They Said She Was Wild And Unfit, Until The Cowboy Said, “Good, You’ll Match Me Just Fine”

Chapter 3

“One hundred twenty head. Forty acres of grazing. The homestead.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice and let it stand. “I had three hands besides myself till they quit after my father died — said they were uncomfortable working for a woman. I’ve got one left. Santiago Rodriguez. Fifteen years with us. Worth any three men, but he can’t be everywhere.”

“Doesn’t sound like you need a man,” he said quietly. “Sounds like you need a few more of you.”

The observation hit her like a physical thing. She blinked. “We need fencing on the north pasture. Calves need branding. The barn roof leaks when it rains. And I have to move the herd to summer pasture soon or lose weight before the fall auction.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Why keep at it? Seems the town expects you to sell.”

“This land was my father’s dream.” Her voice came out harder than she’d meant it to. “He and my mother came out here with nothing but hope and sweat. I was born in this house. I won’t give it up because some men in town think a woman can’t run a ranch.” She met his gaze. “I can ride as well as any man. Rope a steer. Shoot straight. What I can’t do is be in three places at once.”

“Fair enough.” He set down his cup. “I’ll take the job, Miss Evans. Twenty a month, room and board.”

She stared at him. “Just like that? You don’t want to see the operation first?”

“I saw enough riding in. Fences need work, but the cattle are healthy. Fields aren’t overgrazed. Buildings are tired but sound. Tells me you know what you’re doing, even stretched thin.” He shrugged. “I’m not most men. And I reckon you’ve had enough people doubting you without me adding to it.”

She studied him a long moment, hunting for the angle, the lie, the hidden price. She found none. She extended her hand across the table. “Welcome to Evans Ranch, Mr. Blackwood.”

His hand engulfed hers — calloused, warm, steady. “Quentyn, please. If we’re working together, formalities seem unnecessary.”

“Kinley,” she offered back, and felt an unexpected flutter she attributed, firmly, to relief.

There was a cabin a hundred yards behind the barn, she told him — simple but dry. He could settle in tonight and start at first light. He promised to be ready, and when he left to tend his horse and belongings, she sat alone at the table, turning her coffee cup slowly between her palms.

For the first time in months, a small weight had lifted. One man wouldn’t fix everything. But it was a start.

She did not allow herself to dwell on the fact that her new hired hand had a smile that made her remember she was a woman as well as a rancher. That kind of thinking was impractical. Dangerous. She needed his hands, his labor. Nothing more.

Dawn surprised her. She had risen earlier than usual, determined to establish proper working boundaries from the start, and found him already at the corral, unhatted, examining her horses. His hair was nearly black, with subtle waves that would curl if he let them grow.

“Morning,” she called across the yard. “You’re an early riser.”

“Hard habit to break.” He turned, and in the soft light she saw a thin scar running along his jaw and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he concentrated. “Hope you don’t mind. Wanted to get the feel of your stock.”

“Good horseflesh,” he pronounced, nodding at the bay gelding. “Excellent confirmation. Your workhorse?”

“That’s Thunder. Best cow horse I’ve ever ridden.”

“And that paint mare looks spirited.”

“Calico. She’s mine. No one else rides her.”

“Particular about who sits in her saddle.”

“Nearly killed the last hand who tried.” She couldn’t help the small smile. “Some say that’s where I get my reputation — choosing a horse as contrary as myself.”

“Smart horses choose their riders carefully.” He said it without flattery. “Shows good judgment on her part.”

The compliment caught her off guard, and she steered them to the day’s work. Santiago arrived, gray-eyed with caution at the sight of the newcomer, but he nodded politely when she explained the arrangement in Spanish. Then they pulled on gloves, loaded the tools, and set out for the north pasture.

In the barn, before they left, she paused. A stack of fence posts leaned against the back wall, cut and squared, waiting. Her father’s work. He had finished them the week before the pneumonia took him.

“My father prepared these before he—” She stopped. The familiar ache rose. “Before he passed.”

“Three months,” Quentyn said. It wasn’t a question.

“Pneumonia. Took him fast.” She swallowed. “We always knew the ranch would be mine eventually. Neither of us expected it so soon.”

“I’m sorry,” he said — simply, without the platitudes everybody else reached for.

“Thank you.” She straightened her shoulders. “We should get to work.”

They worked the fence line under a merciless sun, pulling rotted posts and seating the new ones her father had cut into the stubborn earth. By midday they had replaced a dozen posts and mended a quarter mile of barbed wire. Kinley wiped the sweat from her brow and drank deep from her canteen.

“Your father’s posts,” she said, not quite sure why she was telling him. “He cut them the week he died. I’ve been saving them. Seemed wrong to use them without—” She stopped, embarrassed.

“Without what?”

“Without doing it right.” She met his eyes. “He’d have wanted the work finished properly.”

Quentyn looked at the post in his hands, then at her. “Then we’ll finish it properly.”

And for one strange, unsteady moment, Kinley Evans felt as though her father — wherever he was — had just nodded in approval.

She was trusting a man she knew nothing about with everything she had left. The town would call her a fool.

But the fence was mending, post by post. And for the first time in three months, so was something in her.