As I walk behind Montana, I think back to our hands touching as I exited my new bedroom. Just her touch made my dick so hard, I thought I was going to explode right there. I haven’t felt this way about someone since Mikayla. Mikayla was before the Navy—before my three tours of Afghanistan. I thought she was my everything…

I follow her down a stone path toward a large barn. As we enter, I notice there are a few men walking around the inside. “These are my ranch hands,” she explains as though she’s reading my thoughts. “That’s Mike and Tony, and over there is Trey.”

“This is a big barn,” I mutter, looking around. It must be three thousand square feet—bigger than most houses.

“This is where we keep the horses and tack equipment,” she answers.

Avery squirms, so I put her down. She grabs my index finger and leads me to one of the stalls. “Horsey,” she squeals, pointing to a black and white speckled horse.

“That’s Whinny.” The horse walks toward the front of the stall and pokes her head over the door. Montana moves toward Avery and hands her an apple. “Careful, Avery,” she cautions as the child lifts the fruit up toward the horse’s mouth. “Avery named her that, because of the noise she makes.” As if on cue, the horse whinnies. Avery giggles as she feeds her.

“Trey, can you watch Avery for a few minutes? I want to show Ryan around the ranch.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Montana,” he answers with a wave, then walks toward Avery.

“C’mon. There’s a lot more to see.”

I follow Montana out of the barn, but there’s a question that’s been bugging me. “Is Montana your maiden name or married name?”

She stops in her tracks. Turning to answer, she says, “Maiden. My married name was Miller. I want no part of my ex’s last name, and I’m considering having Avery’s legally changed.” Her body is rigid, and her tone is bitter.

There must be more to this than I read in the dossier.

Without another word, she turns back toward the exit to the barn and continues walking. I’m not one to pry. If she wants to talk, it will be on her terms.

The back of the barn opens up to a huge piece of land that goes back for as far as the eye can see. Off in the distance, I can make out the shape of a split rail fence that appears to section off part of the property.

“A ranch hand is quite busy in the spring because spring is calf season.” She walks over to a decorative wooden fence separating us from the cows, then leans on it with her forearms.

“Calf season?”

She laughs. “Yes. In Montana, most ranches are termed cow/calf operations. The herd of cows is maintained year-round to produce a new crop of calves every year.”

I watch the large furry animals wander around the fenced in area, but I don’t notice any with horns. “Bulls have horns, right?”

She laughs again. “Yes. Why?”

“I don’t see any.”

“They don’t stay here year-round. The bulls are put in with the cows at a deliberate time in the summer so the calves will arrive during a pre-determined two-month period in the spring.” She swings her leg around so she’s straddling the fence with her feet on the bottom rail. “We brought in bulls at the beginning of July, so they started popping out calves around the middle of April.”

I move so I’m leaning on the fence next to her, my hands crossed in front of my chest. “So, they’re almost done?” I wonder aloud, since we’re now in May.

“There are still a few left to drop, but yes, calf season is just about finished.” Her leg brushes against my elbow and a jolt runs through me, like electrical sparks on the way to the ground, gathering in my toes. I suppress the urge to reach out and touch her face and distract myself with the miniature cows galloping circles around the larger ones, jumping and kicking their feet. “Seems like a lot of work.”

“Cows are reasonably self-sufficient. For half the year, they wander around eating the grass that grows underfoot. They keep track of their calves, which nurse whenever they like. In the fall, the calves are sold to generate the year's income. In the winter, the cows eat hay that’s spread on the ground daily. In the spring, they lay down and push out a new calf, usually without help. Outside of an occasional sick or lame animal, cows don't require much individual handling throughout most of the year.”

Swinging her leg back around, she hops off the fence. “So, what do the ranch hands do?” I follow her as she walks to what looks like a large wall.

“They help with the daily feeding and caretaking. They feed and dry calves soon after birth, as well as tag and vaccinate them when it becomes appropriate. They wean calves from their mothers and move them from pasture to pasture. Cattle need feeding every day until the pasture grass is green enough for grazing. General farming chores start in the spring too—leveling the ground and seeding. By late spring, ranch hands can brand new cattle as well.”

“You mean, like a hot piece of metal on the ass of the cow?” I can picture it in my head—pulling the large metal skewer from the flames with some initial on the end, like in the movies.

“Yep,” she answers, shaking her head. “Damn, you are so green.”

I shrug. “I told you. I grew up in New Jersey. Closest I came to a cow was a ribeye on the barbeque.” As we approach a large fence on wheels, I ask, “What exactly is this for?”

“During winter and early spring, I like to keep the cattle in areas that provide protection from the bitter winds common in Montana. This is called a windbreak—an area where cattle can take cover from the elements. I feed around these areas to encourage cattle and their calves to stay close to fresh water and out of the wind.” Montana gives the fence a push, and it rolls a few feet. “It’ll be put away until next winter since it’s starting to warm up.”

As we walk around to the other side of the windbreak, she points to a figure in the field. “One never-ending duty of a ranch hand is to check the fences to ensure there are no holes where cattle can escape or predators can enter.”

“Doesn’t seem too hard,” I say, watching the figure skim the inside of the split rail.

“No, checking the fence is the easy part.” Circling around, we reach the back of the barn once again. “Record keeping is an important part of farming or ranching. Calving records are one of the most important records I keep on the ranch. Each year, when a cow has her calf, I record the sex, color, and if there were any issues that occurred. Records are kept in a little black book made especially for that purpose.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a small, black notebook, then shoves it back. “I also give the calf an ear tag with the same number and color tag as its mother. This way, the cow and her calf can be traced throughout the year and records can be kept accordingly.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

She laughs. “Tagging a calf or cow is relatively painless. It’s basically like getting your ears pierced.”

“Momma, I hungry!” Avery shouts from inside the barn as she runs toward us, Trey trailing behind her. As the little tot approaches, Montana waves him off. “Let’s go!” Avery demands.

“We should go. It’s time for lunch anyway.” Once again, Avery runs straight toward me, her arms high in the air. Scooping her up, I twirl her around, and she squeals as I spin in circles. I stop and tuck her under my left arm, catching Montana’s expression.

The corners of her mouth lift up into a smile, and it stills my heart.

The way her one dimple crinkles.

The way her eyes sparkle.

The deep curve on her lips.

The world stops around her.

It makes me forget the pain in my shoulder, and the fact that I might not be able to do most of the work necessary around here.

“Let’s go!” Avery repeats, tapping me on the shoulder and dragging me out of the trance I was under.

“After you,” I say, waving my arm toward the barn.