The Cowboy's Texas Heart (The Dixons of Legacy Ranch 3)

The fossils were merely fragments. But these broken bits from millions of years ago had clearly fueled a kid’s wonder. Who’d put this hideout together? It looked too old to be Tyler’s kids. Had these fossils been found out in this countryside? This land was rich with marine paleontology. It was why she’d taken an adjunct position at the university in Nacogdoches, because Weches Formation stratigraphy ran through this stretch, and every place she’d had the pleasure of working in the area had ended up boasting rich fluvial finds.

She used her boot to sift through the undergrowth—

It knocked on something. Bending, she dug out her work gloves shoved into her rear pocket and slipped them on her hands. Brushing aside tangled plants and roots, she gripped the end of a metal box. Working it back and forth, she loosened it as contents within clinked and shifted about, and set it on the milk crate. The box bore a broken lock and looked to be a small fireproof safe. She pushed the clasp and it popped open.

Metal ground on metal as she pried up the lid that had been sealed in place with dirt along the crevices.

Kid treasures, completely intact and in pristine condition, protected by the fireproof safe.

“No way…” Football trading cards. Old, by the look of it. Maybe ’80s era? A sand dollar—not a fossil, so it had probably been brought from a beach trip. A Star Wars Darth Vader action figure, this one with all its arms and legs, a handful of…foreign coins? A stick? She laughed. She couldn’t figure out that one, but if this had belonged to a kid, who knew why they’d wanted to keep it. Charlie was always emptying Daisy’s pockets for laundry and finding sticks and rocks and snail shells. A book.

Boy Scouts of America handbook to be exact.

It looked old. She could hear the grinding of truck tires growing closer now. Was someone driving this way? She supposed the farm road leading out here continued on to more acreage, farther back, but from what she knew it was fallow and overgrown. She opened the scouting handbook, and her eyes landed on a kid’s clear lettering upon a ruler-drawn line, as if words printed on a scantron sheet:

Tyler Jacob Dixon.

Tingling erupted on her skin. Her heart pinched. She rubbed her chest. This had been Tyler’s hideout? This was sweet. That virile man who had thrown himself atop her to protect her, dark and brooding with a sense of humor that reared its head unexpectedly, who’d fathered two kids, was the kid who’d built this little place and by the look of it, taken it so seriously, which after seeing what a perfectionist he was around the house, didn’t surprise her in the least. The more she learned about him, the more her intrigue grew. Finding this hideout felt personal when she and Tyler had agreed on superficial. Dangerously, she wanted to know it, know him.

She and Monarch had built hideouts under the back stairwell in their home in Highland Park, Dallas. They’d played countless games there. It made her think of that time. It made her think about her explorations on the vineyard in Beira, too, where her father had grown up.

She glanced up at the knots holding the roof branches together. Mr. Perfect really had been the Boy Scout his cousin had joked about on stage, she laughed to herself, on top of being a Harvard-educated lawyer and supremely fit farmer who’d hopped that fence yesterday like a lithe athlete, and my God, methodical but oh so sexy lover, who felt the need to do everything himself as if he wasn’t worthy of being helped. A scrap of construction paper lay in the bottom of the safe, along with a random Allen wrench, and a papery-thin snakeskin.

She shook her head fondly. Little kid treasures. Like she and Monarch had filled their secret space with shoeboxes of Barbies and hair ties and lipsticks. She read the paper. Different sets of handwriting, names signed, as if minutes to the attendance of a meeting:

Tyler Jacob Dixon

Travis Riley Dixon

Toby Brian Dixon

Thaddeus Rex McClintock

She chuckled at this one. Was this T.R.? The foreman could literally call himself T. rex if he wanted to.

Faith McClintock

Patience McClintock

Charity McClintock

Temperance McClintock

Were they all siblings and cousins? She shook her head, unable to wipe the fond smile from her face, and placed the items back in the box. Did Tyler remember this? Were Travis and Toby the brothers he’d mentioned? She’d seen the name Toby on his phone when he’d lied about Mordor. An engine was rumbling closer. She wedged the box back in the ground and shoved her work gloves in her rear jeans pocket as she hoofed it down the trail at the approaching tires.

Was it Tyler? Excitement to see him brewed stronger.

The monarchs were still assaulting the milkweed when she reached the road, just as Blue Rocket—the name of his truck, which was endearing for a man like Tyler—drew to a stop.

Tyler, Stetson-clad, skin roughed by a day’s worth of dirt, thrust the transmission in park and pushed out of the door, a boot thudding into the dusty road, his tall frame rising out of the seat like Hercules from battle. A cut-off Harvard T-shirt hung on his sleeveless, bronzed shoulders—hence that farmer’s tan she’d spied yesterday when he’d nearly banged her on his countertop like an unsatisfied beast on the prowl. God, she still shivered at the memory. Had gone to sleep with those memories swirling hotly in her mind and twisting desire in her stomach. His tattoo coiled around his bicep like some bad boy she ought to think twice about sleeping with, mingling with the straight-laced prestige of the T-shirt emblem, a crimson shield and the words: veritas lex et iustitia. Truth, law, and justice… She loved it.

A thrill trilled through her at his rugged beauty after not seeing him since yesterday.

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. Dark, piercing eyes roved over her legs, over her hips, her stomach, her breasts, as if drinking her in with unabashed want. “What’re you doing?” He tilted his chin toward where she stood.

She motioned to the flurry of butterflies around her, as one landed on her forehead. Stunned, she held still while its wings opened and closed, her nose and eyes scrunching at the prickly feeling of its legs clinging to her skin.

He chuckled that easy chuckle, the one he didn’t have to think about, and the butterfly flew off again as she blew upward, his gaze fixing hard on her.

“Butterflies!” she exclaimed softly. “Beautiful!”