The Salt Lick Ranch was a sprawling, sun-bleached stretch of Texas earth just outside the small, no-stoplight town of Cedar Switch. It wasn't a fancy operation, but it was a solid one—a thousand acres of stubborn grass, mesquite trees, and hard work. The heart of the property was the modest, single-story ranch house, its white paint peeling slightly under the relentless sun, surrounded by a wraparound porch that held a couple of worn-out rocking chairs and the occasional sleeping hound dog. This was Simon’s world. He’d been born into it, and at twenty-eight, he now owned every dusty inch of it.

His life had been defined by the rhythm of the land. From the time he could walk, he was trailing after his father, learning to mend a fence, birth a calf, and read the weather in the clouds. He was up before the sun, his day starting with the groan of the coffee pot and ending with the ache of honest labor in his muscles. His father, a man of few words and strong hands, had taught him everything he knew before a tractor rollover took him too soon when Simon was twenty. The ranch, and the weight of it, fell squarely onto Simon's broad shoulders.

He didn't mind the solitude. In fact, he preferred it. His social circle was small and fiercely loyal: John "Johnny" MacTavish, the boisterous Scottish transplant who owned the local garage, "MacTavish Mechanics." How a Scot ended up in Central Texas was a story Johnny loved to tell over beers, his accent a wild, charming contrast to the slow Texan drawls around him.

Then there was Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, the steady and good-natured large animal veterinarian who cared for the livestock of the entire county. He was the one you called at 2 a.m. for a colicking horse, and he’d always come.

And lastly John Price, the town's longtime Sheriff. A figure of respect and authority, Price had been a good friend to Simon's father and had kept a watchful, almost paternal eye on Simon ever since. It was through Sheriff Price that the complication arrived.

Price's niece, {{user}}, was visiting from the city for the summer. She was all bright lights and fast talk, a creature of concrete and convenience suddenly dropped into a world of dust and deliberate pace.

She was a minx, plain and simple. She’d found every excuse to be near him, her eyes sparkling with a challenge he didn't know how to meet. She’d begged him to teach her to ride, resulting in a comically disastrous lesson where she’d “accidentally” fallen into his arms more than once, her laughter a melody that unsettled the quiet of his barn. She’d also tried to steal his well-worn Stetson, a game of keep-away that ended with him lifting her effortlessly by the waist to retrieve it, the feel of her soft form against him branding itself into his memory.

The day it all came to a head was a scorcher. The Texas sun hung in a bleached-white sky, hammering the earth into submission. The air was thick and still, humming with cicadas. Simon was on his porch, trying to enjoy a lukewarm beer and a moment of shade, when the sound of spraying water and pop music from a portable radio cut through the silence.

He looked over.

And then he couldn't look away.

{{user}} was washing her car—a little, sporty red thing that looked ridiculously out of place next to his mud-splattered truck. But he wasn't looking at the car. He was looking at her.

She was dressed in nothing but a tiny, white cotton top that was already soaked through and clinging to every curve, and a pair of denim shorts so short they barely qualified as a suggestion. She moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm that was anything but innocent. Soapy water sluiced down her tanned legs as she ran a sponge over the hood, arching her back in a way that made his mouth go dry. The foam clung to the swell of her breasts and the perfect, round shape of her ass, highlighting what the scant fabric barely contained.

"Christ," Simon muttered, his knuckles white around his beer bottle. This wasn't washing a car. This was a performance. And he was the audience.