Page 2 of Oops I Fell For The Rancher Next Door

Twenty minutes. That's how long I fight with it. Choke pulled, fuel valve turned to what I think is the ON position based on a label so faded it could say anything. I wrap both hands around the starter cord and pull.

Nothing.

Pull again. A cough from the engine that dies immediately.

Again. My shoulder screams. The cord snaps back with enough force to sting my palms.

"Come on. Come on."

I brace my foot against the base and pull with everything I've got. The cord jerks but the engine doesn't catch. My foot slips on the wet grass and I land on my ass in the dirt, the starter handle still in my grip, breath coming hard.

Cold October air against my face. Dirt soaking through my jeans. A knuckle bleeding. No electricity. No phone signal. No one coming.

This is fine. This is exactly what I wanted. Alone. Off the grid. No one telling me what to eat, what to wear, what tone my voice should be when I answer a question about my own schedule.

I am free.

I am also sitting in mud with a dead generator and it's going to be dark in about two hours.

"Need a hand?"

The voice comes from behind me, low and unhurried, and I'm on my feet so fast I almost trip over the generator. My heart is slamming. My fists are up. Old reflex. Not from violence, just from someone being where I didn't expect them, making sounds I didn't hear coming.

A man stands at the corner of the cabin.

Tall. Broad across the shoulders in a way no gym produces. Sun-streaked brown hair under a worn ball cap, pushed back on his head. Flannel over a thermal, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms thick with actual muscle. Calloused hands hanging easy at his sides. He's got a jaw that looks like it was designed for clenching and eyes that are doing something between curious and careful, watching me like he hasn't decided yet whether I'm a threat or a stray.

Behind him, a horse. Saddled, loose-reined, standing in my overgrown side yard like that's a normal place for a horse to be.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out hard. Good.

He doesn't flinch. "Cade Holloway. I'm your neighbor."

"I don't have neighbors."

One corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. "Property to the east is mine. Starts about forty yards past your fence line." He nods toward the generator. "That thing hasn't run in three years, at least."

"I'm handling it."

His eyes drop to my bleeding knuckle, then to the mud on my jeans, then back to my face. He doesn't say anything. Which is worse than if he'd argued.

"I said I'm handling it."

"Heard you the first time." He takes a step closer. Not toward me. Toward the generator. Slow, like he's approaching something skittish. He crouches, turns the fuel cap with one hand like it's nothing, peers inside. "Tank's dry. Fuel line's cracked. Gasket on the starter housing is shot." He runs a thumb over something I can't see from this angle. "Carburetor's clogged. Been sitting too long without treatment."

Great. Fantastic. A dead generator with a resume of problems.

"I'll figure it out."

He stands. Wipes his hands on his jeans. Looks at me, really looks, with those steady brown eyes that don't rush anywhere. "You got firewood?"

"I'll buy some."

"Where?"

The question catches me off guard because the answer is I don't know. I don't know where to buy firewood in a town I drove through in under two minutes. I don't know where to buy anything here.

"I'll figure that out too."