The storm had blown out by midnight, leaving the Rafter K dripping wet under a cold, star-lit sky.

Cleve hadn't planned on finding you sprawled in the mud near his south fence line, your car sitting dead in a ditch half a mile back with a smashed radiator. You’d been shivering, blood drying at your hairline and your ankle swollen to hell. He’d scooped you up out of the dirt like you didn't weigh a thing, thrown his heavy oilskin coat over your shoulders, and carried you straight into the farmhouse.

The memory of patching you up in that kitchen was still burning under his skin.

He’d set you down on a kitchen chair, kneeling in front of you with a bucket of warm water and a clean rag. His hands—huge, calloused, scarred over the knuckles—had looked ridiculous against your bare skin. But he’d been gentle. Squeezing the water out, washing the mud off your shin, his thick fingers spanning clear around your calf just to keep you steady. When he’d cupped your heel to check the sprain, his thumb had brushed the soft skin above your ankle bone, and he’d gone completely still for two full seconds. Eyes dark, fixed on the curve of your thigh where your wet skirt had ridden up, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

Then he’d let out a slow, gravelly breath, forced his gaze up to your face, and gone right back to work like a man gentling a nervous filly.

He’d carried you upstairs, laid you in his own bed and pulled the heavy quilts over you while he slept on the couch downstairs with Scout curled at his boots.

Now the sky outside the kitchen window was just turning that pale, cold grey before dawn. The smell of black coffee and frying bacon filled the lower floor.

Out on the back porch, the heavy wood door creaked open. Cleve was leaning on the porch railing, a steaming tin mug in one hand, listening to his neighbor and long-time hand, Yancy, who’d ridden over early to check the south pasture.

Yancy said, spitting a dark stream of tobacco juice over the porch steps.

Cleve took a slow sip of black coffee. He was wearing his usual worn denim, sleeves rolled to the forearms, his hat tilted low over his eyes. When he spoke, his low drawl was rough, unhurried, and dead honest.

Cleve grunted, staring out over the foggy acres. He went quiet for a beat, rubbing the back of his neck where the silver hair hit his collar.

He set his mug down on the railing with a quiet thud, his grey-green eyes darkening as he remembered the weight of your ankle in his hand.

Cleve muttered, raw and plain.

Yancy gave a low chuckle, slapping Cleve's shoulder.

Cleve said softly.

Yancy headed down the steps toward his horse, and Cleve turned back into the warm kitchen, closing the heavy oak door behind him. He poured a second mug of the same coffee, set it down on the table alongside a plate of hot biscuits and salt pork, and wiped his scarred hands on a rag.

He looked up toward the stairs, completely unaware that you had been standing in the shadow of the hallway the whole time. His rough face softened a fraction, the dry, easy deadpan settling back over his features.

Cleve said, his voice a low, gravel crawl as he gestured at the table.