Page 34 of The Rancher Who Swore Off Love
Chapter Ten
Logan had planned the morning.
He’d drawn it all up the night before, in his head, while he lay in bed staring at the ceiling—the way he did for every morning, because a day without a plan turned into a day where Mason forgot to feed the cattle, and Thomas wasted the day away napping or complaining how he didn’t get to go to town as much as he wanted.
So, Logan had to organize them.
South pasture first, where the creek crossing needed new stones laid before the spring runoff softened the bank. Then the barn roof, which had started leaking again from the east, because, ofcourseit had. After that, inventory on the feed stores, a ride out to check the far fenceline, and, if the light held, maybe an hour of work on the crib he’d started carving in the woodshed after supper three nights ago.
A real crib. With turned spindles, a curved rocker base, and joints tight enough to hold for twenty years.
He hadn’t told anyone about it yet.
So, he pulled on his boots, tucked his shirt in, buckled his belt, and grabbed his hat off the hook by the door. Warm coffeesat on the back of the stove, where Grace always left it, since, somehow, the woman rose before him every single day, no matter how early he got up, and he’d stopped trying to beat her to it.
He took one swallow, set the cup in the basin, and opened the front door.
A man stood on the porch.
Tall, dark-haired, younger than Logan by maybe a year or so, wearing a coat that’d gone threadbare at the elbows and carrying a rucksack slung over one shoulder. His stubble gave off the air that he’d been on the road a few days rather than choosing facial hair as a grooming choice.
Between one breath and the next, Logan grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him sideways off the step.
The rucksack hit the dirt. The stranger yelped, which implied surprise, and surprise meant Logan had the advantage. He drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs and took him down into the yard. The impact knocked the air out of both of them. Logan, however, had managed to land on the top, so the math worked in his favor.
“Pa! Mason!” He pinned the stranger’s arm against the ground with his knee. “Get Grace and Miriam out the back! Now!”
The stranger swung with his free hand and caught Logan across the jaw.
Stars. He saw actual stars—the kind that bloomed white and hot behind the eyes and tasted like copper at the back of the tongue. The punch carried more weight behind it than a man that lean should be able to muster, and Logan’s grip slipped for half a second.
Long enough.
The stranger rolled and scrambled to his feet, and Logan lunged after him, getting a fistful of that threadbare coat and yanking him back down. They hit the ground together in a tangle of knees and elbows, and dust kicked up around them in a cloud that tasted like dry earth.
“Getoffme, you lunatic!” The stranger clawed at Logan’s wrist. “I ain’t here to rob you!”
“Then why’re you on myporchat five in the mornin’?”
Behind them, the front door banged open. Boots on the porch boards. Mason shouting something. Pa’s voice, rough from sleep, barking an order Logan couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in his ears.
“Logan,” Thomas grabbed his shoulder. “Logan, hold up a second—”
“Get off me, Thomas, and get Pa’s rifle—”
“Stop it!”
Grace came off the porch at a dead run with her hair still loose from sleep and one of Logan’s own flannel shirts thrown over her nightdress. She’d started borrowing them in the mornings, and he’d never said anything about it because, well… she looked good in them.
She threw herself between them and dropped to her knees right in the dirt. She shoved both palms against Logan’s chest hard enough to break his grip on the stranger’s collar.
“That’s mybrother!”
Logan blinked.
The stranger coughed and sat up, rubbing his throat where the collar had dug in. Up close, in the gray pre-dawn light, the resemblance hit Logan like a second punch. Same dark hair. Same line to the jaw. Same scattering of freckles across the nose, though the man’s skin ran a shade lighter than Grace’s.
“Jonah.” Grace grabbed the man’s face with both hands and turned it side to side, checking for damage. “What onearthare you doin’ here? You said a few months! It’s been three weeks!”
