Scarlett Rose's Arc

Chapter 1 of 57

Scarlett Rose had rehearsed meeting the rancher next door for eleven years, and none of those rehearsals involved a cow in her herb garden. She stood on the wraparound porch of the cedar cottage she'd finally bought back in spring, coffee in one hand, the leash of her beagle mix in the other. The dog she'd named Peppermint went rigid against her leg. Three brown cows stood knee-deep in her lavender. A fourth chewed the tops off her tomato stakes. Beyond them, a long section of split-rail fence lay flat in the grass like a dropped ladder. She set the coffee down. She had loved that ranch since she was nine years old, riding past it in the back of her father's truck, watching a boy her age throw hay bales from a flatbed. She had bought this cottage to be near it. She had planned to introduce herself at the feed store, in clean jeans, with a pie. Not in slippers, with her hair in a loose braid, smelling like sleep. "Shoo," she tried. The cows ignored her. She walked down the steps. Peppermint followed, low and stiff. The nearest cow lifted its head and huffed a wet breath at the dog's face. Peppermint yelped, bolted sideways, and tore the leash out of Scarlett's hand. He shot under the downed fence and into the pasture beyond, dragging the leather line behind him. "Peppermint, no—" She ran. Her boots weren't laced. Wildflowers slapped her calves. She could hear the dog barking somewhere past a stand of pines, and then a man's voice, sharp and calm at the same time, telling something to hold still. She came around the pines and stopped. A tall man in a sweat-dark shirt knelt in the grass with Peppermint's leash wrapped once around his wrist. He had the dog by the collar and was rubbing behind its ears like they'd known each other for years. Peppermint's tail thumped the dirt. The man looked up. He had a jaw she recognized from a boy on a flatbed truck. "Yours?" he said. "Mine." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "Your cows are in my lavender." "I know. Fence went in the storm last night. I was coming to tell you." He stood, offered the leash back. His eyes moved over her once, quick, and then stayed on her face. "Didn't know anyone had moved into the old place." "Three months ago." She took the leash. Their fingers touched. She did not pull away fast. "I'll get the cows out," he said. "Fence'll take me two days. Maybe three." "I can help." He studied her. "You know fence work?" "I can learn." He almost smiled. "Tomorrow. Seven." She walked Peppermint home through the broken rail, heart loud, coffee cold on the porch. She had three months of planning ruined and a reason to see him at sunrise.