skin. No bra. I left mine in a wet heap on the floor, and the shirt molds to my breasts in a manner that makes their shape obvious. I should put my jeans back on. Should maintain some kind of boundary. I leave them on the floor and open the door.

He has his back to me, changed into a pair of gray sweats. He’s crouched in front of the fireplace adding another log. The flames catch and roar, throwing orange light across the room. When he stands and turns, his eyes go dark. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at me standing in his doorway wearing his shirt and nothing else. The hunger that crosses his face is so raw it stops my lungs.