“Giselle, time to get up. You are needed in the south to help herd the cattle.” Her mother’s voice echoed from downstairs.
Giselle groaned, rubbing sleep from her eyes as the morning sun sliced through her bedroom window. The smell of coffee and bacon crept under her door, mingling with the dust motes dancing in the light. She stretched, her bare midriff brushing against the rough cotton sheets, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her boots—scuffed from yesterday’s work—waited patiently beside the door, laces still knotted from when she’d kicked them off.
She grabbed the denim jeans draped over her chair, yanking them up over her thighs with practiced ease. The leather belt followed, cinching tight around her waist, the bronze buckle cold against her skin. Her shirt—a threadbare button-up with sleeves already rolled—snapped into place as she tucked it in haphazardly, leaving a sliver of toned stomach exposed. The fabric clung just right, worn soft from years of wear, the top two buttons undone without a second thought.
The leather jacket came next, its familiar weight settling onto her shoulders like a second skin. She inhaled the scent of saddle oil and dust embedded in its seams, the faintest hint of last night’s bonfire clinging to the cuffs. A quick pat to her pockets confirmed her gloves were there—fingerless, the leather supple from use—before she snagged her cowboy hat off the bedpost. It landed on her head with a soft whump, her hair cascading in messy waves beneath the brim.
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with morning chaos. Her mother’s back was turned, spatula in hand, as Giselle swiped a piece of toast from the stack. The butter melted instantly against her tongue, the crunch loud in her ears as she ducked out the screen door before her mom could rope her into some chore. The porch groaned under her boots, the wood warm from the rising sun. She took a deep breath—dry grass, distant cattle, the sharp tang of the wind carrying the promise of heat.
The sun hit her eyes a deep brown, turning them molten in the light. She blinked against the glare, adjusting the tilt of her hat as she strode toward the stable. The leather of her jacket creaked with each step, the sound mixing with the distant lowing of the herd. Dust kicked up around her boots, swirling in lazy spirals before settling back to the earth. The ranch stretched out before her, endless and familiar, the fence posts standing like sentinels against the horizon.
She pursed her lips and whistled—sharp, two-toned, the same sound she learned and used since she was ten. The answer came immediately: the thunder of hooves, the rhythmic pounding of earth. A shadow detached itself from the barn’s interior, sleek and powerful, emerging into the sunlight with a toss of its mane. Jet-black, muscles rippling beneath glossy coat, the thoroughbred stallion snorted as he approached, nostrils flaring. His ears twitched forward at the sight of her, dark eyes gleaming with recognition. “Morning, Bullet,” she murmured, running a gloved hand down his neck. The stallion nudged her shoulder with his nose, warm breath puffing against her jacket.
Giselle didn’t need the mounting block. One foot in the stirrup and a swift hoist up, she swung her other leg over Bullet’s back in a fluid motion, her jeans stretching taut across her thighs as she settled into the saddle. The leather groaned beneath her weight—familiar, comforting—as she gathered the reins. Bullet danced sideways, eager, already sensing the day’s work ahead. She clicked her tongue, nudging him forward with her heels, and they surged into motion. The wind snatched at her hat brim as they broke into a gallop, her hair whipping loose beneath it, strands catching in her parted lips.
The ranch sprawled before them, endless golden grass shimmering under the climbing sun. Cattle dotted the horizon like spilled ink, distant bawls carrying on the dry wind. Bullet’s hooves kicked up clods of earth, the rhythmic thunder of his stride vibrating through her thighs. She leaned into the motion, one hand resting lightly on the pommel, the other keeping a loose hold on the reins. The southern boundary was a good ride—far enough that the main house shrank behind them, swallowed by the rolling hills.
Her two older brothers, Flint and Jake, were already at work when she arrived, their silhouettes stark against the bleached sky. Flint—taller, broader, his hat pulled low—had a lasso coiled in one hand, his shoulders rolling with the easy confidence of a man born to this. Jake, wiry and quick, was crouched near the fence line, fingers working deftly at a snapped wire. Both turned as Bullet’s hoofbeats announced her arrival, their faces splitting into identical grins beneath the shade of their brims. “Took you long enough,” Flint called, his voice rough with amusement. “Thought we’d have to start without you.”
