Chapter One

Lauren

Three weeks later

This must be the hottest summer ever.

It’s morning in early June, but with the temperature climbing steadily over eighty, it feels like a mid-July afternoon.

Standing under the sun in the middle of the rows of tomatoes and Brussels sprouts, I can feel some strands of hair sticking to my forehead under my straw hat, my skin coated in sweat. My throat is parched like a desert. Even though I’ve been under the sun for less than an hour, my armpits and the front of my thin, pink shirt are soaked and I can feel the beads of sweat rolling down my back.

I toss my gardening shears into the basket of vegetables I’ve picked and stand up, taking my hat off and fanning myself with it as I wipe the sweat off my brow. I wish I could take my shirt off as well, feeling the cotton already sticking to the valley between my breasts and even my jeans, which are suffocating my thighs. But, of course, I can’t. Not here. Not now.

I glance at my basket.

I think I’ve picked enough for the day. Maybe I’ll head back to the house and take another shower before lunch.

I put my hat back on then pick up my shears so that I can return them to the tool shed by the creek. As I pass through the small wheat field, I take off my glove and run my hand over the gently swaying heads of wheat, something I’ve done since I was a child.

Ah, it’s good to be home.

For the past year, I’ve been attending a university in Havre, studying to become a preschool teacher and I’ve missed Little Peace Ranch every minute of it. I’ve missed the open air, the rusty old barns, the bales and stacks of hay, the feel of the dirt beneath my hands, the bleating of the sheep, even the smell of the horses. I grew up on this ranch, and it’s just as much a part of me as I am a part of it.

Reaching the old green tool shed, I hang my hat on the peg outside and go in, placing the shears in the drawer. As I close it, my gaze goes beyond the small window toward the creek gurgling beneath the trees and I pause, my hand going around my throat as my heart leaps to it.

There’s a man bathing in the creek. Naked.

From where I’m standing, I can see his light brown curls, almost the color of dried hay, tied on his nape. His shoulders are broad, his back wide and sinewy, divided by the pronounced dip of his spine. His skin is pale but marked by cuts and bruises, making me wonder what kind of accident he’s been in. But then my eyes move lower to his tight ass peeking just above the water, and I start to wonder about something else, wondering how those firm mounds of muscle would feel in my hands.

He turns around, giving me a view of him from the side and I draw a deep breath as my lower lip falls. His face looks like something out of the cover of a fashion magazine: wayward curls over his wide forehead, straight nose, wide cheekbones bordered by a thin layer of hair tracing his smooth jaw all the way to his square chin. He has a thin mustache over his lips, the bottom fuller than the upper. A pretty face, but manly just the same.

He scoops some water in his large hands, splashing it over his chest, and I find myself staring at the water as it trickles down the side of his chest, as muscled as his back, and glides over his sculpted stomach, perfect in spite of its ugly, purplish bruise, then disappears down his V-line.

I swallow, my hand sliding down to my chest where my heart has begun to drum. My fingers grip the sweat-stained front of my shirt, feeling the heat rise, a similar stain forming in my panties.

Except that’s more than just sweat.

He scoops out more water, this time splashing it on his face, the water creating a temporary mask over his smooth features and dripping down his jaw line.

My hand goes back up, a finger trapped between my lips as I watch him wash his arm, his hand running over the curves of muscle from his shoulder to his wrist. He does the same to his other arm then bends over the water, splashing some on his back.

After that, he gets out of the water slowly and my eyes grow wide as they go over the parts of him previously concealed by the water, particularly the part hanging between his legs, long and thick and…

I take a step back as I tear my gaze away from it, telling myself I mustn’t be looking at it, not just because it isn’t right, but because my body is starting to go crazy. My veins are buzzing and my breasts are tingling. I knock over a watering can, which clatters to the floor.

Shit.

“Who’s there?” he asks.

I don’t answer, my heart pounding even harder in time with his approaching footsteps. Is he clothed? Or is he still naked?

Wait. Is that what I’m worried about? He’s a stranger, for heaven’s sake. Worse, he’s a trespasser, a criminal.

Worst of all, he’s a man. The worst kind of beast, my father always says. A savage animal. And, judging from the wounds on his body likely from a fight than from an accident now that I think about it, I think Dad’s right.

Just as the door to the tool shed opens, I grab the closest thing I can – the gardening spray bottle – and point it at him.

The moment he’s in front of me, all of my thoughts vanish. His eyes, staring back at me, are the color of the cloudless summer sky.

He opens his lips. “Um…”

“Don’t come any closer.” I hook my finger around the trigger of the bottle.

Those slightly upturned lips of his curve into a grin. “Go ahead. Shoot. I don’t mind getting wetter.”

