“If you ever want someone who’ll fight for this place beside you, I’m still that man.”
Cassidy Hart was pinned against the barn wall, shirt shoved past her ribs, hips grinding against Colt Maddox like gravity owed them something.
It wasn’t real. Except it felt real. The wood behind her shoulders was warm with sun. Her legs wrapped around his waist. His hands on her ass—rough, greedy—like he’d never get enough. His mouth on hers, all tongue and teeth and sin.
“You miss this?” he asked, voice low and dark at her throat.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her breath was gone. Her brain, gone. All of it burned up in the way he moved inside her—steady, unrelenting, like he had every right. She tipped her head back and gasped his name, that broken, helpless sound ripping out of her just before—
Cassidy jerked awake with a sharp inhale, every muscle coiled tight like she’d sprinted uphill. Outside, the wind slammed against the house, rattling the gutters and moaning through the trees like some warning from the land itself. Typical Wyoming. Always dramatic.
And she’d dreamed about Colt Maddox.
No—worse. She’d dreamed about straddling him.
The dream still clung like a fever: heat at her shoulders, dust in the air, hay-sweet light slanting through the slats. Colt in the doorway, hat tipped low, sweat at his temple, looking at her like he’d never left. Like nothing had broken. Whispering her name. A question and a promise.
“Cass.”
She’d turned, and suddenly they were inches apart. Her palms on his chest, the heat of him burning through thin cotton. Then it was gone—shirt, hesitation, distance. He was everywhere. Hands in her hair. Teeth at her throat. His voice rough against her ear. “Still mine.”
And in the dream, she didn’t argue. She let him take her apart. Straddled his lap in the saddle room. Knees digging into worn leather. Flannel shoved up past her ribs. His mouth on her breast, fingers on her hips hard enough to leave bruises. Her breath catching on every kiss, every bite. Even asleep, she was betraying herself.
Cassidy rolled onto her back and dragged a hand down her face. Her head throbbed like she’d lost a fight with a whiskey bottle. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know what had happened: the heat between her thighs, the ache that lingered, the thunder in her chest. All of it betrayed her.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and glared at the floorboards. Morning light leaked through the curtains, soft and golden, like it didn’t realize she wasn’t in the mood for tenderness. Her white lace tank clung to damp skin, and the sheet still held the shape of a woman who hadn’t slept easy. A very particular someone still haunted the space between her legs.
The room hadn’t changed: jeans draped over the old chair, one boot on its side, a battered cigarette pack beside her father’s watch on the dresser.
Still, she could feel him.
Cassidy stood. Cold wood bit into her bare soles. The air slapped her skin—sharp, uninvited. She tugged on her jeans, braided her pink hair with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. No bra. No patience. Not today.
The hallway creaked beneath her steps. Ruckus lay sprawled across the kitchen floor, one eye cracked open, tail thumping once.
“Lazy,” she muttered. He disagreed with another slow tail thump. Cassidy lit a cigarette and moved to the window. Outside, the sky was yawning, peach light stretching across the fields. Dew on the barn roof gleamed like fresh-cut glass. Dust danced at the horizon as the wind shifted.
Her phone buzzed.
Once. Twice.
She let it sit. Took another drag. Let the smoke curl against the pane before picking it up.
DOTTIE: He’s back. South fence.
Cassidy stared. Buzz.
DOTTIE: And he brought coffee like it’s not a goddamn crime.
No surprise. Anger. The same angry heat she hadn’t shaken since the dream. He was back. Of course he was. And of course he thought coffee absolved everything.
She braced herself against the counter, her head bowed. Breathing shallow.
“Motherfucker,” she whispered.
Second time this morning her pulse betrayed her. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the sill. Didn’t need to reread Dottie’s texts. they were burned behind her eyes. He’s back. South fence. Coffee.
And God help her, coffee did sound good.
The screen door slapped shut behind her. The hinges groaned like they weren’t ready for the day either. Sunlight had crested the ridge, turning the tin roof into a mirror, the fields shimmered gold. Her tank fluttered in the breeze and she welcomed the cool air. Her braid whipped behind her as she crossed the yard with deliberate steps. The barn doors were open, air heavy with hay, horse sweat, and old wood. Whiskey nickered softly.
She didn’t speak, just grabbed a brush and ran it over his flanks. Long, steady strokes. The saddle followed. Bridle. Cinch tight. Check it twice. Her fingers lingered on the leather longer than needed. The gelding stood steady, he knew better than to challenge her moods.
Cassidy swung into the saddle, braid over her shoulder like fire and silk. Ruckus followed, silent shadow. No command needed.
The wind shifted as she reached the ridge, curling up from the south with a breath of heat and resin.
Cedar.
Then came the sharper thread—bitter and dark. Coffee. Her stomach pulled tight.
And there he was.
