Page 2 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Liv hesitated. She'd never been this close to a horse and the sheer size of the animal gave her pause. Yes, Mike Watkins was holding the reins, but she'd seen runaway horses on TV and knew about unpredictability.

"You want to ride?" Mike asked, obviously reacting to the way she stared at his horse.

"Um, no. I'm fine." But she did move two steps to the side.

"Well, then. C'mon, let's get inside before that pink skin of yours turns into baked Alaska."

She caught up, her suitcase bouncing awkwardly between them, keeping a sharp eye on both the goat and the horse lest the noise spook either of them. "For the record, I'm Italian and Irish. I tan. I also bake a very respectable baked Alaska."

He chuckled. "Yeah? We'll see about that, Miss Ramsey."

The main house loomed like a cheerful wooden fortress on a hill, built wide and low, with broad porches and rocking chairs. Wildflowers framed the long drive and the faint smell of smoked meat teased Liv's senses. Her stomach growled—loud enough that she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. When was the last time she'd eaten? A stale muffin at a rest stop somewhere in Louisiana?

Verdant green pastures enclosed several horses with white ranch rail fencing. This place was restful. Peaceful. Despite herself, she released a long exhale.

Mike looped the reins of his horse over a post by the back door, narrowly avoiding a clucking hen that strutted across the gravel with opinions of her own.

They'd spent most of the walk with slightly awkward small talk about the weather and the wide open spaces—well awkward on her part at least. If Liv had been at home—and by home that meant Manhattan—she'd have written Mike Watkins off as a charming but clearly allergic-to-traffic-lights kind of guy.

But here, in Bear Valley, he wasn't out of place.

She was.

A woman came out of the back door, her dark hair tied in a high ponytail, a gentle confidence in her bearing that made Liv feel instantly less guarded.

"You must be Liv," she said, smiling as she wiped her hands on her denim-clad thighs. "I'm Heather Prescott. Or Heather Watkins now. Lyle's my husband. One of Mike's brothers,” she clarified. “There are four of these guys, Lord help us! Lyle's out wrangling something with hooves, probably, and no telling what the other two are up to."

"Nice to meet you."

"I imagine you're worn out," Heather said. "That bus looked ready to give up the ghost by the time it passed our fence line."

Liv blinked at the kindness of the welcome—unfussy and direct. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for having me. I know I'm not the usual hire."

"I've got nothing to do with the hiring," Heather said. "That's all Mike's department. And we're used to city slickers here on the guest ranch. Some of them even turn out to be decent cowhands."

"Some," Mike muttered under his breath, grinning. "Most run at the first sight of cow poop."

Heather shot Mike a look so practiced it made Liv want to laugh. Something she hadn't done in a while.

"Go check the roast," Heather ordered. "You left the oven on and I've got dogs to see to."

Mike raised both hands in surrender. "Yes ma'am." He turned to Liv. "Follow me, city girl. We'd best get you out of the heat and take care of your suitcase before Tiny tries to marry it."

Liv followed him into the lodge. The moment the door shut, cool air and the smell of coffee embraced her—and something else. Leather. Wood smoke. The faint sweetness of whatever was roasting in that oven.

The foyer was all honeyed wood and family pictures of sepia cowboys, little kids, a handsome older couple whose absence seemed to press at the edges. Liv felt it and decided not to look too closely. She probably wasn't the only one with ghosts.

The kitchen was the beating heart of the home, the kind that didn't hush itself up for company. Impressions flicked across her mind quickly. Stainless steel, cast iron, a long farm table where bowls and mixing spoons sat like an invitation. A woman in a floral apron and boots stood at the stove, wielding a spoon like a weapon. She had stormy gray hair, sharp eyes and an expression that assessed and forgave you in the same breath.

"Arletta," Mike said. "This is Liv. The pastry chef applicant I told you about."

"Mmph." Arletta wiped her hands and studied Liv a beat longer than strictly comfortable. "You look like trouble, but the good kind. You ever burned a roux?"

"No," Liv said.

"Then you're ahead of half the folks that blow through here. You from around here?"

Liv froze for an instant. Breathe. Don't blow it before you've even got a foot in the door.