Page 37 of Where She Belongs

Rylee snorted. “Too on the nose.”

“Well? Since you’re so good at naming animals, what will you name these guys?”

She turned to the goats for a moment. “Maybe Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“Wrong animal,” Tate murmured. “How about Moe, Larry, and Curly?”

Rylee gaped at him. “Those goats are too cute for names like that.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile remained a fixture on his face. “Come on, let’s get the little ducks to their new playground.”

She snorted again but didn’t argue. They got the goats situated then Tate retrieved some feed from his truck. Her eyes rounded when he tossed it onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing and headed for the barn.

It wasn’t just the fact that she was taking on more responsibility here. She’d figure that stuff out later. There was time.

No, her attention was solely focused on the cowboy who had no trouble with manual labor. The muscles in his back flexed beneath his shirt. The cords in his arms showed off just how capable he was. Long gone was the gangly boy from their youth and in his place was a man unlike anyone she’d come across at her aunt’s social events.

He turned, catching her staring and her face flushed so hot she wouldn’t be surprised if she looked similar to the produce her father used to grow. Rylee looked away but it was too late. Tate had already caught her, and by the smug look on his face he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

Well… great.

She followed him until he placed the feed in the barn, not knowing what else she could do. He tossed the bag down with a thud then dusted off his hands before turning to face her. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she had the distinct impression he was grinning. He was so… happy. Like, all the time.

“Where’s Jason today?”

Tate stopped dusting off his hands. “Working.”

“Working. Or working your afternoon?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer.

“I was in town yesterday,” Rylee said. “Marla Dailey was ahead of me in line at the market. She told me her son’s lesson got moved. Twice, now.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“And then she looked at my overalls, and she smiled at me, Tate, and she said, ‘Well, isn’t it nice you’ve got help out there.’”

The grin went out of him.

“I’m not a project.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “You can’t spend your business on me and then hand me a goat like a party favor and expect me not to do the arithmetic.”

For a second she thought he’d fight her on it. He had the face for it. Then he pulled his hat off and turned it over in his hands, which she was beginning to understand was as close as Tate Dennison came to admitting anything.

“They were going to be put down,” he said. “That part’s true.”

“I know it’s true. That isn’t the part I asked about.”

The quiet went on long enough that one of the brown ones got bored and started in on her shoelace.

“I’ll put the Dailey boy back where he belongs,” Tate said.

“Good.”

“And I’ll bring you what the three of them cost.”

Her chin came up. “I’ll pay it.”

“You’ll pay it,” he agreed. No argument. No joke to soften it. And that, out of everything he had done for her since the night she turned up on his porch covered in mud, was the thing that made her heart do exactly what she’d spent all week talking it out of.