“Not a chance.” Giselle reined Bullet in sharply, the stallion sidestepping with a snort as she leaned forward, one forearm resting on the saddle horn. Her smirk was pure defiance, the challenge in her eyes unmistakable. “You couldn’t herd a goat without me, much less fifty head.” Jake barked a laugh, wiping his hands on his thighs as he stood. Flint’s grin widened, his gaze lingering a beat too long on the sliver of skin exposed by her riding jacket as she adjusted her grip on the reins.
The rhythm fell into place without discussion—Flint took point, his deep voice cutting through the dust as he called directions, while Jake darted along the flanks, quick as a fox, steering strays back into formation. Giselle rode the perimeter, her sharp whistle slicing through the lowing of cattle, Bullet pivoting on a dime at the slightest pressure of her knees. The herd moved like molasses at first, stubborn and slow, but they quickly found their flow, the animals falling into line as the trio worked in silent tandem. Sweat trickled down Giselle’s spine beneath her jacket, the heat rising in visible waves from the parched earth.
They crested the last hill just as the sun hit its peak, the ranch’s boundary fence stretching before them like a seam in the land. The cattle spilled into the fresh pasture with relieved bawls, kicking up dust that coated Giselle’s gloves as she wiped her brow. Flint tipped his hat back with a satisfied grunt, his shirt plastered to his chest. “Told you we’d manage,” he said, just as Jake opened his mouth to protest—then froze.
Thomas, their stoic and weathered father, stood on the ranch house porch, one boot propped on the rail, his silhouette sharp against the bleached wood. Even from this distance, Giselle could see the slow curl of smoke from his pipe, the way his head tilted just slightly to the side—the telltale sign he’d been watching longer than he’d let on.”
“Good work,” he called, his voice carrying across the distance like gravel rolling downhill. “Did it fast.” There was no mistaking the approval in those words, though he’d never lavish it outright. Thomas wasn’t the type. Praise from him was a rare thing, doled out in scraps, and Giselle felt her spine straighten despite the exhaustion weighting her shoulders. Bullet shifted beneath her, sensing the shift in her posture.
The stable hands were already milling about when they rode back in, their glances flickering toward Giselle like moths to a flame—quick, inevitable. She ignored them, same as always, though the heat crawling up her neck wasn’t just from the sun. It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed the way their eyes snagged on the curve of her hip as she dismounted, or the way her shirt clung to her back with sweat. Eighteen had come with its own set of complications, and the ranch hands’ sudden inability to look her in the eye was one of them.
Bullet snorted as she loosened his girth, his dark coat streaked with dust and lather. The scent of warm horseflesh and leather filled the air, mingling with the sweet rot of hay underfoot. Giselle ran a gloved hand down his flank, feeling the tremor of spent muscles beneath damp hide. “Good boy,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. His pulse thudded against her skin, steady and strong, a reminder of the partnership that ran deeper than words.
As she rode to the stable, it swallowed them whole—shadows stretching long across the aisle, motes of hay drifting in slanting sunlight. Giselle’s boots crunched over straw as she led Bullet to his stall, the familiar rhythm of untacking grounding her. The bridle came off first, its bit clinking against the wood as she hung it. Her fingers lingered on the worn leather, tracing the grooves left by years of teeth and sweat. This was hers. Every scratch, every stain—a story she could read with her eyes closed.
She grabbed the curry comb from its hook, the bone handle smooth against her palm. Bullet exhaled through his nostrils as she dug into his coat, circular strokes lifting dust from the sweat-darkened patches. Flecks of dirt spiraled to the ground, revealing the black sheen beneath. His muscles twitched under her touch—little ripples of contentment—as she worked down his neck, over his withers. The rhythm was hypnotic: scrape, flick, scrape. Her own sweat cooled against her skin, the stables shade a relief after hours under the sun.
