Page 14 of The Rancher’s Bride

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DAMIAN

Istand at the kitchen counter drinking coffee and watching Sabrina through the window. She’s sitting on the front porch with her own mug between both hands. The sun has barely cleared the pasture, and everything outside is washed in that pale morning light that makes the ranch look better than anywhere else on earth.

She looks like she belongs there. And I like it too damn much.

It’s been less than a week since she showed up, and somehow I’ve gone from wondering whether I made the stupidest decision of my life to wondering what it’ll take to keep her here. I notice when she walks into a room. I notice when she leaves one. Every night, I lie in bed listening to her move around across the hall and thinking about how close she is.

Then I remember we spend half our time arguing, and I wonder whether the agency matched us by throwing two names into a hat.

Maybe we’re wrong for each other. That would explain why everything turns into a fight. Coffee. Towels. Fence wire. Which cabinet the plates belong in, even though they’ve been in the same damn cabinet for years.

Then again, Sabrina argues with me and stays. She gets up every morning, pulls on jeans, and follows me outside even though the work leaves her sore. She doesn’t ask me to make things easy. She just digs in and gives back whatever I throw at her.

I like that about her. Hell, I like a lot of things about her.

The problem is I haven’t given her much reason to like me.

I forgot what day she was arriving, left her at the station, watched her load her own suitcases, and acted like she’d committed some kind of crime by looking around my house. Since then, I’ve picked at nearly everything she’s done.

She was right about me not thinking through what it would mean for an actual woman to show up. A wife sounded simple when she was still an idea. Someone at the table. Someone in my bed. Kids someday. I didn’t think much about what she’d need from me.

I’ve worked cattle through storms, fixed a tractor with half the right parts, and stitched up my own hand rather than drive forty miles to urgent care. None of that helps me figure out what Sabrina wants when she looks at me like she’s waiting to see whether I’ll disappoint her again.

I finish my coffee and set the mug in the sink. When I step onto the porch, Sabrina glances over her shoulder. “Morning.”

“Mornin’.” I lean against the post and look out toward the pasture. “Let’s go into town today.”

Her eyebrows rise over the edge of her mug. “Town?”

“I’ve got errands.”

“All right.”

“Also, you’ve barely seen the place.”

“I’ve seen the train station.”

“That’s not town. That’s a building where people wait to leave.”

Her mouth twitches. “And make excellent first impressions.”

I ignore that. “You hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’ll make eggs.”

She lowers the mug and studies me. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

I push away from the post before she can keep at it. “You want breakfast or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then quit complaining.”

“I haven’t complained once.”