Swift and Saddled: A Rebel Blue Ranch Novel
Swift and Saddled: Chapter 5

For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that a cattle ranch would have so many cows. In theory, I knew there would obviously be cows. What I didn’t know is that a bunch of them would be blocking the road to Rebel Blue’s Big House, which is what Weston called it in the email.

I should’ve given myself a fifteen-minute buffer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love cows. I am a firm believer that if you pass them while you’re driving, you’re legally obligated to point at them and say “Cows!” But that’s the only way I’ve ever seen a cow—through the car window, in a field, far away.

Now the cows and I were up close and personal. They were swarming my car like bees at a hive. I didn’t know how it happened—or what to do now. My windows were rolled down, and I figured I would start with just asking them to move.

“Could you guys please move?” I said loudly. “I really need to get through.” I honked my horn once to emphasize my point.

Nothing.

If I slowly moved forward, would they get out of the way? Or would I accidentally become a cow murderer? Could I kill a cow going one mile per hour? Or would I just injure it? Would I have to pay the vet bill? I couldn’t afford the vet bill for a cow.

And what if I hit more than one?

Oh god.

I looked at my phone. It was 9:25. I thought that I could reverse and go around, but that idea went out the window when I looked through my rearview mirror and saw more cows.

All right, Ada, these cows are standing between you and your future. How are you going to get through?

I scrambled for my phone, which was plugged into my aux cord—well, one of those tape things that had an aux cord—quickly found my early 2000s playlist, and cranked up the volume.

Within a few seconds, “Move Bitch Get Out da Way” was pumping through my speakers. This was going to work. If they wouldn’t listen to me, they might listen to Ludacris.

I put both hands on the wheel, ready to speed through the opening that would inevitably appear once the cows realized what I needed.

I was ready.

But…nothing happened.

I was still stuck and now—I looked at my phone again—officially late.

I dropped my head onto the steering wheel and let out a huff. The last twelve hours had really not been great for me.

I kept my head down, contemplating my entire existence, until I heard a voice.

A man’s voice. And it wasn’t Ludacris.

I peeled my forehead off my steering wheel and saw two men coming my way on horseback.

There was also a white ball of fluff with them.

The cowboy who was on a gray-and-white dappled horse came closer to my driver’s-side window, and I quickly turned my music down. I really hoped he was here to get the cows out of my way.

When I looked up at him, I was met with the same green eyes that had captured me at the bar last night.

My eyes went wide. “Oh, fuck” slipped from my mouth before I knew what I was saying.

I was met with those license-to-kill dimples that were even more perfect in the light of day. In my head, he had been a cowboy because I was in Wyoming and he was wearing cowboy boots. It didn’t occur to me that he was actually a cowboy. But the man in front of me was a cowboy through and through—down to the brown hat and leather chaps.

And the horse.

Obviously.

“Fancy seein’ you here,” he drawled. My mouth went dry. What were the chances that the one time I make out with a stranger, he turns out to work on the ranch that’s also the site of my project? “We’ll get these guys out of your way.” He paused. The other cowboy was working on the cows, who had started to move away from my car. They were taking their sweet-ass time, but at least they were moving. The white ball of fluff, which I now recognized as Waylon—the dog that got me into trouble in the first place—was also contributing. “We don’t get a lot of visitors this way—are you looking for something?”

Silence was no longer an option. “I—I’m here to meet with Weston Ryder,” I stammered. “I start work here today.”

The cowboy’s smile widened. He was looking at me like he knew something I didn’t, and it made me uneasy.

“You’re Ada Hart?” he asked.

Apparently the whole ranch knew I was coming. “Yeah,” I said shakily.

“You’ve got about a quarter of a mile until you get to the Big House. I’ll meet you up there.” He tipped his cowboy hat at me, and a shiver went down my spine.

My attraction to him clearly wasn’t dulled by the daylight.

Before I could respond, he started shouting to the other cowboy and moving his horse around the car. I tried not to watch him—tried not to notice the way his gloved hands tugged on the reins or how his legs tightened around his horse’s middle.

After a few minutes, the cows had moved from the path and I was in the clear. The cowboy gave me a nod, and I took that as my cue to continue driving down the dirt road.

Leaving the cowboy in the dust…for now. I didn’t know why he had to meet me at the Big House. There was no way he was the owner—he couldn’t be more than thirty.

Did that matter?

I didn’t know anything about ranches. Why hadn’t I watched more Heartland?

In my head, I tried to work out a plan. I would get to the Big House, talk to Weston, and then at some point I would replace the cowboy again and tell him it was a one-time thing.

All it was ever going to be was a one-time thing.

Last night, I wasn’t myself. I was tired, hungry, nervous, and faced with the world’s cutest pair of dimples. The entire thing was an out-of-body experience that would never happen again.

Ever.

I came here to get away from my problems—not give myself new ones.

