Chapter 2

Sam

The sprawling ranch stretches out before me, an endless sea of green pastures and rolling hills under the vast blue Montana sky. My heart races as the pickup truck rumbles up the long dirt driveway, kicking up clouds of dust. This is it—my new home, my new life. As a bride to a man I barely know.

The truck lurches to a stop and the door opens. Colton Westbrook stands on the other side, his tall, broad frame filling the doorway. My breath catches. He's even more rugged and handsome than his photo—all chiseled features, sun-bronzed skin, and piercing blue eyes that seem to see right through me. I feel his gaze rake over my curvy figure as I climb out of the truck, suddenly self-conscious in my yellow sundress.

"You must be Samantha," he says, his deep, gravelly voice sending shivers down my spine. "Welcome to Westbrook Ranch."

"It's Sam," I manage with a shy smile, tucking a stray auburn curl behind my ear. "Thank you. It's beautiful here."

He nods curtly and grabs my suitcase, his arm muscles flexing under his white button-down shirt. I follow him up the porch steps to the sprawling farmhouse, my legs trembling slightly, though from nerves or anticipation I can't tell. The man is built like a mountain—solid, strong, immovable. And he's my husband now. The thought both thrills and terrifies me.

As we step inside, the rich scent of leather and pine envelops me. It feels like home already, cozy and inviting. But the silent tension crackling between Colton and me fills the air with a strange energy.

I glance up and find his blue eyes fixed on me again, swirling with some unreadable emotion. Desire? Regret? I look away quickly, my cheeks flushing hot. What have I gotten myself into? Can I really do this—be a wife to this quiet, intimidating cowboy?

I take a deep breath, willing myself to be brave, to have hope. This is my chance for a new beginning, for love and family and belonging.

I just pray I'm strong enough to grab it.

Colton

"Let me show you around." I tear my gaze away from Samantha's soft curves and lead her through the house, my pulse beating faster than a spooked stallion. Lord Almighty, she's a vision. When she stepped out of that truck in her little yellow dress, mile-long legs stretched out, red curls tumbling down her back, I could barely breathe. I almost regret this whole mail order bride scheme. How am I supposed to focus on the ranch with her around as a distraction?

"The barns are out this way." I guide her out the back door, struggling to keep my eyes ahead as she follows behind me. Her bright green eyes are too damn inviting, drawing me in like quicksand. I have to keep my distance if this is going to work. I have a ranch to save and no time for romance.

"Do you have many horses?" Her musical voice breaks the tense silence as we enter the stables. I nod and point out the stalls.

"'Bout twenty right now. Used to be more, before..." I let my words trail off, unwilling to unpack the grief still looming over this ranch like a dark cloud.

Sam just smiles softly. "They're beautiful. I've always loved horses." She reaches out to stroke a white mare's nose and I'm mesmerized by her gentleness, her natural ease around the animals.

Dragging my eyes away, I clear my throat and head out of the stable. "I'll show you the rest."

We walk along the fences and I point out the different pastures and equipment, hyper aware of her presence beside me, the way the sun illuminates the hints of red in her hair, the sweet floral scent that wafts my way when she turns her head. It's unnerving. I'm used to hard work, sweat and dirt, the simple routines of ranch life. I don't know what the hell to do with a woman like Samantha. Especially one I have to call my wife.

One who’s way too pretty for a thirty-five-year-old man like me. There’s no way I could ever be good enough for her. I don’t know what situation caused her to sign up for a mail-order bride service, but I know she has to be desperate to agree to something like this.

What I can’t figure is how is a pretty thing like this not already married to some young buck? Why did she agree to marry some stranger like me?

I can only pray this marriage of convenience doesn't unravel everything I've been working for. And that I can keep my growing desire for this captivating woman locked down deep, where it can't burn us both to cinders.

Sam

The scrape of forks against plates echoes uncomfortably loud in the stillness of the dining room. I sneak a glance at Colton, his eyes fixed intently on his meal as if the mashed potatoes might reveal the secrets of the universe. The air feels thick, weighted with all the words we're not saying.

I clear my throat. "This is delicious. Did you make it yourself?"

Colton grunts, sparing me the briefest of glances. "Mhm. Not much of a cook but I get by." He shovels another forkful into his mouth.

"Well, I'd be happy to help out in the kitchen. It's the least I can do." I aim for lightness but it falls flat in the oppressive quiet.

His eyes flicker to mine, stormy blue depths unreadable. "You don't need to do that. I didn't bring you here to be my maid."

I flush, stung by his dismissiveness. "I know that. I just...I want to contribute somehow. Earn my keep."

Colton sets down his fork with a sigh. "You're not a burden, Samantha." His voice gentles a fraction. "I wouldn't have agreed to this arrangement if I didn't think it would be mutually beneficial."

"Beneficial. Right." The words feel brittle on my tongue. Is that all I am to him? A business transaction?

I mean, I of course I am. I guess. Right? I have no right to be offended. Hell, I don’t know.

Silence descends once more as we finish our meal. I can't shake the gnawing fear that he regrets this already, regrets me . That I've left everything behind for an illusion of belonging.

My face colors. Oh my god. What if I’m too curvy for him? I know curves as thick as mine aren’t every man’s cup of tea. What if I’m not pretty enough?

I touch my hair self-consciously. What if he hates redheads?

All the what-ifs are still spinning through my mind when Colton stands abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. I nearly jump out of my skin. "I have some things to take care of. I'll clean up later," he says gruffly.

He's gone before I can formulate a response, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway. I slump back in my seat, appetite evaporated. Is this what our life together will be? Ships passing in the night, never quite connecting?

I can only hope that time will thaw the icy reserve of my new husband. And pray that I haven't made a terrible mistake.

Colton

I stride down the hall, blood pounding in my ears, a roaring that drowns out everything but the need clawing under my skin. The need to touch her. To taste her. To bury myself in her softness and never come up for air.

Damn it all to hell.

I slam into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. My cock is harder than railroad iron, jutting against the confines of my jeans. All through that torturous meal, I couldn't stop imagining spreading Samantha out on the table, hiking that skirt up her creamy thighs, feasting on her sweet nectar until she begged for mercy.

The shame of it twists like a knife in my gut. She's not a object for me to rut against. She's my wife. A wife I barely know but who deserves more respect than the filthy fantasies running through my head.

I lean my forehead against the door, trying to catch my breath. To will the raging lust away. But it's no use. Growling in frustration, I yank open my fly, wrapping a rough hand around my aching erection. I pump furiously, images of Samantha's plush lips, the elegant curve of her neck, her full breasts creating a tormenting slideshow in my mind.

It doesn't take long. Half a dozen strokes and I'm coming hard, painting my fist and the door with ropey white streams. I muffle my groan into my shoulder, knees nearly buckling from the force of my release.

As the haze of pleasure fades, the disgust rushes in. What kind of man am I, objectifying my own wife? Treating her like a means to an end?

I clean myself off methodically, regret a lead weight in my stomach. This can't happen again. I won't let it. Samantha deserves a real husband, not a lecherous fool who can't keep it in his pants.

I'll be better.

I have to be.

For her.