I blink.
Okay, this has to be a cult. A well-organized, attractive, possibly shirtless cult.
Before I can move, the door burst open again, and five kids explode into the yard and dash at me like I’m made of candy, rainbows, and iPad chargers.
They’re a blur of bare feet, tangled hair, and sticky fingers, existing somewhere between feral and absolutely adorable.
One has marker on his face and no shirt.
There’s a girl in sparkly cowboy boots dragging a dirt-smudged doll behind her.
The smallest one, who’s maybe three, wraps herself around my leg like a koala and doesn’t let go.
A taller, freckled boy with serious eyebrows squints up at me, but I’m distracted by the chicken in his arms.
And a dark-haired girl with solemn eyes asks, “Do you know how to make pancakes?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I am officially under siege.
They smell like syrup, dirt, and something suspiciously barn-related. They talk over each other. They pull at my clothes.
I’m frozen in my ballet flats, close to an existential crisis, when a little voice pipes up, “Are you our new momma?”
And I freeze.
I’m used to kids. I’m used to their questions, but not ones like these that break your heart. I’m especially not used to dealing with miniature humans while a porch full of suntanned, muscular cowboys watches me try to remember how to breathe.
“Uh…” I glance at the porch. “A little help?”
A man steps forward. He’s older than the others, in his late thirties, maybe, with silver at his temples and a gaze sharp enough to slice bread. He’s calm in a way that makesmy pulse kick.
Conway. I remember his name from the background research. He’s the oldest and the unofficial leader. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look cold, either. Just calm and confident, like nothing surprises him. “You must be Grace,” he says. “We appreciate you coming all this way.”
I nod, still one kid deep in leg-cling.
“Are they always like this?”
He shrugs. “You’re a woman. You’re new. You brought big-city energy and shiny shoes. They’re curious.”
One of the kids tugs my hand. “Can you play dolls with me?”
“Uh. Yes? I guess…”
Before I can say a word or even pry the toddler off my ankle, another of the men steps down from the porch and crosses the distance like he owns every inch of ground his boots touch.
He’s broad-shouldered, tan, with shaggy brown hair curling at the ends and an easy, heartbreaker grin that could start trouble in all seven continents. He stops beside me, eyes warm, posture loose, and pheromones pumping like Texas oil.
“Need a hand?”
I gesture helplessly to the rolling suitcase abandoned behind me. “I’d settle for someone grabbing my bag.”
He chuckles and grabs the handle, lifting it like it’s empty and putting my chicken-wing biceps to shame.
“Cody,” he says. “Welcome to our mess.”
He tips his hat before turning to carry my luggage toward the porch.
Another cowboy steps forward. He’s slightly taller and darker, with stubble and deep-set brooding eyes like storm clouds that scan me like he’s cataloging weak points. His hair is black and a little too long, with pretty curls that women pay exclusive hairdressers a fortune to replicate. Combined with a jaw sharp enough to draw blood, he’s in a quandary.
