“No fucking way,” Lars roars when he finally gets me to jump out of Thunder’s stall. With an iron grip around my upper arm, he roughly tries to steer me out of the barn.

“Let go of me,” I yell, shocked by his sudden transformation from calm to furious.

He releases me so fast I nearly fall backward.

I try to argue with him, but he isn’t having any of it. The horse, he insists, is untamed. It has already bucked off two highly seasoned men. One broke his leg and the other a couple of ribs.

“If you insist on breaking your neck then go do it on someone else’s watch. I’m not having it on my conscience,” he shouts.

“Please. He won’t throw me off. He…likes me,” I implore.

For a second he stares at me as if I’ve just turned green, or I’ve uttered the most insane thing he’s ever heard. Instantly, I realize that I have already slipped out of character. Tamara would never be begging like this.

“Why do you want him?” he asks, his forehead furrowed.

I can’t tell him because Thunder is the most beautiful horse I’ve ever laid eyes on, or that it is love at first sight, because Tamara would never say such a thing. “Because, I know I can ride him,” I whisper.

He takes his hat off and runs his hand through his hair. “No way. I’ll have to tell your father about this and he can decide what to do.”

My blood runs cold and my hands rise in fear. Bringing her dad’s attention to me would be a very bad idea. “No, no, please,” I plead. “Don’t tell him.”

His eyes narrow into slits.

I swallow hard and think up a lie that would work best. “I just want to do one thing that will make him proud of me.”

Something flashes in his eyes. A softening. Thank God.

“I’ll be very careful. I promise to listen carefully to everything you tell me.”

In the end, we agree (although my fingers are crossed behind my back) that I will learn to ride on Isadora and only attempt to get on Thunder once he can be trusted not to throw his rider.

* * *

That evening after a lovely shower, I have an early dinner of cold chicken sandwiches on my patio. The sky is velvet black and studded with millions of stars that shine like diamonds. I mean there are stars in Chicago obviously, but holy hell, the stars in Montana are something else. They glitter like diamonds. I have never seen such a sight in the city, and for a very long time I sit in the cold night air, wrapped up in a blanket, staring at the night sky.

Everybody seems to go to bed early, and by ten o’clock, silence descends. I remain in the darkness alone, more at peace than I have been in my whole life.

My real life feels like it is thousands of miles away. In a different world.

Eventually, I go in and close the French doors. Lars told me to be at the barn by 7:30 a.m., so I set my alarm clock for 6:45 and slip between the fresh, sweet-smelling sheets.

* * *

The first thing I do when I wake up is to check the sheets for brown stains from the spray tan. Relieved that the sheets are clean, I pad over to the bathroom.

It takes me nearly twenty minutes to get my make-up right, but I am in the kitchen by seven sharp. There is a delicious smell wafting around and a tiny, white-haired woman is bustling around making breakfast. She must be at least seventy, but she seems to be very sprightly and energetic.

“Morning child,” she greets cheerfully as soon as she sees me.

“Morning, Ma’am,” I say. I don’t know how Tamara treats the elderly, but I was raised to be polite to them above all else, and I’m doing just that. No way I’m going to be rude to this little sweetheart. Ever.

She grins. “Take a pew, honey.”

I sit gingerly on one of the wooden chairs arranged around the long wooden table.

“Lars wants you to fill your belly before going out to the barn to start your chores, so I’ve made you eggs, bacon, beans, and toast,” she says, pushing a plate of warm food in front of me.

“Are you the cook here?” I ask as I start buttering the toast.

“That’ll be me,” she says as she walks over to the stove and stirs whatever is cooking in a small pot.

She spoons some into a bowl and puts it in front of me. “Go on and get it all down you.”

The porridge is still steaming hot so I reach for the fork and knife and start eating my eggs. “This is delicious.”

“I wouldn’t be late if I were you. Lars is very punctual. If he says seven-thirty then he means not a minute later.”

I look at her warily. “What time is it?”

She glances at a clock on the wall. “It’s already seven-fifteen, child.”

I follow her gaze and momentarily panic. I’m fifteen minutes later than I thought. Something must be wrong with my alarm clock. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath, and then scarf the food down my throat. Even though I rush like mad, it’s 7:20 by the time I finish.

“I was told to give you these before you leave,” she says, handing me a pair of small muck boots.

