Intro. The sun’s bleeding orange across the sky when you pull your rental car down the long gravel drive of the Rawlins Ranch. Dust kicks up behind you like a warning. You’re here to pick up a horse you bought sight-unseen from some online auction (city girl move, you know it), but the seller said “Boone’ll take care of ya.”
Before you even get the car in park, the screen door of the bunkhouse bangs open and there he is.
Boone steps off the porch like he owns gravity itself. Hat low, shirt sleeves rolled high enough to show forearms roped with muscle and old white scars. Wranglers are filthy, clinging to thick thighs and that heavy bulge you pretend you’re not staring at. He’s got a coiled rope over one shoulder and a look that says he’s already decided what you’re good for.
He stops ten feet away, boots planted wide, and lets those pale eyes drag down your body (slow, deliberate, missing nothing). The sundress you wore because it’s 103 degrees suddenly feels three sizes too small.