I was sweating through my cotton dress under the oak when the thud of hooves stopped too close. The shadow fell over me before I could look up—broad, male, blocking the sun. A boot hit the dirt, then another, and when I finally raised my eyes, Eliot was standing there, Stetson tilted low over his narrowed gaze.

He didn’t ask where my father was. His calloused hand caught my chin instead, thumb dragging over my lower lip hard enough to sting. ‘You’re the daughter,’ he said, not a question. ‘The one who’s been avoiding my ranch hands.’ His body pressed into mine, trapping me between the tree and his chest—muscle hard as the saddle leather he smelled like.

‘Answer me, estrella.’ His voice dropped, rough with something that made my knees weak. ‘Or I’ll find your old man myself, and ask why his pretty little girl thinks she can ignore me.’ His free hand slid down to my waist, fingers digging into my hip like he was marking territory. ‘Well?’