where he plucks out a long straw and sticks it in the corner of his mouth to chew on.
Holy hell.
Forget Pissed Off Ridge.
I think Cowboy Straw-In-His-Mouth Ridge might be my new favorite.
Which, I guess makes me no better than the admirers who can make his life miserable in the space of a heartbeat.
“Frankly, I’m not sorry. Not for retiring or moving out here.” Glancing around and still chewing on the straw, he waves me closer, gestures to have me sit on a smaller square bale next to him.
“Well, looks like you’re set up for the long haul. How’d you even find a lot with this much land?” I ask, careful not to let myself gawk at him too long—especially when a sunbeam falls across his face, turning him into an image straight out of a Western flick.
“The people I bought this place from only owned it a little over a year. A new field manager over at the North Earhart oil fields who’d bitten off more than he could chew with an acreage this size. Nothing else my crew had to do except tear down the old structures and get to work building. I told them to give me everything plus the kitchen sink. Tobin warned me not to go crazy. Surprise—I didn’t listen.”
I bite back a grin.
Guess that explains why there’s plenty of hay for Rosie and Stern, and why the house seems so sterile.
No one’s ever made it a home.
People think that’s a cliché, but in design and home décor, it’s the endgame.
There’s a huge difference between a house and a home. Ridge needs to make his place truly his.
Standing, I lean against an empty stall, scanning the barn again. There are ten nice wide ones, plus two larger stalls that I assume are for birthing and a good-sized indoor exercise area for the bitterest winter days.
“Have you made any headway on the master plan for this place?”
“I’m thinking classic cattle ranch.” He sits down on a bale, chewing that straw between his teeth. “I have the acreage for a real operation, but I’d also love to keep a herd small and organic. There’s a hell of a market for that right now. Grass-fed beef is the gold standard.”
His legs shift apart, bowing out at the knees, turning him into the perfect picture of the rugged North Dakota rancher.
Oh. My. God.
Whatever else he needs help with, the Western McHottie vibe comes naturally.
He’s got the clothes down pat, the sculpted body of a god, and eyes that could make blue nights seethe with jealousy.
“True,” I admit, hating how flushed the rosy heat in my cheeks must be making me.
“I’ll rustle up more chickens, too. Maybe a few to help teach Corny some manners. The brat could use them.” He looks at me then and grins. “Hell, maybe someday I’ll even carve out a whole field of pumpkins. Always liked Halloween.”
I burst out laughing at the absurdity of a big, messy pumpkin patch next to his fields. He’ll probably run the sort of place that looks immaculate and shows up in magazines and travel shows, tidy crops and a lawn so green it sears the vision.
“They’re more work than you think,” I point out, lifting a finger. “And if you don’t have people lined up to grab them, the compost job alone—”
“Darlin’, when I go, I go all-in. Never thought about a field full of jack-o-lanterns before you showed up, but I bet it was fun. Having people coming out, picking them, taking hayrides and having bonfires. This would be a good place for that. People would have to drive a while to get here if I ever get more than Dallas townies, so I’d better have things for them to do.” He shrugs. “Besides gawk at my famous, easily annoyed ass, I mean.”
“Good luck. Say goodbye to your low profile if you ever did any of that,” I warn him, raising a brow.
His firm, easygoing smile disappears.
I shake my head, sensing he’s disappointed over reality setting in.
“It’s probably not the end of the world,” I say. “You didn’t exactly keep a low profile last night, either. Stepping in the way you did.”
“That was different,” he rumbles, his voice low like thunder. “I had to.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t obvious? Because I can’t fucking stand pricks like—” He pinches his lips together, glancing around before finishing, “Guys who pick on women.”
“He didn’t do it for the fun of it. Not that it matters, I guess,” I say glumly. Feeling I owe him some