Page 17 of Steamy Notes from a Cowboy

He rests his chin lightly on my shoulder and, just for a second, we ride in total silence. It’s so different from what I’d expected. I could totally get used to this.

As the horse settles into a slow, easy rhythm, my hands loosen their death grip on the horn and rest on Bluebonnet’s mane. I twine my fingers through the coarse hair and give her a little pat. Rogan keeps one arm banded across my waist, steadying me with every step.

His arm extends past my shoulder, finger pointing. “Look there.” A russet blur vanishes into tall grass. “Red fox. Same one that’s been stealing my chickens.” We crest a small rise where a weathered fence post leans at an angle. “Hawk built her nest on that post three springs running.” His voice warms near my ear as he gestures toward a green line wavering in the distance. “Those willows mark my property line. The creek runs behind them. Spent every summer there as a kid. Fishing. Frog hunting. Trying to catch turtles with my bare hands.”

We ride on, the trail curving up and around a rise that overlooks the ranch. The view is breathtaking. Acres and acres of land, stitched together by fence lines and dotted with cattle, all spread out beneath a sky so blue it hurts my eyes.

Rogan pulls Bluebonnet to a stop at the very top of the rise. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the wind in the grass, the slow, steady breathing of the horse beneath us, and the thump of his heart against my back.

He slips off the saddle and turns to help me down. I hesitate, then let myself slide into his arms. He catches me, hands strong and sure, and for a second, we just stand there, faces inches apart.

He kisses me, slow and careful, right there at the edge of the world. For a second, I am weightless. Nothing exists except the pressure of his lips, the taste of his mouth, and the way his hands linger at my waist like he’s afraid to let go.

We break apart, and he leads Bluebonnet off the path, tying her to a low branch. He comes back to where I stand, a little unsteady, and just looks at me.

“I want to show you something,” he says. He points to a huge, old oak tree, its branches spread wide like it’s holding up the sky. There’s a blanket already spread out beneath it, and a small basket waiting.

He planned all of this. For me.

He waits for me to speak, but for once, I’m speechless.

We cross the grass together, and he pulls me down onto the blanket, tucking me into his side. The sun is higher now, but the air is still crisp. He pulls a thermos from the basket and pours out two cups of coffee, handing one to me.

I sip, trying not to smile too much.

He sips and watches the horizon.

“I never wanted to share this with anyone,” he says, voice soft. “Not until you.” The words land right in the center of my chest and bloom. We sit there for quite a while, just enjoying the early Texas morning. I still can’t believe this isn’t all a dream.

“Sierra,” he says, and his voice breaks through my thoughts. “I don’t know how to say this right. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a right way.” He pauses, sucking in a shaky breath. “Before you, this place was just dirt and buildings. All I did was work to keep it alive, never stopping to think what it was all for.”

My heart is pounding so hard I’m worried it’ll pound right out of my chest.

“But then you showed up, and everything started to make sense. The house got warmer. I started seeing colors for the first time in my life. You… you made this place a home. My home. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. “I can’t imagine waking up tomorrow and not seeing you. Or the day after, or the next year. I don’t want to try.” He huffs out a laugh, then looks down at me so intensely my insides melt. “I know it’s fast, but I’m head over heels for you. I love you, Sierra. I love you so much it makes me stupid. I want you with me. Always.”

For one wild, bright second, the world is suspended in amber. I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. All I can do is stare at him, words stuck in my throat.

Then everything in me snaps loose, and I choke out a laugh that’s half-sob. “I know it’s crazy, but I love you, too. I love you so much it hurts.”

He doesn’t move, just holds my gaze until I can’t stand it anymore. I drag his face down to mine and kiss him, hard and awkward and perfect. He kisses back like he’s starving, fingers in my hair and mouth devouring mine.

He pulls back, face unreadable for a second, then he stands up and pulls me to my feet. He digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, then drops to his knees in front of me.

Oh wow. My breath halts in my throat.

He opens it, and inside is a ring—vintage, simple, the diamond set in a bed of filigree that looks like something out of a fairytale. My breath whooshes out in a single, ugly sob.

He holds out a yellow Post-it note.

I take the note and read it:

I can’t even get the word out, so I just nod, nod, nod, until my neck hurts, then I shout, “Yes!”

He throws back his head, shouts, and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, then the palm, then every fingertip. He stands up and pulls me into his arms.

“You know,” he says, voice thick, “this was my grandmother’s ring. She said I’d know when I found the right woman to give it to.”

I bite my lip, overcome. “I love it.” I stare down at the ring. “And I love you, too.”