Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Maybe I did.
But I’ve got a son to protect.
If not from Hunter, then from me—from my history of choosing the wrong man every time.
23
Hunter
The helmet’s a little big, but I manage to rig it so it holds tight. He’s got it strapped on like a soldier going into battle, his little chest puffed out and eyes wild with excitement. He’s grinning so wide I half expect it to split his face clean in two.
“Like this?” he asks, gripping the reins like he’s seen in a movie.
“Just like that,” I say, tightening the girth strap and double-checking the stirrups. “You’re a natural.”
“Sugarplum likes me,” he declares, patting her neck. “She only makes that snorty sound when she’s happy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Kid’s got theories for everything. He reminds me a bit of myself at that age, talking to anyone who’d listen. Over the years, I traded my yapping for quietude, but I was quite the social butterfly back in my day.
Behind us, Wren leans against the gate, arms crossed, a lazy breeze tugging strands of hair loose around her face. She’s in cutoff jean shorts and a boxy white tee, but there’s something about the way she stands—effortless, strong, all eyes and fire and quiet grace—that makes it hard to look away. I’ve stolen as many glances as I can from my periphery, but I imagine she’ll notice, if I don’t stop being greedy about it.
Atticus trots a few paces in the dusty corral, wobbly but determined.
And all I can think about is the irony of it all: same corral where I learned to ride, same posts, same fence lines. I must’ve been about Atticus’s age when my old man tossed me up on a mare named Jenny and told me not to fall off unless I wanted to eat dirt.
Back then, I used to picture raising my own kids here someday.
A wife. Maybe two or three little ones, tagging along behind me in overalls and muddy boots. I used to think it was a guarantee—just a matter of time.
But life had other plans.
And then two decades later, Wren shows up—bright and bold and warm and also infuriatingly stubborn—and somehow makes this place feel like it could still be home for someone other than the ghosts of my past.
“He’s doing great,” she says, pushing off the gate as I come to stand beside her.
“He’s got good instincts,” I say. “Braver than most grown men I know.”
“He gets that from me,” she says, smirking.
I nod slowly. “Explains a lot.”
She side-eyes me, mock offense dancing in her expression.
“He likes you,” she adds after a beat. “Probably more than I want him to.”
I glance at her, sensing the shift in her voice.
“If you hurt me,” she says, quiet now. “That’s one thing.” She looks at me then—really looks at me. “But don’t hurt my son.”
There’s nothing flirtatious in her tone. No teasing. Just the raw, protective edge of a mother who’s seen what happens when people walk away.
I nod once, serious. “I won’t.”
She watches me a moment longer before the tension softens slightly.
God, she’s good. Good in the way that gets under your skin and makes a home there before you realize what’s happening. Good in the way she mothers that boy, the way she watches him like he’s her whole world.
It’s sexy as hell, but I keep that to myself—for now.
“I need to start dinner soon,” she says, glancing toward the house. “I’d ask you to stay but, you know. You made it pretty clear you don’t like my cooking.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I never said I didn’t like it.”
“Oh?” she challenges, brow lifting.
“I said I’d choke it down,” I add, mouth tugging into a grin. “If it means I get to see you a little longer.”
She laughs—really laughs—and the sound does something to my insides I can’t explain.
“Laying it on thick tonight, aren’t we?” She cocks her head to one side. “A little overkill, don’t you think?”
Maybe.
But I don’t care.
I’ve never had a woman stuck in my head like this before. Never found myself rerouting my entire day just to steal a few minutes in her orbit.
And the more she resists me, the more bound and determined I am to make her mine.
She has no idea how good her life is about to get.
24
Wren
The house is quiet after dinner. Atticus is tucked in, freshly bathed and sun-drunk from his long afternoon with Hunter and Sugarplum. He must’ve ridden for hours. Tonight he fell asleep mid-sentence, something about building her a stable out of sticks and duct tape. I pressed a kiss to his forehead, pulled the covers to his chin, and stood in the doorway for longer than necessary, just watching him breathe.
I’m making my way back downstairs when I hear water running and dishes clinking. Stopping at the bottom step, I peek into the kitchen.