to the ranch and my jaw hits my lap.
I can’t even breathe.
Ginormous would be a sad lie for this place. It’s more like...
...someone imported a team of architects to build a palace in Nowhere, North Dakota, which somehow still has all the outer charm of a real ranch.
Frosted with snow, it’s like I’m looking at a scene from a Christmas card come to life.
Everything glows cozy orange, lit up with huge yard lights perched on top of several poles like small moons. The house itself is an immense wooden structure with a sprawling front porch. Seems like it’s borrowed inspiration from the rustic lodges you can find on postcards.
Behind it, the red barn is two stories tall, with a green metal roof and a big rooster-shaped weathervane twirling slowly around a square cupola. My eyes flit across several other buildings, storage sheds I think, plus a smaller cabin tucked back behind the house near a row of pine trees glazed white.
That cabin turns out to be the guesthouse Tobin escorts Dad to as soon as they park near it.
Then it’s our turn, stopping next to the barn. Ridge gives me a wicked look as he shuts off the engine.
“Shit. Right. The house. I guess I should’ve warned you, but...I keep a low profile.”
I don’t even know what to say. Or what he’s even hinting at.
Sure, a little notice that he’s apparently a gazillionaire would’ve been nice. But now that it’s obvious, and it breeds questions like rabbits, I don’t know if I could even dream of scolding him.
Much less poking at his secrets after he said low profile.
“We’re fine,” I say weakly, pushing my door open. “Let me help you with Rosie and Stern.”
Cornelius Pecker isn’t nearly the shrieking grump he let on.
Ridge insists the red-crowned beast is just subdued tonight thanks to the storm, but I can’t see the fuss.
The big white leghorn rooster seems happy enough to have company, scratching at his pile of hay and peering around curiously. Rosie and Stern are certainly pleased to be inside the heated barn.
Of course, the barn interior is just as magnificent as its exterior.
I’ve only seen pictures, but I can’t help comparing it to the one the Budweiser Clydesdales live in. It’s almost too neat, all polished wood and soft orange light, hangers for miscellaneous equipment, and silver water hookups positioned neatly throughout.
Once we get the horses settled, Ridge helps me carry our luggage into the cabin. No surprise, he carries several overstuffed travel bags like they’re nothing.
Then, as he says goodnight, he mentions pulling the Ford into one of the sheds to keep it out of the snow if I need to grab anything else from it.
I thank him, shut the door, and huff out a breath.
Relief floods my brain, though I’m not sure it should.
The cabin is really a mid-sized house and only looks modest next to the mansion. It has a couple bedrooms with full baths, a kitchen, living room, and loft area. All very stylish modern country, decorated with log furniture and lots of red-and-black plaid—pillows, curtains, and tablecloths.
Like something straight out of a log and hearth magazine.
Dad slouches on a sofa in front of the gas fireplace that’s crackling away, blowing a comfortable heat into the room.
“You know who Ridge reminds me of?” he says, hands out in front of him to catch the warmth.
I blink, grateful his words snap me out of the trance I’ve been in ever since we showed up here.
There’s an armchair near one corner of the sofa, and a rocking chair on the other.
“No, who?” Walking over, I lean against the side of the armchair.
“That actor who used to show up in all the big films when you were a kid—Barnet. I think he did a couple really bad Westerns a while back.”
“Dane Barnet?” I ask, though I’m sure that’s who he means.
Oof.
It hits me like a snowball to the face.
There’s little denying Ridge looks a lot like him, and Dad knows his Westerns. He’s always loved them, but that can’t possibly be it...right?
It’s too implausible, even if our mysterious benefactor for tonight is clearly loaded to the gills.
“Hmmm, I don’t know, Dad. Just a weird coincidence, I bet. We’ve had plenty of those tonight,” I say with a meager smile.
I don’t have the heart to tell him Dane Barnet wouldn’t be caught dead living on a ranch in small-town North Dakota. What kind of celeb molded straight from Hollywood royalty would?
“I’m telling you, it’s him!” Dad takes another loud