Page 43 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“By the look of that grin on your face, you know what. He doesn’t usually take to people so easily.”

“Oh, trust me. Nothing was easy about this little friendship we got going on. Took a whole lot of carrots and peppermints, and plenty of hours yapping his ear off while I cleaned around him to break this big boy down!”

“I'll be damned.”

“Come on, Mr. Carter.” She looks at me sideways. “You of all people should know it's hard not to like me.”

I move past her before my face does something I'll regret. She's not wrong. That's the whole problem.

I swing up into the saddle and reach my hand down for her. She's small enough that I take most of the weight, her hand gripping mine as she finds the stirrup and pulls herself up. For a second, she's slightly unsteady, and her hands grip my sides, fingers pressing into my ribs through my shirt. I keep my eyes forward and my expression neutral and remind myself very firmly of the line.

“Ready?”

With a hum of agreement, we set off.

I take the longer route, keeping Marcellus at a steady trot along the dirt path that bends and weaves through patches of wildflowers, climbing toward the small rise at the far edge of the ranch. The further we get up the hill, the more mesmerising it is to watch the sunrise highlight the picturesque beauty of Wildbrook Hollow. I know she’ll enjoy this view. The only time she will put down her e-reader in the morning is when the sun begins to reach higher in the sky, causing a cascade of warm colours across the ranch landscape.

I can't see her face. But I feel the moment she notices it. There’s a slight shift in her grip, loosening and trailing slightly up my torso. My shirt has ridden up, her hand warm against the bare skin above my waistband. I don’t fix it.

We’ve covered some good ground, and Maeve still hasn’t said a word. Marcellus treads his way over the uneven ground, being careful of the occasional protruding rocks. The stretched silence sharpens my focus on every point of contact—her breasts pressed against my back, as her arms locked back tight around my stomach.

We reach the fence line, most of it still holding up well. Probably thanks to all the rebuilds we had to do last year. Despite it, there’s some work to do to reinforce it.

We both plant our feet on the ground and stretch out our bodies after the ride.

“Right,” I announce, breaking the silence that has been firmly in place since we left the barn. “We are checking the fence and fixing the weak spots. Last thing we need is cattle wandering into town.”

She nods, taking it in.

“We start here,” I say, pointing down the fence line toward the far ridge, “and work our way around to there.”

Her eyes go wide at the distance.

“Best get started. This'll take a few hours.”

We walk the fence line side by side, and I show her what to look for—rotted wood, weak joints, cracks in the posts. But it isn’t long until we find a break.

It’s a bad one. Whole section’s going to need re-stringing.

I dig through the tools hanging off Marcellus’s saddle and pull out a fence stretcher, holding it out to her. She stares at it like I just handed her a torture device.

“Don’t panic. I’ll show you how to use it.”

She snatches it from my hands with a sarcastic grimace. Heading towards the break, I drop into a crouch to get a better look.

“Right. Let me show you how to fix a fence.”

Maeve, with no surprise, picks it up faster than most of the guys back at the ranch ever did. We work side by side through the morning, only speaking when we need a tool or to confirm a section's done.

I'm a man of few words, but this quiet begins to gnaw at me. So by the fourth break, I cave.

“So, Maeve,” she hums in response, not taking her eyes off her task. “What’s a city girl like you applying to work at a ranch for? Running away from a boy or summin?”

I know it's wrong the second it's out.

Tools clatter to the ground. She straightens slowly, shifts her weight onto one hip, crosses her arms, and gives me the death glare of all death glares.

“Why the hell does it always come down to that? A boy, or even running away from something? Why can't it be running toward something?” Her voice is sharp. Fuelled by frustration. “Oh, wait. Is it because I'm young? Like I couldn't possibly have anything more important going on than boy troubles?”