“I Didn’t Come to Marry Anyone” — Until One Cowboy Changed Her Entire Life

Chapter 7

Rididgewell walked into the kitchen thirty seconds after Cutter walked out, and Evelyn knew immediately from his expression that he’d seen at least part of what had happened.

She kept her back to him and started filling plates for the men who hadn’t yet come through for breakfast, because her hands still weren’t quite steady and she’d rather he not see that.

“You should have told me,” he said.

“I handled it.”

“You slapped my best hand in front of witnesses.”

“He put his hands on me without my consent, in front of witnesses, for the third time in two weeks.” She set a plate down with more force than necessary. “I told you what my rules were when I arrived. I don’t believe I was ambiguous.”

“Evelyn.” His voice had changed — lower, less formal. It was the first time he’d used her first name. “Look at me.”

She turned.

Dawson Rididgewell was standing in the middle of the kitchen that had been a ruin two months ago and was now the cleanest, best-run room on the ranch, and he was looking at her like he was trying to solve a problem that didn’t have a clean answer. She recognized the expression. She’d worn it herself a hundred times, standing over a broken stove or a failing plan, trying to figure out what could be saved.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t want to be the problem. I wanted to handle my own kitchen.”

“You did handle it.” He paused. “Cutter’s worked for me twelve years. He’s irreplaceable during roundup season.” Another pause. “And I’m letting him go this afternoon.”

Evelyn blinked. “What?”

“I should have handled it when the first complaint came to me — which it did, two weeks ago, from Mrs. Chen. I chose to believe he’d stop on his own.” His jaw tightened. “I was wrong. That’s on me.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She hadn’t expected that. An apology from a man who controlled everything on this ranch, delivered plainly and without qualification, to a woman he employed. She felt something in her chest do something she hadn’t given it permission to do.

“He’ll say I provoked it,” she said.

“He already has.” Rididgewell’s voice was dry. “Tommy and Hicks were at the table. I’ve spoken with both of them.” He looked at her steadily. “You have more allies on this ranch than you know, Miss Harper. The men respect what you’ve built here. They’ll back you.”

She turned back to the stove so he couldn’t see her face.

“I’ll replace Cutter before roundup,” Rididgewell continued. “And from now on, if anyone on this ranch makes you feel unsafe, you come to me. Not Holloway. Me.” A beat. “Is that clear?”

“Clear,” she said. And then, because something needed to be said: “You didn’t have to do that. Fire him.”

“Yes, I did.” His voice was quiet and entirely certain. “Some things are worth the cost.”

She heard him leave. She stood at the stove for a long moment, not really seeing anything, one hand pressed flat against the cast iron for something solid to hold onto.

This was the problem with Dawson Rididgewell, she was beginning to understand. He wasn’t what she’d expected. He wasn’t the distant, exacting employer she’d braced for. He was a man who fired his best hand to protect a cook he’d known two months, and who apologized without being asked, and who watched his daughter learn to make cornbread with an expression that held twelve years of grief and love all tangled together into something he didn’t know how to put down.

She was in considerable trouble.