Page 12 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

I stand there, silent.

No one notices. Because it's what they expect.

Chapter Five

Maeve

I’m no holy woman but, oh my sweet Jesus, this man is impossible.

Somewhere between the airport and here, I'd decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, set aside the few words and the grumpiness, and be more open-minded. Turns out, Wade Carter does not deserve the benefit of the doubt. What he deserves is a swift kick square in the shins. Repeatedly.

You’d think with all the cowboy smut I’ve read, I’d be better prepared for a brooding, emotionally stunted cowboy—it’s basically a genre staple. But Wade Cater doesn’t just brood. He sulks, scowls, and seems allergic to full sentences. I jokingly dubbed him Cowboy Batman earlier, and at this point, it feels less like a nickname and more like a clinical diagnosis.

Thankfully, Colt and the rest of the ranch crew couldn't have been more different. Friendly, easy-going, and most importantly, they speak in complete sentences. The contrast between them and their grumpy leader is night and day.

Colt’s arm rests over my shoulders, its weight heavy on my tired body, which has spent the day running on nerves and way too much caffeine. I start sinking into the chair, and my eyelids flicker, struggling to stay open.

“Let’s show you where you’ll be sleeping,” Colt’s voice snaps me upright. Judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he's already clocked that I was halfway to snoozeland.

“And where would that be?” Wade asks from across the kitchen, arms crossed, one boot propped against the counter, that scowl firmly in place on his annoyingly symmetrical face. “She's not staying in the bunkhouse with these buffoons, surely.” He jerks his chin toward the ranch hands helping Mrs. Mae clear the table.

“I set her up in a room upstairs,” Colt says, a hint of caution threading through his voice. “Seemed like the best call. We've never needed a female bunkhouse, don't exactly hire many women around here.”

Mrs. Mae snorts, with a joking hint, “Yeah, well, maybe if you boys did, this place wouldn’t run like a half-broken tractor most of the time.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and sudden, catching even me off guard. Mrs. Mae grins, satisfied with herself.

“And that's my cue,” she announces, lifting a Tupperware container of pulled pork. “Better get this home before my daughter does.” She turns to me and opens her arms, pulling me into another one of those hugs. Warm and unhurried, like she has all the time in the world. I lean in without thinking. “Thank you for being so welcoming, Mrs. Mae.”

“Oh, stop it, sweetie. You can call me Maggie. Have a good sleep, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow!”

After waving goodbye to the room, she’s out the door.

Wade pipes up again, this time with an icy edge. “So, the main house?”

Colt shrugs. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Wade makes a sound under his breath I don’t quite catch, then turns on his heel and stalks out, the front door slamming behind him and sealing the dramatic exit. It’s hard not to roll my eyes at this grown man throwing a tantrum.

“Better get used to that,” Colt says, the easy grin still in place. There's a lightness to the way he carries himself, like he's used to being the counterbalance to his father's heaviness. “Full-time grumpy ranch owner is basically his official title.”

He throws me a playful wink, the kind that probably works on half the county. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me around.”

The contrast between him and Wade baffles me. It’s not just night and day—it’s storm clouds and sunrise.

I don’t say anything, but the smile that sneaks onto my face probably answers for me.

“Right,” he says, finally lifting his arm from my shoulders. “Let's show you your room.”

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was gone. Apparently, the jet lag didn't get the memo. I blink at the harsh neon glow of the digital clock: 3:45 a.m. Great.

I lie there for a moment, willing sleep to take me back under. It doesn't. With a groan, I peel back the covers and accept my fate. Staying awake is the only way to beat jet lag, and I am going to need an irresponsible amount of coffee to do it.

The room they've put me in is nicer than I expected. Old farmhouse charm, creaky floorboards, mismatched tartan curtains, and a four-poster bed that could comfortably fit half the ranch hands.

I laugh at the thought. Now, that could be a book.

The quilt carries a faint hint of lavender, almost certainly the work of Maggie. Just thinking about her warms something in my chest. I've known her for less than twelve hours, and I already know she’s going to be one of my favourite people here.