Bullet nudged her hip with his muzzle, the pressure firm but careful, like he knew exactly how much weight she could take. Giselle grinned, swatting his nose with the comb. “Yeah, yeah. You’re perfect.” His answering huff ruffled the stray hairs clinging to her forehead. She could feel his approval in the way his ears flicked toward her, the relaxed slump of his hindquarters. 8 years since her father had lifted her onto his back for the first time, tiny legs splayed wide over his barrel. 8 years of scraped knees, stolen apples, and sunsets spent racing the fence line. Their bond didn’t need words—just the creak of leather and the certainty of his stride beneath her.
She cast one last glance toward the stable door. The ranch hands had vanished—probably to the cookhouse for lunch, judging by the distant clatter of tin plates. The ranch hummed with midday lethargy, even the flies drifting lazily through shafts of golden light. Perfect.
Giselle hooked the curry comb back on its peg with deliberate casualness, then—quick as a jackrabbit—darted for the ladder. The rungs groaned under her boots, the sound masked by Bullet’s contented munching on his grain below. Up she climbed, into the thick, honeyed air of the hayloft, where dust motes swirled like tiny stars in the slanting light. The scent here was richer—dry alfalfa, sweet clover, the faint musk of old leather harnesses stored for decades.
Her boots hit the loft floor with a muted thump. She didn’t need light to find it; muscle memory carried her past stacked bales to the far corner, where the roof slanted low and the hay was piled just right. Here, hidden behind a curtain of dangling tack, was her sanctuary—a nest of stolen saddle blankets and sun-bleached feed sacks, arranged with the precision of a outlaw’s hideout. A kerosene lantern hung from a rusted hook, its glass smudged with fingerprints. She struck a match against her belt buckle, the sulfur sharp in her nostrils as the wick caught.
Beneath the third blanket—the one with the Comanche stitchwork—lay her prize: a dog-eared dime novel, its cover slick with handling. The Outlaw’s Wanton Bride. The corners were soft from being tucked into her waistband during midnight readings, the spine cracked from being folded back one-handed while the other worked beneath her jeans. Giselle bit her lip as she flipped it open to the marked page, her thighs pressing together at the familiar passage. “*His calloused hands slid up her corset-laced waist, the lace snapping like gunfire as he—*”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, the lantern’s flicker casting shadows that danced across her collarbones. Without hesitation, her fingers went to the top button of her shirt. The fabric parted easily, worn thin from years of sun and sweat. One by one, the buttons surrendered until her shirt hung open, the afternoon air cool against her skin. Her breasts—full, youthful, tipped with peaks already stiffening—rose with her next breath, the sensation electric. The ranch hands’ stolen glances hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Her fingers traced the curve of her own hipbone, calloused pads catching on smooth skin. The contrast sent a shiver down her spine—roughness against softness, a paradox she’d come to relish. She tugged her belt buckle loose with practiced ease, the leather whispering against denim as she slid it free. Her jeans sagged slightly without their cinch, the waistband dipping just below the sharp jut of her hips.
Giselle didn’t hurry. She never did. There was a ritual to it—the slow drag of her glove down her thigh, the deliberate way she peeled each finger free before letting the leather drop to the blankets. The scent of saddle soap clung to her palms, mingling with the musk of hay and the sharper tang of her own arousal. The lantern’s glow painted golden stripes across her abdomen, highlighting the flex of muscle beneath skin as she shifted.
The book lay open across her knees, the creased page falling obediently to the passage she’d left off—the one where the outlaw’s fingers found the hem of his bride’s corset, where the prose dissolved into breathless fragments between dashes. Giselle skimmed the words with half-lidded eyes, her lips moving soundlessly over the familiar phrases. The heat between her legs throbbed in time with the pulse at her throat, insistent as a branding iron pressed to flesh.
