I didn't have a lot of days to myself anymore, so when one did happen to roll by I was happy and willing to take full advantage.

I went and had my morning coffee on the porch swing that morning and opened a book for the first time in quite a long while. It was one of those cheesy romances that I found in the back of my mom's closet the other day, something by Nora Roberts.

There was a really hot guy - tall, dark and handsome: exactly my type - on the cover so I figured it ought to be somewhat readable.

I flipped it open to the first page and started to read, a warm early summer breeze nipping at my bare ankles and playing with my hair.

I swung back and forth as I read, carried away by the story and the sound of birds chirping in the nearby sycamore tree. It was such a beautiful morning; I almost didn't want to get up to do my chores.

I loved growing up here. Atwood Ranch was the only home I'd ever known and I planned on keeping it that way for as long as the bank would let me. My dad didn't leave me with the best situation however; it was only after his death last year that I found out just how much we were struggling to keep the land, and to be honest I wasn't sure how well I was faring.

I knew the land like the back of my hand, and I could keep up with most of the chores fairly well, but everything else that came along with the job of ranch owner, especially the financial aspect, was a whole different story. I was completely out of my element.

Still I had to push on, and with the help of my cousin Dale and my uncle Scott, I was able to keep things relatively in order.

From inside the house I heard the phone ring. I don't know why I still had the landline hooked up, considering I kept my cellphone on me at all times. I stood up and ran into the house, tripping on a pair of muddy boots that I'd left next to the door the night before.

I swore all the way to the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the hook.

"Hi," I gasped for air.

"You're up; I was worried I'd be wakin' ya," my uncle Scott said on the other end of the line. His voice was rough and his southern drawl was thick, but there was something comforting about the way he spoke.

"It's nine, of course I'm up," I smiled.

"Good, ya want me to send Dale your way today?" he asked.

"If he's not too busy I could use the help, sure," I shrugged.

"That boy ain't ever too busy," Uncle Scott replied humorously.

"Thanks Uncle Scott, it's really appreciated," I smiled.

"No problem, kid; alright, well I've got to get goin', I have some errands to run in town... want anythin' or are you good?" Uncle Scott asked.

"No, no, I'm good, thanks," I told him; he was still afraid that I'd go hungry living all by myself. I'd inherited more than just my mother's small frame; I had her cooking skills and her tendency to over-clean the whole house from top to bottom when stressed.

"Alright then sweetheart, I'll talk to you soon," Uncle Scott said and hung up before I could say goodbye. I shook my head and smiled.

I went back outside to pick up my book and empty coffee mug when I noticed the truck parked in the driveway. It was a Ford about two years old - it certainly did not belong to Dale or anybody else that I knew.

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as I made my way across the gravel drive towards the barn.

I froze.

There was a man standing there about ten feet away, his back to me. I started backing away slowly until my hand touched the pitch fork leaning against the wall. I gripped the wooden handle and walked forward, a little more confident now that I was armed and... well, at least somewhat dangerous.

I cursed myself for only being five feet and two inches tall. This man towered over me.

"Hey! You know you aren't supposed to be in here! This is-" but the rest of my sentence was lost somewhere in the back of my mind. I stared with wide eyes, the pitch fork still raised defensively.

I'd recognize that tall frame anywhere; I spent four years of my life following that man around like a lost puppy, unable to utter a single word without completely clamming up.

"John," I whispered. His name, once upon a time so familiar around here, tasted foreign on my lips.

He turned around slowly and I felt my heart drop into my stomach. He looked older than his thirty years, worn and battered by almost a decade on the battlefield. My eyes darted to the thin, jagged scar slashing across his right cheek, visible where no facial hair could grow. The rest of his face was covered in a scruffy, untamed beard. It didn't do him much justice.

He wore a tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off defined muscles and a chiseled stomach. I bit down on my lower lip, letting my eyes wander to the bandages covering his arm and shoulder. The scarred skin on the back of his hand was visible... if the rest of his arm looked that way...

God, it looked really bad.

"Feels worse than it looks," he commented dryly and I quickly averted my gaze, realizing I'd been staring.

His voice hit me like a ton of bricks though, catching me completely off-guard. I could never remember his voice in the years after he left, although his face remained etched in my mind: tall, dark and handsome... incredibly handsome...

"Sorry," I mumbled, feeling eleven years old all over again and quite pathetic.

"I uh... I wanted to know if your dad was around," he asked awkwardly.

"Oh," I replied, struggling to gather my wits. "I... um... my dad... He passed away last year..." I told him, running my fingers through my ponytail.

He was quiet for a long while, looking like he didn't know what to say. His dark eyes were expressionless, focused on the dusty floor. His mouth formed a straight line as he processed this bit of information.

"It was stomach cancer. It happened really quick... I didn't see it comin', nobody did," I told him softly, figuring he might want to know.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper. "I didn't know... I would've come..." he went on.

"I understand, it's okay... you couldn't have known..." I smiled sadly. "Would you uh... like to come in? I've got some coffee... I think I remember how you like it: black, one sugar... right?" I blushed, realizing I really shouldn't have known that, considering how young I was back then.

"Yeah," he smiled a little. "Just uh... drop that pitch fork first why don't ya? Before you go and murder somebody... specifically me," he added.