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“Thanks for the ride,” I grumble under my breath, growing more annoyed by the second. First an asshole driver, then a dirty pickup, and now a shabby cabin that’s straight out of the eighties, not to mention colder than my mother’s heart. “No, don’t worry about me…I’ll be fine in here freezing my ass off!” I continue ranting to myself, throwing my hands in the air.

I spin around and nearly smack into the grumpy chauffeur himself—who’s carrying a stack of firewood.

He arches one dark eyebrow at me, and I swear he’s hiding a smirk beneath his beard.

The man walks toward the wood-burning stove and expertly arranges the firewood along with some kindling. I watch as his large but capable frame moves with confidence and hate how attractive it is that he’s adept at building a fire. This is a man who doesn’t need a private chef, a housekeeper, or a groom. He’s the kind who’s willing and able to get his hands dirty. And damn if that doesn’t stir something deep in my belly.

Moments later, the fire is blazing to life. “You should warm up fast since it’s a small room,” he says, standing. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze your ass off.”

His eyes flick to mine briefly before he looks away. “That should be plenty of wood to keep it going all night.”

Despite his snark, I breathe a sigh of relief. After this day, I’m happy to be here and have a warm place to sleep. The cabin is already warming up, and my shoulders relax.

“Thank you,” I say. “For the ride and for getting the fire going.” It’s difficult to say the words kindly because he’s been such an asshole until five minutes ago.

“You’re welcome.” He tips his cowboy hat and struts out the front door.

Once alone, I blow out a breath, grateful to have the man out of my space. I rest my hands on my hips as I look around and make peace with this being my home for a few nights.

I unzip my suitcase and slip out of my travel clothes and into the warm pajamas I packed, grabbing a blanket off the bed and settling in front of the warm fire. Closing my eyes, I allow the warmth to soothe me. Tomorrow, I’ll find Hank Daniels and introduce myself…and hopefully I’ll never have to see Mister Sunshine again.

CHAPTER 4

Hattie

I wake up the next morning—after my first decent night’s sleep in weeks. When I went to bed, I thought I’d never fall asleep, unable to stop thinking about meeting my father today. But exhaustion finally won out, and I slept all night. Now my teeth are chattering, and my feet are practically blocks of ice.

My eyes open and move to the lifeless wood-burning stove I was supposed to keep going but didn’t. Wrapping the plaid comforter around my shoulders, I slip out of the bed—which squeaks with my every movement—and tiptoe across the room because the floor is freezing.

Yanking open my now-dusty Burberry suitcase, I pull out a pair of dark jeans, a sweater, and thick socks. I dress quickly, hoping it’ll help me warm up.

My teeth still chatter as I cross the room and kneel in front of the stove, trying to relight it with the matches and firewood the cowboy left. I wish I would’ve paid more attention to how he made the fire. Would it kill Hank Daniels to add HVAC? Pretty positive he hasn’t updated anything in here since the Reagan administration.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get the fire going, I give up and eat a breakfast bar that I purchased at Wolverine Market last night. Then find my makeup bag in my suitcase and get ready in front of the small mirror above the bathroom vanity. With every swipe of mascara, my stomach flips. I can hardly believe I’m meeting Hank Daniels today. With my hands shaking nervously, I smooth my hair into a ponytail and brush my teeth.

The only thing on my agenda for the day is finding Hank and telling him I’m his daughter. I don’t know what I’ll say, exactly. I suppose this is one of those things you do quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

I glance at myself in the mirror. “Good morning, Hank. Nice to meet you. You’re my father.” I practice my smile as I say it, but it doesn’t feel right.

Deciding I look good enough, I walk to the ancient bedside table where my phone is plugged in. No service. I blow out a raspberry, frustrated I can’t call Blair for help. Maybe my mother was right…I’m stirring up drama and should just leave well enough alone.

But I’m already here…and I endured a painfully awkward airport transfer to get here. It can’t all be for nothing.

I just want to meet Hank. I want to talk to him, see what we might have in common. Maybe I’ll send him a Christmas card each year after this? And if he doesn’t want any kind of relationship, then fine. At least I tried.

Setting my phone down, I get some coffee brewing in the tiny coffee maker, hoping to warm up before I head out into the cold Montana air to find Hank.

The hot coffee does its job, warming me from within and soothing my body with a false sense of comfort. There’s an old clock hanging above the kitchen sink telling me it’s nine. That’s probably not too early to go in search of my birth father—ranchers surely wake up early.

With a deep breath, I grab my Burberry trench coat, slip on my leather boots, and head outside. The wind isn’t as bad as it was last night, but it’s still cold. October is wildly different in Montana than Northern California. The mountains behind Hank’s ranch are already tipped in snow. The air has that decidedly brisk feel to it that chills you to the bone and teases that winter is on its way. I stand there on the front stoop of my cabin for a long moment, taking in the beauty of the ranch in the light of day. I saw photos of Whispering Pines on the website, but it’s much prettier in person. Especially with the mountains as a backdrop to the property. There’s a long driveway that leads to a dirt road and it’s lined with a sturdy wooden fence. The driveway creates a large circle just beyond my small cabin. From the circular drive you can access the large wooden barn, the paddock, a shorter barn, and the main house that’s a three-story cabin.

The main cabin blends organically with the barns and mountains. At the center of the circular drive stands a bronze statue of a horse standing on its hind legs. The property is rustic in a glamorous way, totally different from my parents’ property.

Whispering Pines Ranch isn’t polished or ritzy, but it feels cozy and welcoming. I don’t know how many acres Hank Daniels owns, but I can’t see any other homes or farms beyond his property. Just rolling hills that lead to the mountain’s edge.

The autumn breeze blows my coat open, and I shiver, grabbing the edges and tugging it closed, then tying it at the waist. I inhale a shaky breath, then start my walk toward the big cabin. I swallow as I walk across the driveway toward the main cabin. My hands are shaking and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or because I’m terrified of what might happen next.

The scent of hay coming from the barn has me inhaling a steadying breath. I pause and listen to the whinnies and clops coming from the horse barn.