Page 9 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

"Nothing a cold rinse and a sugar cookie won't fix."

She brushed past him, moving fast, and disappeared into the house.

Mike stayed where he was. Scanned the property. Clocked the gray truck sitting like a ghost at the edge of the road.

The military part of him, honed by years serving in deserts and rubble where sitting vehicles meant bad news didn't like it. The small-town cowboy part of him figured someone was maybe lost and taking a moment to check their map.

After a minute, the truck rolled forward and disappeared around the bend.

But his gut was still talking.

And now he had a question he couldn't shake. What the hell is Liv Ramsey running from?

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze Liv couldn't quite name. She chopped, stirred, measured, and wiped down counters without saying much. Her hands moved through the motions, but her mind was stuck on that truck. On the way it sat there. On the cold weight that had dropped into her stomach the second she saw it.

When the last plate was washed and the kitchen crew headed home for their own suppers, Liv stayed behind. Sorted through the dry goods pantry. Labeled tins. Rearranged measuring spoons in order of size because it gave her hands something to do and her brain something besides panic to chew on.

The door creaked.

She turned.

Mike stood there, still in his apron, hair pushed back, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from scrubbing down the grill.

"Were you looking for me?" she asked.

"Guess I was." He leaned against the doorframe. "Thought maybe you'd bolted back to New York."

"I'd need gas money for that."

"You'd need a car, darlin'. You came here on a bus."

"Not much use for cars in Manhattan."

He grinned. Studied the neat row of spice jars she'd lined up like soldiers. Then his expression shifted. Went quieter.

"That look you had earlier." He scratched the back of his neck. Eyes on the floor. "Out on the porch. I've seen it before." He paused for a beat. "In the Corps. People who couldn't breathe. Didn't matter if they were inside or out."

The words hung there, open-ended, inviting her to confide in him. An invitation she wasn't ready to accept.

Liv set down the tin of nutmeg she'd been holding. "I'm not dangerous."

"Didn't say you were."

Their eyes met. Held.

"I'm just tired," she said finally. "Burnt out. I used to own a café in Manhattan. High-end pastries. It was... a lot. The pressure. The critics. Social media. All of it. I needed somewhere quiet."

Mike nodded slowly. "Quiet's good. But quiet doesn't fill in the blanks." His voice gentled. "Eventually, you gotta figure out what you're really running from."

"I'm not ready to do that yet."

"Then don't." He straightened. "Stay. Bake. Learn the names of the barn cats. Burn some toast. Laugh at Tiny when he tries to eat the mail." He paused. "You don't owe anyone the whole story today, Liv."

Her throat went tight. "Even if the story gets messy?"

"If trouble knocks, you'll have a ranch full of military elites to answer." His voice was quiet. Absolute. "We take care of our own."

Then he turned and walked out, boot heels scuffing against the wood floor, fading down the hall.