Page 17 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

The truth in those two words sinks in. I tighten my grip on her hand and drive the rest of the way into town with her fingers laced through mine and the radio playing old country tunes.

The town of Rowdyrose materializes around a bend. Population three thousand, and every one of those people is about to know I brought a woman to breakfast. Small towns talk. By lunch, Trudy at the diner will have called half the county to report that Eli Abbot finally brought someone in. By dinner, Louanne will have the full story about what happened in town, including details Trudy invented.

I pull into a spot in front of the diner. Through the window, the usual morning crowd fills booths and counter stools: ranchers nursing coffee, families working through stacks of pancakes, Trudy moving between tables with her coffeepot. I cut the engine and turn to Jessie.

She’s staring at the diner like it might bite her. Her free hand grips her thigh, and the calculations are running behind her eyes. Everyone will see. Everyone will know. It’ll be too much, too fast, too visible.

“We don’t have to go in,” I tell her. “I can grab takeout.”

“No.” She reaches for the door handle with her free hand. “I’m fine.”

“Jessie.” Her name stops the movement. She turns to me. What crosses her face makes my ribs ache, the want warring with fear, the old pattern of minimizing herself already firing. “You walk in there with me, everyone’s going to know. Small towns talk. By lunch, half of Rowdyrose will have heard that Eli Abbot brought a woman to breakfast.”

Recognition moves across her expression. She understands what I’m offering: an out, a way to keep this private, space to decide if she’s ready to be claimed publicly. She swallows. Her fingers tighten on mine.

“Okay,” she says.

The single word settles in my gut with the promise of permanence. She’s choosing this. Choosing me. Choosing to be seen with me even when every survival instinct she has is screaming to minimize and hide.

I get out and come around to her side before she’s unbuckled because I need to establish this now: She doesn’t open her own doors when she’s with me, doesn’t carry her own weight, doesn’t handle things alone anymore. When I open her door, my hand settles at the small of her back to help her out. Light pressure, unmistakable claim. Every person on this street is going to see my palm on her spine and know exactly what it means.

I guide her across the threshold into the diner, my hand steady on her lower back, leading her into my community’s space. The bell over the door jingles. Conversations pause. Heads turn. Trudy looks up from pouring coffee at the counter, and her face splits into a grin so wide it’s visible from the doorway.

“Morning, y’all.” She sets the coffeepot down and props both hands on her hips. “I see that Eli Abbot’s come to breakfast with company. Must be serious, hon.”

Every eye in the place is on us now. On Jessie. I track her response through the hand on her back, the way her spine stiffens and her ribs expand too quickly, the slight shift of her weight like she’s about to pull away. I press my palm firmer against her lower back, anchoring her in place, and her breathing slows.

“Morning, Trudy.” I keep my tone easy, unbothered by the scrutiny. “This is Jessie. She’s working at the ranch.”

“Working.” Trudy’s grin widens. “Y’all filled that position mighty quickly.” She grabs two menus and gestures toward a booth by the window. “Go on, sit, you two. I’ll bring coffee.”

I guide Jessie through the diner with my hand never leaving her back. Eyes track our progress. Whispers start up behind us. The booth is red vinyl, cracked and patched with more red vinyl. I wait until she slides in before taking the seat across from her.

The loss of contact makes her shoulders draw together, that old minimizing pattern surfacing. I want to reach across the table and pull her back.

Trudy appears with coffee before either of us has touched the menus. She pours for both of us. Her eyes are locked on Jessie, assessing her in a way that’s made grown men confess to things they didn’t do. “You’re the one staying in Bluebonnet, right? Louanne called yesterday.” She slides into the booth beside Jessie without asking, crowding her toward the window. “Said you survived Ruckus twice. Also said Eli’s been showing up at dawn every day. Bringing coffee.” Her eyes cut to me with knowing approval. “And cutting wildflowers from the meadow. Half the town’s been waiting to see who finally got this cowboy to pick flowers.” She winks.

Jessie’s face goes red. “I—yes. The rooster is territorial.”

“Mm-hmm.” Trudy’s gaze cuts back to me, sharp with curiosity and approval. “And the coffee?”

“Trudy.” I let warning edge into my voice. “Let her breathe.”

“I’m just making conversation.” She’s still grinning as she stands, patting Jessie’s shoulder like they’re old friends. “Usual for you, Eli? And Jessie, hon, you wanna try the special?”

Jessie agrees to the special. Trudy disappears toward the kitchen, and we’re left staring at each other across the table while the entire diner pretends we’re invisible.

“Sorry,” I say. “Trudy’s—”

“Nosy?” Jessie supplies.

“Invested.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter for three years. This is going to make her day.”

Quick, unmistakable jealousy flickers across Jessie’s face before she hides it behind a too-large swallow of coffee that makes her wince. “Should I be worried about the daughter?” She grins, but there’s something behind it.

The question makes my possessive instinct rage in my veins. She’s jealous. This woman who left her life only days ago, who’s still carrying ghosts I can’t chase away, is sitting in my town’s diner worried about another woman.

“No.” I let her hear the absolute certainty in that single word. “You shouldn’t be worried about anyone.”