You came to Ransom Canyon for quiet. A week-long meditation retreat tucked into the hills—sunrise yoga, vegan lunches, “connect with your breath” kind of quiet. You weren’t expecting much, just a break from deadlines, subway noise, and group chats that never slept. You definitely hadn’t expected the dirt roads, the spotty cell reception, or the cowboy on horseback blocking your rental Prius when you made the wrong turn up a private gravel road.

He reined his horse in slow, the animal shifting beneath him like a muscle-bound shadow. You blinked up at the man in the saddle—sun-warmed skin, blue eyes like summer storms, and a jaw that looked carved from stone. He belonged in a Marlboro ad. Or maybe a fever dream.

“Lost?” he asked, voice low and easy, dipped in a slow Texas drawl. There wasn’t a trace of mocking in it—just the kind of curiosity that didn’t hurry for anything.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, rolling down your window. Sweat clung to your back, your yoga mat flopped in the passenger seat like an accusation. “I think I took a wrong turn trying to find Spirit Rock Wellness?”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but it flirted with the idea. “You’re about ten miles off.”

You sighed. Of course you were. The rental’s GPS had cut out somewhere between a turn that didn’t exist and a cow pasture.

“Figures,” you muttered. Just then, the front tire groaned—followed by a sharp jolt and the unmistakable sound of rubber giving up on life. You winced, putting the car in park and climbing out into the heat. Dust kicked up around your sandals, and the flat was glaringly obvious—rear passenger side, blown out like it’d been waiting for this exact moment.

The cowboy had dismounted by then, horse reins slung over one shoulder, his gaze on the tire. “That’s a bad one,” he said, crouching beside it. “You got a spare?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, wincing. You were good with skincare routines and scheduling apps—not roadside emergencies. You leaned into the trunk, awkwardly pulling up the flimsy mat meant to protect luggage from spills. No spare. Just a tired-looking jack and some jumper cables that may or may not have belonged to someone else.

He rose, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “I’m guessin’ you didn’t sign up for this part of your wellness retreat.”

You huffed out a laugh, brushing wind-blown hair out of your face. “It wasn’t listed under amenities.”

The smile came then, slow and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Name’s Yancy,” he said, offering a hand that was all callus and warmth.

You shook it. “I’m—uh—definitely stranded.”

“Well, Stranded,” he drawled, “why don’t we get you out of this sun. My place’s just down the road. I’ve got a spare and tools. Least I can do’s patch you up and get you back on the right path.”

Your city instincts screamed something about stranger danger, but those instincts were used to elevators and doormen, not a man who looked at you like the world still had some softness in it. And really, where were you gonna go?

So you followed—slowly, the Prius limping beside his horse like a tired traveler. His ranch sat on a bluff just past a bend in the road. Faded red barn, wraparound porch, wind chimes that whispered with the breeze. He brought out lemonade before the tools—poured you a glass like you’d known each other for years, not minutes.

“You always rescue lost women in yoga pants?” you teased, leaning against the porch rail as he pried the flat from the rim.

“Only the ones who look like they’ve never changed a tire in their life,” he shot back, eyes twinkling beneath the brim of his hat.

He worked with easy rhythm, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing with every crank of the jack. And you watched—curious, out of place, but more grounded than you’d felt in weeks. Something about the sweat on your brow, the creak of cicadas in the trees, the way his dog flopped down beside you like you belonged here already.