6. Marco Hill

Morning on the ranch always starts the same way for me—cold air biting at my skin, the kind of silence that only exists before the world fully wakes, and the smell of pine drifting in from the woods. Even after all these years, it still feels right. Familiar. Solid. A routine that doesn’t change, even when everything else in my life has.

I shrug on my worn denim jacket and step out of my cabin, boots crunching over frost-kissed grass. I may be the owner of this whole place, but my father made damn sure I learned how to work like any other farmhand—especially before I ever got to enjoy the “owner” part of the job. And honestly? I prefer it that way.

My favorite time of the day, though… is the stable.

Warm breath huffs against my neck as soon as I push the doors open, the horses shifting inside their stalls, some still half-asleep, some already impatient for attention.

But Tornado—my Tornado—is wide awake.

“Morning, boy,” I say, stepping toward his stall.

He’s a big black stallion, strong, stubborn, and dramatic as hell. He nudges my shoulder as if reminding me I’m late, and I chuckle under my breath.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down. I’m here.”

While the other workers start their own routines, I groom him myself—running the brush along his sleek coat, checking his hooves, making sure he didn’t roll in something he shouldn’t have. He’s been with me since I was thirteen, back when my biggest concern was whether my father would let me skip school to help with foaling season.

Tornado tosses his head, and I roll my eyes. “Don’t give me attitude. You’re worse than my guests.”

Well—than one guest.

Alice.

I grit my teeth as I tighten the saddle strap. I can’t even explain why she gets under my skin so damn easily. Something about her… the way she looks like she doesn’t belong here, the way she laughs too loudly, the way she stares at everything like she’s seeing it through a snow globe.

And maybe the way every time she walks into a room, I feel it.

Which pisses me off.

We ride out with a small group of guests. Tornado takes the lead, eating up the trail like he owns it. I talk them through the history of the ranch, point out the mountains dusted in snow, the herds grazing near the river, the fields my mother planted decades ago.

By late afternoon, the sun dips low, setting everything gold. When we ride past the blooming tree Luna planted—the one that somehow survives every winter harsher than the last—I feel my chest tighten.

She loved that tree.

She loved everything about this land.

She loved me.

And cancer took her anyway.

I swallow hard, pausing for a moment as the guests ride ahead. I rest a hand on the cool, twisted trunk. There’s a kind of peace here, but also a weight that settles over me every time I stop long enough to feel it.

“We should’ve had more time,” I whisper. “You deserved more.”

I breathe deeply, then turn Tornado back toward the stable. Dwelling on ghosts never helps, and I have work to finish.

By the time I return, the sky is streaked pink, and most of the guests have already headed to their cabins. I dismount, pat Tornado’s neck—

And freeze.

Because in the middle of a hedge near the chicken coop…

Alice is crouching.

Crouching.

In jeans so tight they clearly weren’t made for bending, expensive leather boots already dusted with dirt, and a perfectly white sweater that’s probably worth more than my monthly electricity bill.

“What the hell…?” I mutter.

I walk toward her quietly, not because I’m trying to sneak up on her, but because I’m genuinely confused. She jumps the moment she notices me, letting out a tiny yelp—

And that’s when I see it.

She’s holding a chicken.

A plump, indignant, aggressively offended chicken.

Before I can even speak, the damn thing flaps its wings violently and bursts out of her arms, soaring between us like a feathery missile gone rogue.

I blink. “Why—why do you have my chicken?”

“She ran away!” Alice snaps, scrambling after it.

“It’s a farm, Alice! The chickens are supposed to be out.”

“Well she wasn’t supposed to run in front of me like a lunatic! I thought she was hurt!”

“Oh my God…” I rub my temples. “Please tell me you didn’t name her.”

Alice stops mid-chase. “Her name is Fiona.”

I groan loudly. “Stop naming things that aren’t yours!”

“She looked like a Fiona!”

“She’s a chicken!”

“She still looked like a Fiona!”

The chicken—Fiona, apparently—lets out a judgmental cluck and darts toward the barn. Alice lunges after her. I don’t know what possesses me, but I follow, mostly because there is zero chance she’ll catch the animal before something important gets broken.

Unfortunately for both of us, Fiona is fast.

Alice dives, misses, slides on wet mud. I try to grab the bird before she reaches the fence, but she swerves last second and—

Splash.

Alice lands straight in the mud.

I land right after her.

And somehow—because the universe hates me—she lands on top of me.

Her hands press into my chest. Her hair falls around my face. Her perfume—sweet, warm, too tempting—wraps around me. Our breaths mingle, shallow and uneven.

For a moment, everything stops.

Her eyes widen. Mine must do the same.

Her lips part slightly, and my pulse punches against my ribs so hard it hurts.

She’s soft. Warm.

Too close.

Way too close.

I shouldn’t notice how her body fits against mine.

I shouldn’t want—

A sharp peck hits my boot.

We both jolt.

Fiona is standing at my feet, glaring at me like I’m the idiot in this situation.

Alice pushes herself off me, sputtering, furious, covered in mud from shoulder to knee. “I cannot believe this. My clothes are ruined! My boots—my boots were imported!”

“This is a ranch,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. “Not a runway.”

She shoots me a deadly look. “Why don’t you keep your chickens under control, then?”

“Why don’t you stop kidnapping them?!”

Fiona clucks approvingly at my argument. Traitorous bird.

Alice throws her hands up, muttering something about “rural insanity,” and marches toward her cabin, each step sending mud flying behind her.

I stay where I am for a few seconds, staring after her.

Then I look down at Fiona.

“It’s always the pretty ones,” I tell the chicken. “They show up, cause trouble, and leave you in the mud.”

Fiona clucks again, unimpressed, then struts off like she owns the place.

I sigh, drop my head back into the grass, and let the last bit of sunlight warm my face.

This woman is going to kill me.