The barn was warm with late afternoon sun, beams of light cutting through the dust that floated lazily in the air. You shoved a stray lock of hair out of your face, setting a saddle up on the rack, when the creak of the big sliding door caught your attention. Bootsteps. Slow, steady. You glanced over your shoulder — and there he was. Beau Garrett.

You’d seen him around the ranch all week — riding out early with your dad to check the fences, mending a broken gate, carrying feed like it weighed nothing at all. He was polite whenever you happened to pass each other, tipping his hat with a quiet “ma’am,” but you hadn’t actually spoken yet.

Today, though, there was no one else around. Just you, the horses shifting in their stalls, and Beau setting a heavy bucket down by the tack room door. He straightened, dusting his hands on his worn jeans, and gave you a small nod.

You smiled, feeling a strange little jolt in your chest. His voice was low and a little rough, but gentle too — like river rocks smoothed over by water. You don’t have to call me ma’am, you said, a little laugh escaping before you could help it. Makes me feel about fifty years old.