Page 10 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

"The firewood alone is worth more than me just agreeing not to complain about cows."

"Creek access keeps my cattle alive through August. Firewood costs me an afternoon with a chainsaw. I know which one I'd rather have."

"You know you could just call my landlord. Get this done properly."

"Could. But Greg Horton's never set foot on this property. He doesn't know the land. Doesn't know the creek. You're the one living here. Your word matters more to me than his signature."

Something shifts in her expression. Softens.

"Okay. You have my word." She pushes the legal pad back across the table. "I won't block access. I won't complain. And when the firewood shows up, I'll pretend I don't know where it came from, since that seems to be how you prefer things."

Simple. She should go now. Back to her cabin, her laptop, her life that doesn't involve me.

She doesn't go.

"Got any more of this terrible coffee?"

I refill her mug. She adds milk again. We sit at the table while the sun comes through the east window, turning everything gold. She asks about the ranch. How many head. How much land. Whether I do it alone.

"Always alone?"

"Since my dad died. Mom moved to Billings. I stayed."

"That's a lot."

"It's work. Work doesn't care if it's a lot."

She wraps both hands around her mug. "That's the most depressing thing anyone's ever said to me before seven a.m."

A sound comes out of me. Short, rough. Almost a laugh. Her eyes widen, and I realize she's never heard me laugh. Nobody has, recently. The sound feels rusty coming up. Unused.

"What do you do?" I ask, because I realize I don't know. I know she's from somewhere with too much traffic. Know she signed a year lease. Know she puts her bare feet in a creeks and argues about property lines. But I don't know what she does, and the wanting to know is uncomfortable.

"Graphic designer. Remote. I do logos, branding, packaging. Mostly for breweries, which is ironic because I don't really drink beer."

"What do you drink?"

"Wine. Cheap wine. The kind that comes in a box."

"There's a liquor store in town. Dave's. He stocks box wine because Mrs. Henderson buys a case a month."

"I already found Dave's." She grins. "Mrs. Henderson and I are basically soulmates."

We've been talking for forty minutes. I know this because the clock on the wall above the stove reads 6:42, and I haven't been late for morning chores a single time in twelve years.

I'm going to be late today.

The realization does something to my chest. Loosens a knot I didn't know was there, or maybe tightens a new one. Both. She's sitting in my kitchen drinking my terrible coffee, and the room feels different. Fuller. Less like a place I eat standing up.

"I should let you get to work." She stands. Carries her mug to the sink, rinses it, sets it upside down in the drying rack next to my plate.

Two mugs in the rack. Two.

"Thank you. For this morning." She turns, leaning against the counter. "And for the porch step."

"Told you I don't know what you're talking about."

"And I told you I don't believe you." She crosses her arms. The flannel slips again. That shoulder. Golden skin in the morning light. "Why won't you just admit you did something nice?"