Right. He was just bathing, so his skin is still moist and beads of water are glistening on it. He hasn’t had time to dry himself up, though he’s thankfully managed to put on his pants. My eyes travel up to the tapestry of muscles on his torso. The sight of them is even more tantalizing up close, and it makes my mouth water.

I’m the one who’s getting wetter.

“It seems to me you need that bottle more.”

His eyes go to the stain in front of my shirt just above my breasts, those wide turquoise pupils gleaming. I place my hand on my chest, well aware that my sweat-drenched clothes are sticking to me. Next to his body fresh from a bath, I feel such a mess and I suddenly wish I had taken that shower first before meeting him.

Still, he has no right to stare.

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” he answers simply, touching his chin.

He’s not even trying to hide it. Despicable. And yet, I can’t help but blush.

“Who said you could look?”

“I think it’s only fair,” he says. “No, actually, I think I’m still at the poorer side of the bargain. After all, you were watching me earlier, weren’t you?”

My cheeks burn even more.

Glancing at the wall, I see the trowel hanging on it and I quickly swap the spray bottle for that.

“Get out of my tool shed.” I brandish my new weapon.

It’s not as good as a knife or the hand fork but it’s still better than a spray bottle.

He takes a step back, hands up. “Whoa. Easy.”

“Out!” I repeat, stepping forward. “I want you off my property.”

He stops, thin eyebrows creased. “Your property?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “You’re trespassing.”

He pauses then nods. “I see.”

What does he mean?

“You’re wrong. I’m not trespassing.”

I’m wrong? Who does he think he is?

“Put down that tool and I’ll explain.”

“Like hell.” I shake my head. “I don’t trust you. Now, get out!”

I step forward, lunging but this time, he doesn’t step back. He steps to the side, avoiding the trowel, knocks it out of my hand, grabs my wrist, and turns me around. He holds me against him, his other arm wrapping around my chest.

The moisture from his chest seeps into my back. His warm breath tickles my cheek. The smell of his skin, fresh from his bath, wafts into my nostrils. I can feel his heart pounding behind me and I wonder if he can feel mine, my pulse racing as I become all too aware of his arm pinning my breasts, of his crotch against my backside.

It’s terrifying having a man this close to me for the first time. And exciting.

The tool shed suddenly feels smaller, hotter. A fresh bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face.

“Let me go.” I struggle, afraid he’ll feel my nipples poking against the pads of my bra, but he holds me fast.

“Not until you listen,” he says, his lips close to my ear. “You’re Lauren Calver, aren’t you?”

My eyebrows go up. He knows my name?

“Who are you?” I ask him.

“Chase Donner,” he answers. “I work for your father, Isaac Calver.”

“Liar,” I spit. “My father hasn’t had a farmhand in months.”

“Which is why he needs one.”

“And he would never hire someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who doesn’t have any manners,” I say, struggling to free myself from his grip again.

He holds me tighter and I try to ignore the fact that his crotch is buried against my backside even as I try to push the memory of what it looks like aside.

“You’re the one who attacked me,” he points out.

“You trespassed!”

He sighs. “Like I said, I work for your father. He’s in his late fifties with gray hair, a beard, and…”

“Anyone who’s seen my father knows that,” I tell him. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Your father has a dog, a border collie named Smoke.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“And does everyone know Smoke hates the sound of wood being chopped? Or that your father likes to take his afternoon naps in the stable? Or that he can’t carry his alcohol and yet, he still drinks, even though he sometimes suffers from gout, which gets so bad he can hardly walk?”

I relax. Only someone who’s spent a reasonable time on the ranch with my father would know those things, which means he isn’t lying.

“Fine.” I exhale. “Let me go.”

He does, and I quickly distance myself from him.

He smiles as he offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lauren.”

What did he say his name was again? Chase?

I don’t care.

I don’t return any of those gestures,. Instead, I grab my hat before marching off. I may believe that he’s working for my father at the moment, but I still can’t believe Dad hired him.

It’s time I have a long talk with him.

---

My father is fifty-four, his hair more the color of ash now than the chestnut brown it used to be. There’s less of it now, too, his hairline having receded so far with only a round patch remaining above his forehead that it looks like a crown on his head. His thin beard hangs from his chin, forming a silver and brown curtain over his neck and stopping just above the base of his throat. His black eyes look paler, more gray now, too, lines beneath them and stemming from the corners.

When did he get so old?

Indeed, staring at him as he sits beside me around the small, round table for four just as we’ve finished lunch, I feel like he’s suddenly aged. I knew he looked different when I arrived home yesterday and now, I realize what that difference is.

He looks older, more tired.

I wrap my fingers around the handle of the pitcher. “More water?”

“Sure.” Dad pushes his empty glass toward me and I stand up to pour. “It’s a hot day.”

“You don’t say. I just took another shower.”

