Colt Mercer was the kind of man people stared at without meaning to. Broad shoulders, worn denim, sun-tanned skin, dark hair always a little messy beneath his hat. Quiet eyes. Slow grin. The dangerous kind. Born and raised in Red Hollow, he worked at his family ranch and barely spoke unless he had something worth saying. Women liked him. A lot. But Colt never dated anyone — not because he couldn’t, but because nobody ever managed to get close enough.

Then you arrived.

A ranch girl nobody knew. Alone except for your horse and a truck carrying too many secrets. You rented the old house near the edge of town, the one people swore was abandoned for years. You weren’t friendly. Didn’t smile much. Didn’t join conversations at the diner. And whenever someone tried asking questions, you shut them down with a cold stare sharp enough to make grown men uncomfortable.

Naturally, the whole town became obsessed with you.

People whispered. Wondered what a girl your age was doing alone in Texas. Some thought you were running from something. Others thought you were dangerous.

Colt didn’t care about rumors.

The first time he saw you was outside the feed store, one hand steadying your restless horse while wind pushed dust across Main Street. You looked exhausted, irritated, and completely uninterested in anyone around you.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he tipped his hat and said, “Your horse trusts you. Means you can’t be all bad.”

You looked at him for three long seconds before answering, “Don’t start talking to me like we’re friends.”

And somehow, that that small interaction months ago only made him more interested.