Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Sawyer looks up. For a split second I think I’ve gone into cardiac arrest, my heart tripping to a sudden, painful stop at the naked interest in his eyes. It’s edged with heat.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Whatever the case, a spark of arousal ignites low in my center.
“You wanna go grab a coffee or something?” he asks.
My heart starts working again, two hundred beats per minute. My brain, however, flatlines, which is probably why I blurt, “I’d love to. But please don’t miss work on my account—”
“I’m not leaving you crying in a parking lot, Ava. Work can wait.” He tips his head toward our cars. “C’mon, there’s a coffee shop on Main. Follow me—I’m in the black Silverado.”
CHAPTER 16
Ava
JUST TO SEE YOU SMILE
The Caffeinated Cowgirl might be the most adorable place on earth. It has a pink awning that matches the pink tables and chairs set out on the sidewalk in front of its brick building on Main Street. Its tagline, written in white script on the awning, reads Drinking Coffee, Wrangling Hearts.
The shop is also closed.
“What?” Sawyer cups his hands over his face to peer inside the front door. “They’re always open. Since when does Wendy go on vacation?”
I read the sign taped to the door for the third time. Wendy is apparently out west visiting Glacier National Park. Her BFF, a cat named Dahlia, is accompanying her on the trip.
“Good for her,” I say, even as I’m hit by a tidal wave of disappointment.
I was really looking forward to spending time with Sawyer. Which—again—is probably why I shouldn’t be spending time with him at all. Yes, I have a rare morning without any lessons or paperwork to do back at the ranch. But I need to be smart here. Need to protect myself so I don’t end up sacrificing myself—and my freedom—for the sake of keeping someone else happy.
Still, when Sawyer asks, “How ’bout we have coffee at my place, then? It’s just ten minutes down Highway 21,” I immediately agree.
“You sure you don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I already had a pot on anyway.”
Following him down the sunbaked highway, I can’t tell if my jitters are excitement, anticipation, dread, or what. Grabbing coffee at a coffee shop is one thing. Going to Sawyer’s house is something else entirely.
I give Dan a quick call to let him know drop-off went well. He’s his usual short, snippy self on the phone, and I hang up feeling annoyed but also relieved. I don’t have to interact with him again until he picks up June next.
A few miles down 21, Sawyer hangs a left, and we pass beneath a shiny new archway that reads LUCKY RIVER RANCH, EST. 1902. My stomach dips.
I’ve heard a lot about Mollie Luck and Cash Rivers’s ranch—how big and beautiful it is, and then of course I’ve heard from Sally about Mollie’s plans to turn it into a Hill Country headquarters for her boot company, Bellamy Brooks. Mollie inherited the property from her dad, who struck oil on the land back in the ’90s. He died a very wealthy man last year. Mollie inherited the ranch, then combined it with the Rivers Ranch when she got engaged to Cash Rivers back in the fall.
I follow Sawyer’s truck down a dirt road that’s bordered on either side by wide-open pastures. I notice there’s some heavy machinery around—excavators, bulldozers, dump trucks—along with stacks of what appear to be irrigation piping and materials for fencing.
It’s a mess, but having all this work done means big things are happening here.
It means Sawyer and his brothers care about the ranch. Judging by the scope of the project, they care a lot. I wonder how long this land has been in Sawyer’s family. The idea of him being a careful, thoughtful steward of their legacy—
Heavens, my pulse won’t quit fluttering.
But it’s the house that comes into view after we crest a small rise that has my heart really pounding. It’s modest—two stories, maybe fifteen hundred square feet—but it’s beautiful. The exterior is limestone on the first level, white siding on the second. The house has a wide, rocking-chair front porch and light green shutters that gleam in the morning light.
My chest twists when I see the screen door that opens onto the porch, which is painted green to match the shutters. There’s something about a screen door that speaks to me. Growing up, I distinctly remember the sound ours would make as my sisters and I ran in and out of the house to play—a noise somewhere between a clap and a bang. Those were happy times that have become happy memories I revisit when I need a boost.
Sawyer parks on a patch of gravel to the left of the house, and I follow suit.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe as I climb out of my car.