“Thank you so much…” I begin, realizing I don’t know her name.

She folds her hands over her chest and beams. “Emma Jean Jansen, but you can call me Emma Jean.”

I grin back gratefully. “Thank you, Emma Jean.”

I step into the boots—they are a perfect fit—and rush out of the house. The morning air is lovely and cool as I run down the hill at full speed and race to the barn. I don’t have a watch and I left my new phone on my bedside table, so I pray that I am on time.

“I’m here,” I shout as soon as I get through the entrance.

Lars is standing in between the stalls with a shovel in his hands. He turns his wrist, looks at his watch, and glares at me as I stand there panting hard. “You’re a minute late,” he chastises sternly.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. I’m late by a minute. I woke up at six forty-five. I wolfed my breakfast down as fast as I could and I ran all the way here. Give me a break.” At that moment, I’m not even attempting to act like Tamara. The arrogance of this man irritates me beyond words.

“For the record, I am not ‘freaking kidding you’. I am trying to make this month manageable for you. Maybe you should have woken up a little earlier. I was up at five and I’m now doing your job for you. If you are late one more time, I won’t help and you’ll just damned well have to work right through your break.”

My fists ball up. I’m generally a very placid person, but this man inspires violent thoughts in me. He makes me want to smash my fist into his smug face. “I’m here under duress to learn how to ride, not to be one of your servants. Actually, you are my servant. You’re paid to teach me.”

He laughs suddenly and I’m tempted to throw horse shit at him. Why would he be laughing at me when I’ve just called him my servant?

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” he chuckles.

“Don’t you dare patronize me,” I cry, infuriated.

“Then get your little ass over here and start shoveling,” he says. “You have to be here, I don’t.”

“Nice try, but you work here. You don’t have a choice, I do,” I shoot back.

“Last time I looked, it’s you who doesn’t have a choice.”

“Whatever,” I say in the most irritating way I can, and walking toward him, try to snatch the shovel from his hand.

“Get your own shovel,” he says, pulling it back from me.

I, of course, do not let go. “No, you get your own shovel,” I shout at him. Acting like Tamara seems to be turning me into her, but I can’t help it. Lars is an ass and he needs to be put in his place.

“Tamara, let go of the fucking shovel,” he says quietly, but his voice is suddenly so cold and menacing I flinch backward, lose my grip on the shovel, and start falling back.

“Shit,” I cry as I desperately try to find my footing. I expect to crash on the floor, or into the gate behind me, but what happens is worse. Lars’ arm tangles around my waist and my entire body gets pulled tight to his chest.

Breathless from our argument, I attempt to push away and fill my lungs with air, but he doesn’t let go and that doesn’t help my breathing whatsoever. Our faces are inches apart. His scent: clean soap, leather, and just pure man, fills my nostrils. My panicked eyes lock with his and my flimsy façade fades along with my inner strength.

I feel like goo in his arms.

I hear the clank of the shovel falling to the ground, but I can’t look away from his hooded, icy-gray eyes. He’s a brute. A rude, egotistical, sarcastic piece of shit, but in his arms, he morphs into a mass of strong, hard muscles, and I become a woman who wants the feel of his lips on my body. My heart races like crazy; a fire starts in my belly, and instead of pushing, my hands start pulling. I feel as if I am drunk as our faces move closer together.

A voice inside my head screams, What the heck are you doing?

I am not Cass Harper.

I am Tamara Honeywell and Tamara would not be enveloped in the arms of a mere farmhand. But I can’t do a thing to stop myself. Like a leaf in a gust of wind, I have no power of my own.

Suddenly, Thunder emits a loud neigh. That does the trick. It jolts me out of my dream state and I jump out of Lars’ arms. He stares at me with an unreadable expression as I stand there breathing hard and trying to rebuild my composure. Summoning all my strength, I square my shoulders and tilt my head to the left like I watched Tamara do in the videos whenever she was caught in uncomfortable situations.

Then, I run my tongue over my lip and let it shape itself into a sly grin and say the words I don’t want to say, but I must. “So, you want me, cowboy? Sorry, I’m out of your league.” Even as the harsh words calculated to ruin any connection I might ever have with Lars drops out of my mouth, my heart shrinks.

It knows I’ve made a grave mistake.