Chapter One
Jenna
Thunder rolls distantly in the background and I pause what I’m doing, feeling the familiar flash of fear. I keep telling myself it’s ridiculous to be afraid of them. But that doesn’t change the churning in my gut.
I glance at the sky through the window of Courage County Feed & Seed. Yeah, it’s a terribly original name for a store that serves the ranching community of Courage County. But this place is home now that I’ve flunked out of college, once again disappointing my father.
“Jenna, where are ya?” My dad ambles in that way he does when his back has been bothering him. The doctor told him two years ago he needed surgery, and he keeps putting it off.
While I wait for him, I glance at the order form I’m trying to read. It’s not easy when all the letters jump and shimmer on the page.
The dyslexia diagnosis last year was almost a relief. Turns out I’m not stupid and lazy like my dad has always insisted I am. My brain just works differently than his. Not that I’d ever tell him that. He’s too set in his ways.
“I’m over here,” I call from my place at the register. I wish my friend Mallory still worked here. She helped me to make sense of the orders. She never laughed at me or acted like I was dumb. But she married River Scott, a hot cowboy with a baby. Now she’s starting her own clothing boutique in town.
“Just got an order in from Walker. He needs more horse feed,” dad announces, reeking of alcohol. It might be the middle of the day but that doesn’t mean anything to him. It’s always beer o’clock somewhere. He scowls at me. “Well…?”
Dad doesn’t care much for Walker, the brooding cowboy that’s a former roughstock rider. The man rode actual bulls, which is pretty hot if you ask me.
He’s got a deep brown gaze and a thick beard. He doesn’t say much whenever I talk to him. He mainly just grunts so I know he doesn’t like me. But a girl can still dream about those rough hands and that deep, gritty voice. Sometimes, I even touch myself imagining what it must sound like when he’s buried deep inside me. Like he’d ever want to do that with me. I’m a curvy woman and a college dropout that can barely string together a sentence when I’m in his presence.
My dad stands there, waiting for a long moment. He’s hoping I’ll volunteer to do it and normally I would. But ever since the accident, I hate driving in thunderstorms. The sky rumbles again, as if confirming to me that volunteering would be a terrible idea.
Still, when my dad shuffles off, I find myself saying, “Wait, I’ll go. But you have to promise me something.”
He pauses and turns to me, irritation already forming on his face. Just once I wish he’d look at me and smile. But since I know that isn’t going to happen, I swallow and say, “Do your stretches.”
I call them stretches for his back. Actually, it’s yoga positions that will take some of the pressure off his spine. But I can’t tell him that. He thinks it’s “hippy dippy shit” to practice yoga.
“Walker needs twelve bags of the stuff,” dad answers. He gestures on his fingers with a one then a two, like I’m stupid.
I fight a hot flush of anger. I want to yell at him and tell him I’m not. I want to tell him I didn’t ask to be different. But I’m afraid of what he might say in response. Instead, I swallow down the words that burn like acid in my throat. “I’ll be back soon.”
It only takes a few minutes for me to get the feed loaded. I miss having Mallory nearby to chat with me. Maybe I’ll call her later this week and see if she wants to go to Courage Cookies and have coffee together.
I pop back into the store one more time before I leave to see my father helping a farmer choose between two types of chicken feed. “I’m about to head out. Anything you need while I’m gone?”
He looks up from his customer. “Don’t be underfoot and don’t cause any trouble.”
Just like that I’m dismissed.
While I’m in the truck, thunder continues to roll so I turn the radio to a country station and let it play the top hits. This works to distract me for a little while, at least until I come to the covered bridge over the creek. It’s not really a creek. It’s more of a river but the old-timers call it a creek so that’s what most of us refer to it as.
As soon as I cross the water, I’ll be on Walker’s land. The thought sends a little thrill through me even as I slow the vehicle. I eye the banks carefully. The creek is known to flood when it rains but it hasn’t started yet. Everything looks fine so I guide the truck across the bridge.
The moment I’m on the other side of the shaky structure, I breathe a sigh of relief. Someone should tell him it’s time to update that bridge. Otherwise, it might just fall apart one day. But I’m certainly not going to be the one to have that conversation. It wouldn’t surprise me if Walker left the bridge like that just to discourage visitors. Yeah, he’s definitely not going to be joining the Courage County Welcome Committee anytime soon.
I don’t know why he’s always so grouchy or why I find it so damn hot. But there’s nothing I like more than seeing him all rumpled and out of sorts. It makes me wonder what he looks like in the bedroom.
A ranch hand waves me around to the front of the barn and I remind myself that I’m just here to unload the feed and get out. I’m not here to see the grumpy cowboy or find new fantasies to add to my naughty dreams.
I pause to greet Michael in the humid August air. He used to be at the Caldwell Farm, but I guess he’s working here now. He gives me a big grin and makes a joke about the weather while I pull down the tailgate.
As soon as he grabs a bag of feed, I heft the next one. The fifty-pound bag is far from light. But that’s the thing about growing up in a ranching community. You get used to hard work from a young age.
I’ve just stepped foot in the barn when Walker is barreling toward me with his trademark scowl. Does the man ever smile? What does it take to earn one from him? A thought of how I could earn one fills my brain and I have to push it back.
“What are you doing?” He barks.
“You ordered horse feed. I’m delivering it,” I say, working to keep my voice pleasant. He’s still a paying customer.
He reaches to take it from me, but I sidestep him and follow Michael into the tack room. I add it to the pallet. After I’m gone, the feed will be opened and stored where it will be safe from rodents.
“Thanks.” Michael claps me on the shoulder. It’s the slightest touch of his fingers against my shirt sleeve.
He passes Walker on the way out of the tack room. His boss growls something at him in a low voice. It sounds almost like he’s threatening Michael, but I don’t know what that would be about.
I give them a minute by pretending to tie my sneaker. When I stand, Walker is still standing in the doorway of the tack room. His frown deepens, something I can’t read flashing in his deep brown gaze as his eyes roam my curvy body.
I feel warm all over and glance down, seeing my shirt is tucked up and showing off my fluffy belly. After the accident, I discovered yoga. It helped with the anxiety and even made me mindful of my body, but I still don’t feel at home in my own skin.
Quickly, I yank my shirt down so he can’t see anything else. Because I like the way he looks at me. I like it so much that I want to strip off my shirt and show him everything. Then I want to do the same to him until we’re two very naked people.
He finally drops his gaze and moves over. He still blocks just enough of the doorway that when I try to leave, he’s in my personal space. For a second, I think he sniffs my hair as I pass by him then I realize it’s just my silly imagination getting away from me again.
He follows me to the truck, stomping in his big boots as he does. I don’t know why he’s so mad today. But it’s not my job to figure it out. I just have to get this feed delivered before that storm starts.
Weird, Michael isn’t back at the truck like I expected him to be and I didn’t pass him on my way out of the barn. I reach for the next bag of feed and Walker’s tone makes me pause. “Stop.”
He reaches around me and takes the feed bag. “You don’t do this shit around here.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything. He just hefts it up, wincing slightly as he carries it into the barn. His sexist attitude shouldn’t be surprising. This is the deep South and sometimes, men from ranching communities have different expectations when it comes to women. Still, it’s disappointing to see Walker like this.
I grab a bag and follow him. I keep my voice loud as I ask his back, “Who do you think loaded it? Women are not some delicate little flowers that have to be protected by the big, strong man. Maybe try stepping into the twenty-first century.”
He stops walking abruptly, and I gulp. I think I’ve just poked the beast.