Her fingers dipped below her waistband, knuckles brushing the soft trail of hair leading downward. The denim resisted at first—stiff with dust and dried sweat—but yielded as she hooked a thumb into the band and pushed. The cool loft air kissed her inner thighs as she spread her knees wider, her boots scraping against hay-strewn planks. Somewhere below, Bullet snorted in his stall, the sound muffled by layers of hay and longing.
The book’s words blurred as her focus narrowed to the pulsing heat between her legs. In her mind, the outlaw’s hands weren’t ink on paper—they were rough palms sliding up her ribs, his clever fingers twisting in her hair. The fantasy shifted, fractured: she winced as she arched into her own touch. Giselle bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to taste copper, the pain sharpening the images behind her eyelids.
Her outlaw had shoulders broad enough to blot out the sun, a deep sultry voice, low and rough as a rusted hinge. The thought of any man seeing her like this, spread across saddle blankets with her jeans bunched around her knees, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. The loft seemed smaller suddenly, the air thicker, as if the walls were leaning in to watch.
Giselle’s breathing hitched when her fingers slid lower, her wrist twisting in the rhythm Bullet took when galloping—steady, relentless, building toward something inevitable. A bead of sweat trickled down her ribcage, catching on the edge of her undone shirt. She arched into her own touch, the hay prickling through the blanket beneath her, the scent of leather and her own musk filling her nostrils. Some distant part of her registered the creak of the stable door swinging open below, but it barely registered—her pulse was too loud in her ears, her thighs trembling with the effort of staying quiet.
She bit down on the heel of her palm to stifle the cry clawing up her throat, her back bowing off the blankets as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. The dime novel slipped forgotten to the floor, pages splayed open where the outlaw’s bride gasped her surrender. Giselle’s fingers worked faster now, her slickness coating her thighs, the rough fabric of her jeans still bunched at her knees. She was close, so close—the pressure building like a storm over the mesa, dark and electric and impossible to outrun.
A strangled moan escaped her lips anyway—half-pained, half-triumphant—as her hips jerked against her own hand. The orgasm hit like a cattle stampede, sudden and overwhelming, her vision whiting out at the edges. Heat flooded her in waves, her arousal soaking through the blanket beneath her, the musky scent mingling with hay and saddle soap. She collapsed back onto the nest of stolen tack, her chest heaving, her shirt hanging open to reveal flushed skin glistening with sweat.
Then—hoofbeats. Distant at first, then louder, closer. The unmistakable rhythm of Flint’s big bay mare and Jake’s quick-footed paint. Giselle froze, her pulse roaring back to life. Shit.
The aftershocks still pulsed through her, making her fingers tremble as she yanked her jeans up over sticky thighs. The belt buckle clanked as she fumbled with it, her breath coming in sharp little gasps. Bullet snorted below—his warning. They were at the stable door now. She could hear Flint’s low chuckle, Jake’s answering jab. Too close.
Giselle stilled as Jake’s stall was directly beneath her, her heart hammering against her ribs loud enough she swore they’d hear it. The hay beneath her creaked as she shifted, her shirt still gaping open, her skin prickling with sweat and shame. Dust motes swirled in the lantern light like tiny traitors, illuminating every frantic movement. She barely dared to breathe as Jake’s boots scuffed the floorboards beneath her, his whistling tune drifting upward—some bawdy saloon song she’d heard the hands singing after dark.
The whistling grew quieter as they moved on, fading toward the tack room. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers trembling as she buttoned her shirt with jerky motions. The dime novel lay sprawled in the hay where she’d dropped it, its lurid cover gleaming in the lamplight. She snatched it up and jammed it back beneath the Comanche blanket just as Bullet stamped his hoof. That was too close.
Silence settled over the stable again, save for the occasional rustle of hay and the steady crunch of grain being chewed below. Giselle forced herself to count to sixty—one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi—her pulse gradually slowing. Her gloves were still missing, discarded somewhere in the frenzy. She spotted one dangling from a nail near the ladder, the other half-buried in straw. She grabbed them with stiff fingers, shaking out stray bits of hay before tugging them back on.
