Page 112 of The Rancher Who Swore Off Love
“First place in the Pitkin County Harvest Produce Competition goes to Mrs. Grace Foster, for her tomatoes.”
The crowd clapped. Mason whooped from somewhere near the livestock pens. Thomas whistled through his teeth. Rafe nodded once, like he’d expected nothing less.
Fifty dollars.
The judge pressed the bills into Grace’s hand, and Grace stared at them. Last time she’d held this much money at once—
Never.
As disappointing as it was, she’d never, not once in twenty-one years of breathing, had this much money in her hands.
She found Logan by the wagon, loading their things.
“Here.” She held the money out. “For the ranch.”
He looked at her hand, then at her face. “Put that away.”
“Logan, the ranch needs fenceposts and feed and—”
“The ranch’ll manage.”
“Fifty dollars buys a lot of—”
“Grace.” He took her wrist and closed her fingers back around the bills. “That’s yours. You grew it, you won it, you keep it. Every cent.”
“But—”
“Nobuts. You earned that money with your own two hands in a garden you built from rocks and gopher holes. Ain’t a man on this ranch gonna take that from you.”
“I ain’t askin’ you totakeit, I’mgivin’it.”
“And I ain’t acceptin’. Buy yourself somethin’. Buy the baby somethin’. Bury it in a jar in the yard for all I care.” He pulled her closer by the wrist. “But you’re keepin’ it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You married me anyway.”
“Yeah, well.” She shoved the money into her dress pocket and grabbed his shirt collar with her free hand. “Biggest mistake of my life.”
She kissed him. Full and sure, right there by the wagon, with the fiddle still playing and the sun almost gone and Miriam babbling between them. Logan’s hand came up to her jaw, tracing the line of her cheekbone, and he kissed her back.
She pulled back. “We should get home.”
“Probably.”
“Miriam’s fallin’ asleep.”
“I can see that.”
“So let’s go.”
“In a minute.” He kissed her forehead. “Just… give me a minute.”
Chapter Thirty
The gate hung open.
Logan had definitely, one hundred percent closed it. But, here it stood, open, flat against the post, with one hinge bent back at an angle that made Logan’s stomach clench. He’d set that hinge himself. Measured twice, drilled once, and seated the pin flush. A man didn’t bend forged iron like that by accident. That took a pry bar, or a boot, or somebody who didn’t give a damn.
