the first incline. The herd stood spread out across the road like giant yard art, unmoving save for the occasional flick of a tail or slow, considering blinks of long-lashed eyes. They all looked young, given their size, but also healthy. And undisturbed.
She inched forward and the young cow—steer?—nearest her ambled off with a disgruntled chuff. The herd shifted around and a couple of others that had been in the road followed the first one out onto the grass.
Impatience bubbled to the surface and the urge to hurry things along got the best of her. Yes, the cows were moving, but they were too damn slow. Rolling her window down, Taylor waved an arm wildly and shouted. “Move!”
The cattle stopped and looked at her.
“Get out of the road!” she shouted.
She hit the truck’s horn, beep-beep-beeping before leaning on it hard and steady, the grating, obnoxious noise shattering the quiet.
One of the cows lay down. In the road.
The soul-deep peace she’d found was lost.
To a bovine antagonist.
“I’ve been reduced to this,” she thought, tears and laughter arriving at the same time.
She gave in to both.
Several minutes passed before she even tried to collect herself. Several more passed before she was successful. Drying her face on her shirt hem, she fished around in the console for a napkin, blew her nose and tried to decide what to do. She could attempt to drive around the animal, but the pasture on either side had cattle scattered about. She could nudge this guy and try to get him to move, but she didn’t want to hurt him. How fragile are cows? She also didn’t want to bang up her truck if it turned out the animal was more dent-proof than her vehicle.
When she was two seconds from throwing in the towel and calling the cabin owner for help, the cow stood up and moved on.
The universe was laughing. She could hear it.
Unwilling to waste any more time, she drove through the remaining animals—who all moved—as fast as she dared. The road went on long enough that she wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn, and she crossed three more cattle guards before she rounded the mesa and found herself in a canyon and following a stream. Aspens clustered here and there, white trunks stark against the hillside, their leaves shimmering in the slight breeze. The stream widened and turned north, winding through an empty field littered with wildflowers.
A little house sat straight ahead. Other buildings were situated behind and, like the stream, to the north so they faced the water. She parked in front of the main house, put her hair back up and hopped out of her truck.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” she whispered, standing behind the open driver’s door as if it would shield her from the fallout when the image shattered. And it had to shatter. Nothing like this existed in real life.
The house was half stacked river stone, half rough-hewn log cabin topped by an aged tin roof and embraced by a deep, wraparound front porch with tree branches used as porch railings. A porch swing hung from the rafters on one side while rocking chairs occupied the other. Country music played on a radio inside and, somewhere in the house, a woman sang along. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted out of open windows. Beneath that hovered the scent of something rich and savory.
Please, God, let that be dinner.
Taylor laid her hand over her stomach when it growled in protest. When had she last eaten? Breakfast in Colorado? Must have been.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the truck and shut the door.
Inside, the singing stopped.
Seconds later, the front door opened and a lovely woman stepped out, a dishtowel in one hand. She looked to be in her midfifties. Long dark hair threaded with gray had been braided, but a few flyaways rebelled. Worn jeans, faded and slightly frayed from a hundred washings, hugged slim hips. Her dark T-shirt had a smudge of flour on one corner. Her gaze met Taylor’s and each woman lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at the same time.
The older woman laughed. “If you’re Taylor Williams or if you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, come on in. Otherwise, I don’t need any, want any, have already registered to vote, found the Lord decades ago so He’s not missing anymore and I’ll warn you I have a loaded shotgun inside the doorway.”
Taylor paused halfway up the front steps. “Shotgun?”
The woman’s grin widened. “It’s reserved for salesmen and politicians.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Elaine Bradley.”
A vehicle came around the bend. Taylor turned and squinted into the bright afternoon sun glaring off the windshield of what turned out to be a truck.
Light glinted off the late-model hood as it approached the house at speed. Slowing just outside of what Taylor considered the driveway, the driver pulled in at an angle, the dust trail the truck had kicked up rolling forward and swallowing the vehicle. The driver waited for the majority of the dust to clear before stepping out. Hat settled low on his head, he gripped the front of the driver’s door in one hand and the cab in the other, leaning into the V created between the two. His eyes narrowed and the cords in his neck stood out.
“That’s my son,” Elaine said from behind Taylor.
No. No, no, no. This was not happening.
“Come on up and meet our guest,” Elaine called out.
Taylor turned around and, clutching the step railing, swallowed hard. “He’s your son?”
Merry eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman’s smile widened. “He is, yes. Handsome as the devil is dark, and stubborn as a mule to boot, but he’s a good man,” she added softly, maternal pride coloring her words.
Heavy footsteps made the stair treads vibrate beneath Taylor’s feet, stopping before the owner drew level with her. His presence loomed at her back, large and hot and strong. Déjà vu struck her and she almost laughed at the irony when the bourbon-smooth voice spoke into her ear.
“I’m sure there’s a very good reason you’re standing here, on my porch, on my land, talking to my mother.” His tone wasn’t hostile but it sure as hell wasn’t welcoming, either.
“Mind yourself, Quinn,” Elaine bit out. “Taylor Williams is a guest of the ranch.”
“I can’t...” Taylor shook her head and stepped aside in an attempt to create space between her and the man at her back.
Quinn Monroe.
She’d thought this place was a fairy tale when she’d arrived—too pretty, too perfect, too good to be true. The thing was, all of the original fairy tales had been told as warnings. With this being Quinn’s territory, that made him either the hero or the ogre. If she had to put money on which was more likely, he wouldn’t end up king of the castle.
Fairy tale, indeed.
* * *
“GUEST OF...” QUINN was rooted to the spot. All he could think was that she was here and her damn hair was still up. “Since when?”
“Since