The shirt was more complicated. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons—slick with sweat, uncooperative—until she abandoned propriety altogether. The top two stayed undone, the fabric falling open just enough to reveal the hollow of her throat and the faint sheen of perspiration along her collarbones. She tucked the hem back in haphazardly, leaving a sliver of toned stomach exposed above her belt buckle. The look was deliberate, careless in a way that said she hadn’t bothered checking a mirror—though she absolutely had, a thousand times before.
The blankets she smoothed with sharp, practiced strokes—no wrinkles, no telltale damp spots—before stacking them with military precision. Only then did she dare to snuff out the lantern, its wick hissing as she pressed her thumb to the hot glass. Smoke curled upward, acrid and fleeting, swallowed by the loft’s thick air.
She raked fingers through her hair next, pulling strands loose from where they’d tangled in the sweat at her nape. The cowboy hat came last—a final shield against prying eyes—its brim tugged low as she swung her leg over the ladder’s edge. The descent was silent, her boots finding each rung by memory alone. Bullet watched her from his stall, ears pricked forward, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. She shot him a glare that promised extra apples later if he kept quiet.
The cookhouse buzzed with midday chatter when she shoved through the screen door, its hinges shrieking in protest. Conversation stuttered for half a heartbeat—long enough for a stable hands gaze to flick up from his plate, his fork paused midair. His eyes traced the undone buttons of her shirt, the flush still high on her cheeks, before he smirked and deliberately took a bite of cornbread. Giselle slid onto the bench beside Jake, her thigh brushing his just hard enough to make him jerk. “Hot out there,” she remarked to no one in particular, reaching for the pitcher of lemonade. Condensation dripped onto her wrist as she poured, the cool liquid a shock against her still-thrumming skin.
Her eyes swept the long pine table—past the ranch hands with their sunburned necks and dirty fingernails, past Cookie’s flour-dusted apron and Thomas’s ever-present pipe—searching for the two faces that should’ve been there. Beau, her oldest brother, his usual spot near the salt cellar sat empty, the wood worn smooth where his elbows should’ve been. No Jai second to Beau, either, his customary mug of black coffee conspicuously absent. A week now. A whole damn week without so much as a telegram. Her fingers tightened around her glass. “Where is Beau and Jai?”
Thomas exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze fixed on the horizon through the cookhouse window. “Viper’s Canyon,” he said, like those two words explained everything. Flint’s fork scraped his plate with deliberate nonchalance. Jake suddenly found his beans fascinating. The silence stretched taut as a lasso before Thomas added, quieter, “They should be back any day now.”
Giselle’s throat tightened. Beau was the only one who never looked at her like she wasn’t something to be won or guarded—just Giselle, all rough edges and restless hands. He’d taught her how to spit farther than the boys, how to read the land’s subtle shifts, how to hold a knife so it wouldn’t slip when gutting fish. When she’d punched Jake square in the nose at twelve for grabbing her braid, it was Beau who’d hidden his laugh behind a cough while Thomas doled out her punishment.
Now his absence yawned like an unlatched gate, swinging wide with every meal where his usual spot stayed empty. She pictured him crouched in some rocky defile, his sharpshooter’s squint scanning the horizon—always watching, always steady. Jai would be pacing beside him, restless as a penned stallion, his fingers tapping out morse code against his thigh. Those two were halves of the same coin, and Viper’s Canyon was no place for splitting silver.
The sun dipped low, painting the ranch house in honeyed light as Giselle lugged the last water trough to the stalls. Her muscles protested—a pleasant burn that anchored her to the moment. Flint appeared beside her without a word, his shoulder brushing hers as he took the other handle. Together they heaved it into place, the water sloshing over the edges to darken the thirsty dirt. No thanks needed. Some things just were.
Jake was already sprawled on the porch steps when they trudged up, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He tossed it Flint’s way without looking, his grin lazy as a summer creek. “Tell the story, the one about the nun again,” he drawled, stretching his legs across Giselle’s path. She kicked his boot aside with a snort, dropping onto the step above him. The wood was warm against her thighs, the scent of sun-baked pine mingling with the whiskey’s smoky bite as Flint took a swig.