That’s why I feel better.

My hair is still moist as it cascades freely down my back, my shirt, now a white one with two buttons down the middle of my neckline, fresh and smelling of soap instead of sweat.

“Maybe I’ll take another one later after my nap,” my father says, grabbing the front of his own white shirt that is permanently stained with mud and moving it back and forth to fan his chest.

“You should.”

The chair creaks under my weight as it sit down, Smoke resting his head on my lap as soon as I do. I pat his head.

“How has Smoke been?” I ask as I stroke the soft fur.

“Good.” Dad takes a sip from his glass of cold water. “His appetite is bigger than ever.”

I grin. “Does he still hate the sound of wood being chopped?”

“You bet. He whines like an old lady.”

I chuckle. “Some things never change.”

As I look around the room, I notice that it hasn’t changed. The same black lamp hangs from the wooden ceiling above the center of the table, swaying slightly whenever a strong breeze makes it past the pale green curtains. The same wood-carved figures that my father and I whittled when I was a child are lined up in a row on the table by the window. The same white porcelain plates and frosted glasses, given to my parents on their wedding day, stare out from the wooden dish cabinet behind me.

A few feet away, the same blackened kettle sits on the silver stove beside the shiny black refrigerator that’s more than a decade old, the cupboard above it still with its broken lock. The same rusty pots and pans hang above the long, rectangular table across it – my mother’s favorite table where she used to spend most of the day chopping and mincing vegetables or mixing and kneading dough.

I smile, imagining her there in her pink and yellow apron that still hangs on the wall beside the table, an untouched relic.

Yes, most things haven’t changed inside this house. But some have changed outside.

“You hired someone,” I bring the topic up.

“You met Chase?” Dad asks as he reaches for the small bottle of toothpicks in the middle of the table.

“Yes,” I answer, placing my hands on the table. “I saw him while I was picking vegetables.”

Naked and bathing in the creek before I attacked him with a spray bottle and then a trowel. But there’s no need for my father to know those little details.

He sticks the toothpick between his teeth like a cigarette. “I see.”

I place my hands on the table. “Why?”

“Why did I hire someone? Because I’m not as young as I used to be, and my foot hurts sometimes.”

I’m well aware of that. “What happened to John and Huey?”

“John got married. I fired Huey after he got one of my sheep killed.”

I tap my fingers on the checkered tablecloth. “Where did you find him?”

He pulls the toothpick out from between his lips and starts picking his teeth.

“He came here, said he needed a job.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He just appeared out of nowhere?”

He tosses the used toothpick on his plate. “He said he just lost his wife.”

Chase was married?

That doesn’t explain the injuries I saw while he was bathing, though.

I stand up and pick up his empty dish, putting on top of mine. “He doesn’t seem like he’s in mourning.”

“Why? What did he say to you?” Dad asks.

“Nothing,” I answer quickly, bringing the dishes and utensils to the sink.

“He said he felt like he lost everything after losing his wife and needed a fresh start. So I gave him one. Nothing wrong with that. We all need some help at one point or another. Plus, he’s cheap.”

“Cheap?”

“I only pay him the minimum hourly wage for seventy hours a week and he doesn’t mind cash. He insisted on it, in fact.”

My eyebrows furrow as I turn on the faucet. “Well, I don’t trust him.”

“Why not? Did he do something to you?” I hear the protective tone in my father’s voice that I know so well.

Immediately, I remember how he held me against him, how his wet body felt against my sweaty one. I blush so it’s a good thing my Dad doesn’t see. As much as I don’t trust Chase, I don’t want him to lose his job, especially if what my father just said about his past is true.

“Nothing,” I answer, picking up a fork to wash. “I just… Well, I don’t know him.”

“I’ve told him to stay away from you, so you won’t be seeing much of him.”

Really? I think I’ve already seen plenty.

Out of nowhere, the image of his cock comes back to haunt me and my cheeks grow even hotter, the fork I’m washing slipping from my fingers and clattering on the sink.

“Shit.”

“You all right?” Dad asks.

“Yes,” I answer, picking up the fork and washing it again. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You didn’t tell me about him.”

“I forgot.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Like I said, I’m getting old.”

“You are,” I agree.

“Anyway, don’t worry about Chase. He’s a good man to have around.”

Remembering the quickness he showed in the barn, the efficiency with which he disarmed me, I nod. At least, he seems to know how to fight.

“And if he causes the least bit of trouble, I’ll get rid of him without thinking twice.”

“I know you will.”

Count on Dad to get rid of anything that seems a threat to me, be it a buzzing mosquito or a sexy farmhand.

Sexy.

Fine. I’ll admit he is that, maybe the sexiest man I ever met, not that I’ve met many men. In fact, he’s probably the most exciting thing ever to happen on the farm.