If I wasn’t so keyed up over the cowboy, I probably would have been more awestruck by Rebel Blue Ranch. “Beautiful” didn’t adequately describe the landscape surrounding me.

Honestly, it was fucking majestic—like a painting come to life. I’d never seen anything like it.

But I had other things on my mind. Green-eyed things with dimples.

As I got closer to the Big House, the trees got denser, until I saw a large ranch-style log cabin in the distance—which I assumed was the Big House. There was a loop that created a sort of driveway, and I parked my car close to the front door. There weren’t any other cars in the loop, so I figured it was okay.

Now that I’d stopped the car, my heart picked up the pace. It was first-day jitters. It was I’m-not-good-enough jitters, and it was also dimpled-cowboy jitters.

When I ran out of the bar last night, I almost regretted it.

Now I needed to get as far away from that man as possible. I didn’t want him, his dimples, or his cute-ass dog anywhere near me.

Right then, as if summoned by my thoughts, the white ball of fluff appeared in my peripheral vision. I looked at him through my window. His tongue was hanging out and his tail was wagging so hard his entire body was wiggling with it.

Why did his dog have to be so cute? He shouldn’t get to have a cute dog and dimples.

I got out of my car, and Waylon was ready. He continued to wiggle his entire body, and I reached down to scratch behind his ears. I should’ve kept my eyes on the dog, but I looked up just in time to watch Dimples ride up to the house.

When he brought his horse to a halt, I looked back down at Waylon and thought how strange it was that I knew this dog’s name—I even knew the bartender’s name—but I had no idea what the cowboy’s name was.

Maybe I could get away with never knowing it. I’d be okay with that.

I heard the no-name cowboy’s boots hit the dirt, but I kept my eyes on the dog—I didn’t want to make any more eye contact with this man than was necessary.

Prolonged eye contact is what got me into this mess.

“We can head in,” he said, then gave a short click of his tongue. Waylon left midpet and went to his owner, who was waiting for me by the front door. He had wrapped his horse’s reins around a post a few car lengths away, which I was happy about.

I loved animals, but horses scared the shit out of me—they were so big.

As I approached the front door, Cowboy John Doe opened it and Waylon ran inside. Both Waylon and his owner were so at ease—they must be here a lot. I realized that he was holding the door open for me, so I scurried past him, being careful not to look him in the eye.

Once inside, I took a look around. For some reason, I thought it would feel more like a business, but I was immediately struck by how cozy it felt.

This was a home.

There was a place for coats and shoes near the front door. There were even special hooks for cowboy hats.

The entry was open, and I could see down a wide hallway to a living room and kitchen. The house smelled like pie crust, cedar, and leather conditioner—not a combination that I would ever put together, but in here it was perfect. If they ever wanted to sell this, they wouldn’t have to use the cookies-in-the-oven trick because this place smelled like home all on its own.

“My dad is waiting for us in the kitchen.” His voice came from behind me. I knew he was close. The same electricity that surrounded us in the bar was humming now. It almost distracted me from what he said.

His dad?

That explained why he was so comfortable. His dad was Weston, the owner of the ranch. I groaned inwardly. Hopefully his son didn’t have much—if anything—to do with the project.

The Cowboy Heir walked past me and down the hallway, and I followed—trying to pull myself together and slip on the mask of professionalism that was normally a permanent fixture on my face—especially in situations like this.

I didn’t like that this man had unnerved me—made me unsteady. I didn’t want anyone to have the power to do that anymore, let alone a stranger.

A very nice stranger who’d left me alone when I needed to work and kissed the hell out of me afterward, but a stranger nonetheless.

When I walked into the kitchen, there was an older man—probably in his midsixties—doing a newspaper crossword puzzle at the long oak table. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I could see faded tattoos, but I couldn’t tell what they were.

His salt-and-pepper hair was longish—it curled at his neck—and it matched his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He looked up at us, and it was obvious that he was related to my mystery cowboy. They didn’t look very much alike—just enough that you knew they belonged in the same family tree. When I saw him, I felt…calm, like I’d just found shelter from a storm.

All right, Ada. Get your game face on.

The man stood up and said, “You must be Ada Hart. We’re happy to have you.” He stretched out his hand, and I took it.

“Thank you so much for having me. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ryder,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and failing not to think about the fact that I could feel someone else’s eyes on me.

“Call me Amos, please.” Amos? Who the hell was Amos? Where was Weston?

I paused for just a beat too long. “It—it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I stammered. Great first impression, Ada. “Sorry, I was just expecting to meet Weston, since we’ve been in contact.” Amos’s eyes shifted to the cowboy behind me, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows.

Was he confused? Well, that made two of us.

The cowboy behind me cleared his throat. “I’m Weston,” he said.

Had I heard him right? No. No. No. Absolutely not. This could not be happening to me.

“But most people call me Wes.”