Colt Maddox stood at the fenceline like he’d never left it. Shirt damp at the spine, stuck to his back in a way that mapped every hard line of him beneath. Toolbelt slung low on his hips. One hand braced on the top rail as he leaned, the other wrapped around a chipped white mug. Steam curled lazily into the morning air, carrying that unmistakable scent toward her like a damn summons. Cassidy reined in hard. The gelding stilled beneath her, ears twitching. Ruckus padded up beside them and sat, gaze locked forward like he’d sensed the same old trouble taking shape down the hill.
She didn’t move. Just watched. Colt didn’t glance up, but she could feel him clocking her anyway. He always did that—read the shift in the air, the pause in breath. Like her presence hit him skin-first. When he finally straightened and turned, it was slow. Unhurried, like he had nowhere better to be.
And then he smiled. Not friendly or cautious. Dangerous. The one that once meant Come here, Hart, and bring the fire with you.
Cassidy felt her jaw clench, heart ticking a little too loud in her ears. She hated that smile for how it still made something low in her gut twist, like muscle memory and longing had struck some backroom deal without her consent.
“Morning, Hart,” he called out, voice smooth as worn leather. She narrowed her eyes, kept her posture casual, her voice flatter than the land stretching behind him.
“You fixing my fence, or marking your territory?”
He didn’t bristle. Took a slow sip from the mug and let the silence sit between them before he answered. “Little of both, maybe.”
That did it. She nudged Whiskey forward, boots nudging into his sides with more force than necessary. The ride down the slope was short, steep, and deliberate. Her braid swung behind her with every step, strands catching light like flame. When she reached him, she dismounted with practiced ease, dust kicking up around her boots. The ground was dry, cracked from a week of heat. And here he was—looking like he belonged in it, like sun and sweat and broken things had never let him go.
“You weren’t invited,” she said, closing the distance until she could smell the cedar oil on his hands, the faint trace of sweat on cotton. “Was yesterday not loud enough?”
His gaze swept over her, slow. Measured. No smirk this time. No apology either.
“You need help,” he said.
She didn’t flinch, but it hit square in the chest anyway. That easy certainty. The same Colt who’d always spoken in facts like they couldn’t be argued with.
“And your dad…” He paused. “He never had to ask.”
Her jaw worked, but she said nothing for a beat. “My dad’s dead. And I don’t need you.”
“I know.”
The breeze caught the hem of her tank top. Her braid lifted off her shoulder. A heartbeat passed between them—then two.
“If you show up again without asking,” she said, voice low, almost calm, “I'll assume it's trespassing.”
Colt tilted his head, that same unreadable calm in his expression. “You always did shoot first.”
“And you always were too damn slow to learn.”
The silence between them felt like pressure building beneath the earth. Then came that smile again—smaller this time. Worn at the edges. Maybe even sad.
“Then I guess I’d better start taking notes.”
He tipped his hat like they were still friends. Turned back to the fence. Picked up the hammer. Started driving a rail into place. Cassidy stood there, watching the muscles in his shoulders shift with each swing. Watching the dust rise with every strike. Watching her own goddamn resolve unravel by degrees.
She didn’t know if she wanted to throw him off her land or drag him into the tack room. Maybe both. But instead, she turned, placing a hand on Whiskey’s flank. The heat of him grounded her—but her thoughts had already drifted somewhere else.
Eighteen. Summer sun high and mean, rope burn fresh on her palms. Her father’s voice across the arena: “Again, Cass! Elbow up.”
She’d gritted her teeth, coiled the rope, missed. Heard laughter. Not her dad.
Colt. Leaning on the rail, one boot hooked, hat pushed back, smirk in place, amused. Then he’d dropped into the pen, calm and close.
“Try this,” he’d said, adjusting her fingers. “You’re pulling too soon. Wait till your front foot’s down. Then go.”
She’d tried again. Nailed it. Turned to tell him something smart—and he was right there. Stupid close. Dust still hanging in the air between them. Her hand still half-wrapped in the rope. His fingers ghosting over hers.
He’d leaned in. Barely.
Cassidy blinked hard, shoved it down deep, and clicked her tongue. She swung into the saddle in one clean motion and didn’t look back, but felt it: the weight of Colt’s gaze on her back as she rode away.
The sun had risen higher now, turning the fields harsh with heat. By the time she reached the western pasture, the trail had narrowed. Hard-packed dirt bordered the fence line, a path they barely used, which is why she noticed the tracks right away. She slowed, sliding down from the saddle. Crouched low.
Two sets of tire tracks. Deep. Fresh. Not a ranch truck, tread was too clean, too narrow.
City tires.
Her stomach twisted. She followed the prints a few steps, down toward the old gate that led into the woods. They used it in the fall to haul firewood, and even then, it was always chained shut. Now it hung open. Crooked. The chain lay snapped, broken clean through.
Ruckus let out a low growl. Cassidy’s eyes followed his gaze. Far down the fence line, one post stood out, darker. Marked. A single strip of red cloth fluttered in the breeze, tied tight around the top rail.
Her stomach dropped. Someone had come through. Knew the land. Knew the gate. Left their mark.
A warning. Or worse.
19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNhCdmX3uRc