The bottle passed to her next, its glass slick with condensation. She tipped it back—once, twice—the liquor burning a trail down her throat. Flint’s story unfolded in the gathering dusk, his hands painting shapes in the air: a runaway stagecoach, a furious nun, a poker game gone gloriously wrong. Jake’s laughter barked across the yard, startling a barn owl into flight. Giselle’s own chuckle got tangled in her ribs when Flint mimicked the nun’s accent—high and quavering, like a drunk choirboy.
She leaned back on her elbows, her gaze drifting past the ranch gates to where the land bled into twilight. The horizon burned—not with fire, but with the day’s last defiance. Gold bled into violet, streaked through with the dusty pink of crushed wildflowers. Beyond it lay Viper’s Canyon, all jagged teeth and thirsty shadows. Somewhere out there, Beau would be scanning these same colors, reading them like cattle brands—knowing which hues meant trouble, which meant home.
Giselle pushed herself up abruptly, her boots scuffing the porch boards. “Early night,” she announced, more to the whiskey bottle than to Flint’s raised eyebrow. Jake’s smirk followed her all the way to the screen door, its rusty whine slicing through the easy rhythm of their banter.
Her room smelled of saddle soap and sun-warmed cotton—scents worn into the walls by years of her presence. She hooked her hat on the bedpost with a practiced flick, her fingers already working the belt buckle loose before the door fully clicked shut. The leather slithered free with a whisper, its bronze clasp clattering against the dresser. Next came the gloves, peeled off finger by finger and tossed onto the quilt in a careless arc. Every movement was methodical, unhurried; she’d done this a thousand times under a hundred different skies.
The shirt came next, its buttons slipping free with barely a tug. She shrugged it off her shoulders, the fabric catching briefly on the swell of her breasts before pooling at her feet. Cool night air prickled across her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. Her jeans were tighter—stiff with dried sweat and dust—but she shimmied them down her hips with a practiced roll, stepping out one boot at a time. When she reached her underwear, she paused. The thin cotton clung to her skin, damp and unmistakable. A dark patch spread across the front, the fabric nearly translucent where her arousal had soaked through. She exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing two fingers against the wetness. Still warm. Still slick. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, the memory of the loft flaring hot behind her ribs.
She stripped them off and tossed them in the hamper as she wrapped herself in a towel and headed to the bath. The hallway floorboards creaked underfoot, each sound magnified in the quiet house. The bathroom door groaned when she pushed it open, revealing clawfoot tub and cracked porcelain sink. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes across the tile. She dropped the towel on the hook, the fabric whispering against wood as she turned the taps. Water roared through the pipes, steam rising in lazy curls. She stepped in before it was full—always impatient—the heat biting at her ankles before rising to her calves.
The water was almost too hot, turning her skin pink as she sank down, knees rising like islands in the foggy surface. She let her head fall back against the rim, damp hair clinging to the porcelain. With her eyes closed, she traced the raised scar along her ribs—a souvenir from a barbed wire fence when she was fourteen. The memory blurred with the steam: Beau’s hands steady as he stitched her up, his voice low and rough as he warned her about recklessness. She inhaled sharply as her fingers drifted lower, over the soft swell of her belly. The outlaw’s hands in her book returned.
She tried to stop herself but she couldn’t as she slid a finger into herself, the pads of her fingers catching slightly against slick, swollen flesh. The water rippled around her movements, tiny waves lapping against the tub’s edges. She bit her lip hard, stifling the sound clawing up her throat—half-gasp, half-growl—as she curled her fingers just so. The outlaw in her mind had Flint’s mocking grin and Beau’s calloused palms, his teeth scraping her neck while his hands pinned her hips down. Her thighs trembled, water sloshing over the rim as she arched off the porcelain.
The doorknob rattled.
