The Romeo Arrangement

“So did mine.” I bite my lip.

I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

What can I say? There’s just something about riding through a dark, wintry night with a handsome stranger who just saved your bacon that brings out awkward confessions.

All the more reason why I need to remember to keep my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” he grinds out. “Never an easy thing losing family.”

I swallow the anxious boulder in my throat. “I’m sorry, too. Heartbreak hurts us all.”

He turns off the highway, wheeling the old truck onto a narrow road.

“Hold on. This could get a little rough even though we’re moving like a snail,” he says. “This road likes to drift over.”

I can faintly make out a set of glowing red taillights a short distance ahead. I’m grateful the dual tires of that huge truck with Dad and Tobin inside are breaking a neat path for us. Well, neatish.

The old Ford wouldn’t manage in this without the dually in front of us. “Who else lives at your ranch?”

“Just three of us, darlin’. Me, Tobin, and old Corny himself.”

“Cornelius,” I say, mainly so that I won’t laugh out loud.

“You’ll see which name fits when you meet him,” he tells me.

Shaking aside another laugh, I ask, “How can you call it a ranch if you only have a single rooster?”

“I can and I do. It’s a work in progress.” He chuckles, again with that deep, rich masculine vibration. “I always planned on buying more critters, or livestock, or whatever the fuck…maybe hire on a few ranch hands to help with the upkeep. Tobin and I are learning as we go. We’re still pretty close to ground zero.”

“Why’d you buy a ranch, then, if it’s such a hassle?”

“I want the hassle, lady.” He shrugs, flicking his eyes briefly over to me. “Something to do. When I decided to move out to the sticks, I knew I’d need to keep the mind and body busy. Even with a place like mine, the winters out here are maddening enough. Think I’d wind up such a dull boy I’d be hallucinating ghosts by now if I didn’t have spring to look forward to soon. Allegedly.”

I smile at the obvious nod to The Shining.

It’s hardly out of place considering the creepy introduction we’ve had with Dickless—okay, I’m stealing his crude nickname, sue me—while everybody on this side of North Dakota has their status set to snowed in.

The odd tone in his voice says there’s something more to his move, too.

I wonder what, but I’m not in any headspace to fire off questions that might risk upsetting the guy who’s promised us a place to crash for the night.

Then we pull up to the ranch and my jaw hits my lap.

I can’t even breathe.

Ginormous would be a sad lie for this place. It’s more like…

…someone imported a team of architects to build a palace in Nowhere, North Dakota, which somehow still has all the outer charm of a real ranch.

Frosted with snow, it’s like I’m looking at a scene from a Christmas card come to life.

Everything glows cozy orange, lit up with huge yard lights perched on top of several poles like small moons. The house itself is an immense wooden structure with a sprawling front porch. Seems like it’s borrowed inspiration from the rustic lodges you can find on postcards.

Behind it, the red barn is two stories tall, with a green metal roof and a big rooster-shaped weathervane twirling slowly around a square cupola. My eyes flit across several other buildings, storage sheds I think, plus a smaller cabin tucked back behind the house near a row of pine trees glazed white.

That cabin turns out to be the guesthouse Tobin escorts Dad to as soon as they park near it.

Then it’s our turn, stopping next to the barn. Ridge gives me a wicked look as he shuts off the engine.

“Shit. Right. The house. I guess I should’ve warned you, but…I keep a low profile.”

I don’t even know what to say. Or what he’s even hinting at.

Sure, a little notice that he’s apparently a gazillionaire would’ve been nice. But now that it’s obvious, and it breeds questions like rabbits, I don’t know if I could even dream of scolding him.

Much less poking at his secrets after he said low profile.

“We’re fine,” I say weakly, pushing my door open. “Let me help you with Rosie and Stern.”

Cornelius Pecker isn’t nearly the shrieking grump he let on.

Ridge insists the red-crowned beast is just subdued tonight thanks to the storm, but I can’t see the fuss.

The big white leghorn rooster seems happy enough to have company, scratching at his pile of hay and peering around curiously. Rosie and Stern are certainly pleased to be inside the heated barn.

Of course, the barn interior is just as magnificent as its exterior.

I’ve only seen pictures, but I can’t help comparing it to the one the Budweiser Clydesdales live in. It’s almost too neat, all polished wood and soft orange light, hangers for miscellaneous equipment, and silver water hookups positioned neatly throughout.