Page 19 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

All of it looks different now.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PIPER

Two weeks of Tate Rawlins, and I've memorized the architecture of his life.

He wakes at five-fifteen. Coffee by five-thirty, always black, always in the blue mug with the chip on the rim. Barn chores until seven. East pasture check on Bucky, the paint horse who tolerates me now but reserves his true devotion for the man who raised him from a foal. Fence repairs, cattle rotation, equipment maintenance. Dinner at six. Porch at eight. Bed when the stars get thick enough to stop counting.

And me. Somewhere in all of that, he carved out space for me.

Mornings in my kitchen where he drinks coffee and sits while I work. Evenings on his porch where we watch the sky go dark. Nights in whichever bed is closest, tangled up in each other, his arm heavy across my waist, his breathing slow against my neck. He sleeps deeper with me. He told me that last week, quietly, like he was confessing something dangerous.

Today's Saturday. I'm at Maggie's for lunch because Tate had to drive to Billings for a veterinary supply run and won't be back until late afternoon. The diner is warm, bright, and Maggie is standing across the counter from me with a pot of coffee and an expression that says she knows everything about my love life before I've said a word.

"He came in here last Tuesday," Maggie says, refilling my mug without asking. "Ordered his usual. But he was smiling. Tate Rawlins doesn't smile in public. The whole diner went quiet."

"Maybe he was having a good day."

"Honey, that man hasn't had a good day in twelve years. He's having a good you." She winks. "Pie?"

"Please."

The cherry pie is as good as advertised. I'm three bites in when my phone buzzes with an email notification.

From: Greg Horton, Horton Property Management Subject: Mackey Cabin - Lease Discussion

Hi Piper,

Hope you're settling in well. I wanted to reach out regarding the property at 412 Creek Road. I've received an offer from a development group interested in purchasing the cabin and surrounding acreage. Nothing is decided yet, but I wanted to give you a heads-up that if the sale goes through, your lease would transfer to the new owner, and there may be changes to the property terms.

I'll keep you posted as things develop. Let me know if you have any questions.

Best, Greg Horton

The pie turns to chalk in my mouth.

A development group. Purchasing the cabin. My cabin. The one with the new porch step and the fireplace that Tate built fires in every morning and the creek that feeds his east herd.

"You okay?" Maggie's watching me. "You just went white."

"Fine. Just a work email." I put the phone down. Smile. Finish the pie without tasting any of it.

The drive back to the cabin takes fifteen minutes. I spend every one of them thinking about what that email means. If the property sells, a new owner could do anything. Fence the creek off completely. Develop the land. Tear down the cabin. Everything Tate has been protecting for a decade, the water access his cattle depend on, would be at the mercy of strangers who don't know this land, don't care about it.

I need to tell him.

His truck is in his driveway when I pull in. Back from Billings early. I park at my cabin, walk across the yard to the fence line, and climb through the gap in the wire that neither of us has fully closed because the gap is how we get to each other now. Our own private crossing.

He's in the barn. I hear him before I see him, talking low to one of the horses. His voice changes when he talks to animals. Goes softer. Less guarded. The first time I heard it, I stood outside the barn door and listened for five minutes because I couldn't believe this gruff, impossible man turned into a gentle murmur around a horse with a sore leg.

"Hey." I lean against the barn door.

He looks up from the stall. Smiles. Still rare. Still devastating.

"You're back early," I say.

"Supply store had everything in stock. No wait." He walks over, hooks an arm around my waist, pulls me in. Kisses my forehead. Casual. Easy. Like he's been doing it for years. "How's Maggie?"