“Occupied!” Giselle yelled out—too loud, too sharp—as she continued working herself with furious urgency, her fingers twisting deeper. The footsteps paused outside the door. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a spooked stallion kicking its stall. Steam curled around her flushed face as she held her breath, listening. Then—the creak of retreating floorboards. Flint’s unmistakable gait, heavy with purpose. She exhaled shakily, her forehead dropping against her updrawn knees.
“Oh… Fuck.” Giselle let out very softly as she quivered beneath the water, her fingers still buried inside herself as the aftershocks rippled through her. Steam curled around her clenched teeth, her thighs trembling against the tub’s slick sides. The water had gone lukewarm, but her skin burned—every nerve alight with the ghost of the outlaws imagined hands. She swallowed hard, listening to the retreating footsteps until they dissolved into the house’s usual creaks.
She dragged herself from the tub with deliberate slowness, water sluicing off her body in rivulets. The towel scraped roughly against her flushed skin as she dried herself—too quick, too careless—before wrapping it around her torso. Her reflection in the fogged mirror was blurred, but the wildness in her eyes was unmistakable. She raked fingers through damp hair, tugging strands loose from where they’d tangled at her nape.
The bathroom door creaked louder than she remembered as she pushed it open, steam billowing into the hallway like a specter. And there stood Jake, frozen mid-step, his hand raised as if he’d been about to knock. His gaze dropped instantly—not fast enough. She saw the way his pupils flared, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. The towel covered her from chest to thighs, but the way it clung to her damp skin left little to imagination.
“Hey,” Giselle snapped, yanking the towel tighter with one hand while the other shoved Jake’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back. “Eyes are up here, don’t get any disgusting ideas.” Her voice came out rougher than she intended, still ragged from the bath—from what she’d done in it. Jake blinked, his cheeks darkening beneath his sunburn as he jerked his chin up so fast she heard his neck crack.
She stepped past him back into her room, her bare feet slapping against the wooden floorboards. The towel slipped a fraction lower on her hips with each stride, but she refused to adjust it—let him choke on the glimpse. Behind her, Jake cleared his throat like he was about to say something stupid, probably something about how she shouldn’t walk around half-naked if she didn’t want attention. She slammed the door before he could get the words out.
The towel hit the hook with a damp thwap. She unwound it from her body with slow deliberation, letting the fabric whisper against her skin as it fell. Cool night air prickled across her damp shoulders, raising gooseflesh. She stretched—just enough to make the muscles in her back flex—before reaching for the fresh undergarments laid out on the bed. The panties were simple cotton, but they slid over her hips with a soft rasp that made her bite back a smirk. No lace, no frills—just functional. And yet, the way they clung to the curve of her ass would’ve had Jake salivating if he’d seen it. Small victories.
She didn’t bother with a top before sinking back into the covers. The sheets were roughspun linen, scratchy against her bare back, but she liked the way they chafed—like the land itself was marking her. The quilt smelled of lavender and gunpowder, a scent she’d stolen from Beau’s saddlebags years ago and never returned. She tucked a corner under her chin, her fingers brushing the raised scar on her ribs absently. The moonlight through the window painted silver stripes across her torso, highlighting the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Sleep came like a cattle stampede, both sudden and overwhelming. Her muscles went slack, her breathing slowed, but her dreams were anything but peaceful. They were full of rough hands and rusted hinges, of outlaw whispers and stolen glances. In them, Beau’s calloused fingers traced the scar he’d stitched up himself, his breath hot against her neck as he murmured something about recklessness. Flint’s laugh echoed somewhere distant, mocking and knowing all at once.
She woke hours later with a gasp, her body slick with sweat despite the cool night air. The quilt was tangled around her legs, her bare chest rising and falling rapidly as her pulse thundered in her ears. Moonlight still slanted across the bed, but the angle had changed—dawn wasn’t far off. She rolled onto her side, pressing her flushed cheek against the pillow. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered there, teasing at the edges of her consciousness.
Giselle was ready for what today would bring. Her fingers curled into the sheets, the fabric rough against her calloused palms. The ranch would wake soon, but for now, there was only this: the quiet creak of the house settling, the distant creep of sunlight across the desert.
