1

Bulwark, Texas, mid-August.

Golden light spread across the concrete floor, filling the vast structure with a soft glow. Bobby Bell stood for a moment and savored the familiar smells and sounds of the stables, a blend of earth and animals. The musky overnight odor from manure and straw and sweat underscored by a symphony of gentle whinnies and soft, welcoming neighs. It was a balm to his restless soul, a reminder that despite yearning for the cool Atlantic Ocean breeze, the rolling green hills, and the mild temperature of the Andrastian islands of his birth, Texas was his home and had been for almost fourteen years. And would be until the day he took his last breath. But hell, he would never get used to the relentless heat that baked the parched land.

He adjusted his hat and set about his daily routine. Moving through the stalls, he greeted each of the twenty-seven ranch horses under his care. His movements efficient and methodical, Bobby checked for signs of illness or discomfort. He knew the quirks and habits of each horse and would spot an anomaly straight away. Disease could spread rapidly, sometimes decimating an entire stable.

This morning, there were two he paid special attention to — Mosaic, a heavily pregnant tri-color Paint, and Dude, one of the working Quarter’s.

“Morning, love,” he said, entering Mosaic’s stall. He ran his hand over her neck, and she whinnied, nudging his hip in return. Bobby chuckled. “Greedy, huh?” He pulled the plastic bag from his back pocket and removed the quartered apple, offering her one piece at a time. She devoured them in record speed. “Well, there is nothing wrong with your appetite, that’s for sure.” He examined her hindquarters, looking for signs of the muscles relaxing, preparing for the coming birth, but found none. But her udder was fuller, and some gentle probing proved it a bit firmer than yesterday. That was promising. “Hang in there, love,” he soothed, patting her flank. “Three, maybe four weeks to go.”

And he outright laughed when she gave a snort and shook her head.

In sharp contrast, Dude wanted nothing to do with him. The bay Quarter shied away, backing into the far corner of the stall as Bobby entered. He frowned at the stallion’s unusual behavior. “Hey, big fellow. Not doing so great, huh?” His gaze shot to the bandaged hind leg but couldn’t see any outright discoloration on the gauze. He raked his eyes over the horse, looking for signs of sweating or shivering. Nothing. Although the horse’s muscles seemed a little tense.

“Are you messing with me, Dude?”

In reply, the horse sidestepped, pressing his entire flank against the wall of the stall, his head turned to the entrance, his eyes wide and ears forward. Bobby frowned. Then stilled at a slight rustling noise behind him. Dude shuddered.

Aw, hell. A snake?

Automatically, his hand moved to the weapon strapped to his side, but he stopped. Shooting in a stall with an already frightened horse was a very bad idea. Very slowly, he turned and —

Cat.

He blinked.

Yep. It was a cat. “A fucking cat?”

A small tabby with a leg in the air, casually grooming its — her — privates.

Bobby swung back to face the horse. “Seriously? A cat has you cowering like a baby. You weigh half a ton, Dude, chase fucking cows for a living. That miserable feline is not even ten pounds. Grow a pair.”

Shaking his head, Bobby left the stall, scooping the cat up on his way out. “Not even ten pounds. Seven at the most.” Innocent blue eyes stared back at him. He shook his head again and stalked down the center aisle and out into the open. “Go catch your food somewhere else,” he muttered, setting the rascal down. Head held high, tail swishing, she walked away without a backward glance.

He chuckled again. Trouble sure came in small packages.

Voices neared, and three of his five stable hands rounded the barn. His eyes narrowed as he viewed the two older men flanking the new hire, Colt Finnegan. It was the youngster’s first day on the job, and judging by his wary expression and the amused smirks of the seasoned men, they were filling Colt’s head with bullshit.

The trio pulled up short. Colt’s eyes bulged. The other two slapped him on the back, nudging him forward.

“Um … uh …” Colt’s throat bobbed, and he shot Emmet, the old timer on his left, a frantic look. Emmet, his expression now ultra serious, lifted his chin in encouragement.

Colt squared his shoulders and faced Bobby.

Jimmy, Emmet’s partner in crime, shook with suppressed laughter.

Bobby braced. Those two were up to something.

“Um … yes. Thank you for asking … uh … Sir Robert.” Colt bowed his head in an awkward move and added, “Highness,” in a mumble.

Bobby closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. That damned knighthood King Gustav had saddled him with would be the death of him.

The partners in crime hooted with laughter.

Bug-eyed, Colt looked around, turning crimson from the neck up.

Bobby sent the old timers a scathing look and took pity on the kid. “Colt, don’t listen to their shit. Name’s Bobby Bell, nothing more. You’re my shadow today, and we’ll start by feeding the horses while these two clowns have the pleasure of mucking the stalls.”

That stopped the pair sniggering, and he countered their scowls with raised brows in a silent dare before focusing on Colt. “And if I ever hear you utter the words Sir Robert or fucking Highness , which is totally incorrect, you’re mucking stalls for the next year. Understood?” How the kid’s eyes stayed in their sockets as he vigorously nodded baffled Bobby. “With me, lad,” he ordered, and turned, heading back into the building and the relative coolness the vast structure offered.

He should’ve refused the fucking knighthood. It’d caused nothing but grief for him. But he’d done it for his parents. And every time it bit him in the arse, he thought of the pride on his parents’ faces as they watched King Gustav, the monarch of Andraste, bestow that dubious honor on him. Their pleasure was atonement for the heartache he had caused by turning his back on his homeland and consequently them all those years ago.

The rest of his day was filled by training Colt, and when he walked the short distance to his cabin with the sun dipping below the horizon, he was dirty, sweaty, and utterly knackered.

And figured the creature on his doormat a hallucination. He stopped and viewed the feline with puzzlement. “What’s the deal, Tabby?”

Serious blue eyes returned his regard in complete silence.

Bobby shook his head — aloof little shit — and climbed the porch steps with a heavy tread, hoping the cat took flight. She rose and leisurely stretched.

And waited, facing the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” He picked up the cat and retraced his steps, placing it firmly on the gravel path. “I have a stable full of animals to fret over and do not need a contrary housemate added to the mix.” But as Bobby straightened, she merely scampered back to the doormat.

Too tired to argue with a seven-pound scrap of bones, he trudged back up and opened the door. With her nose in the air and tail arcing high, his uninvited guest walked right on in. Bobby removed his boots, placing them in the corner behind the door for tomorrow. Despite his exasperation, his lips twitched into a reluctant smile as the cat explored the room. It wasn’t much — a rectangular open-plan area with a galley kitchen on the one end, and a couch, two armchairs, low table, and television on the other. A desk, bookshelves, and a fireplace took up most of the far wall. “Don’t get comfortable,” he grumbled, unclipping the holster. “You’re not staying.” He stored the weapon in the concealed biometric lockbox, placed his cellphone and wallet on the narrow hallway table, and hung his hat on one of the hooks above the table.

Turning right into the short hallway, Bobby shed his shirt and undershirt and entered the bathroom. A minute later he sighed in delight as cool water rained over his skin, sluicing away the daily grime. After a quick full body scrub, hair wash, and final rinse, he flicked off the water and blindly reached for a towel. And swore when something furry brushed against his ankles. He bit back a harsh rebuke when the feline started lapping the water lingering around the drain. “Now you’re making me feel bad,” he muttered, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Come, Stripes.” Without waiting to see if the cat followed, Bobby plodded to the kitchen, filled a dessert bowl with water, and placed it on the floor. He watched in wry bemusement as the scrap of bones pounced on the liquid, spilling more than she drank. And he called himself a soft-hearted fool when he rummaged through the cupboard for a tin of tuna and scooped a quarter into a matching bowl. After a tentative sniff, the cat hunched down and started chowing. Loud purring filled the quiet. “You’re not a simple barn cat, are you?” He retrieved his cellphone, opened the chat group for the ranch, snapped a picture, and added a short message. “Anyone missing a cat?”

A few quick replies. “No.” “Will ask around.” “Nope.” And then from one of the ranch hands, “Found a feed sack with three dumped on the side of the road yesterday. One got away when I opened it. Took the other two to the shelter. Guess you found Houdini.”

“Houdini, huh? Pox on the fucker who abandoned you.” Bobby crouched low and stroked a finger over the bony head. The cat stopped eating and butted its head into his palm, purring louder. “But I still don’t want a housemate, Squirt, even though you walked a good five miles to reach the stables.”

He straightened and turned back down the hallway, this time entering his bedroom. Opening a drawer, the family photo on the top of the dresser reminded him of the conversation earlier with his younger brother, Stuart. His parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary was coming up late November, and his presence was expected on the islands. He’d go, of course. Fifty years of marriage was a major achievement, and he needed to make up for the many years he’d been missing. However (why was there always a however with family?), according to Stuart, their sisters (there were five of those!) and mother were in a matchmaking frenzy. Stuart had recently broken up with his long-term partner, so the two brothers were the focus of the Bellerose female machinations. And Mama Bellerose wanted her long-lost son back in the island fold.

And that was not going to happen. His life was here now.

He dropped the towel and reached into the drawer for a pair of boxers. But instead of cotton, his hand brushed against something cool and silky.

His body stilled, knowing exactly what he’d touched. And before he could stop himself, he lifted the scrap of material and held it to his nose. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

It no longer held her scent.

He gave a harsh laugh.

Of course not, you fool.

It was years since the woman who’d bound the scarf around her head to protect her braids had slept in his bed.

Darla.

The one he’d walked away from.

Huffing, he snapped open his eyes.

And noted the pink lace the silk scarf had concealed.

The vision of that first moment he’d lain eyes on her, all hot and sweaty and grumpy and absolutely stunning, filled his mind.

Black braids reaching to her waist.

Sun glinting off her sweat dappled forehead.

Full lips moving as she spouted sassy words.

And then she tossed her bra.

Her pink bra.

The one in his drawer. Beside his underwear.

Throw them out. Stop torturing yourself with reminders of her.

But he ignored the sound advice his mind offered and painstakingly refolded the silk scarf and placed it back in its place.

Grabbing his boxer briefs, he slammed the drawer, rattling the photo on the top of the dresser.