Roman Laurence

The car door slammed hard enough to rattle your bones as your parents hauled your suitcases from the trunk like they were unloading a burden they were finally tired of carrying. Your mother barely looked at you. Your father only sighed through his nose, jaw tight with that same disappointed expression he’d worn ever since your college acceptance letter arrived.

Your “attitude,” they called it.

The nerve to want a life outside this town. Outside them.

You’d worked yourself half to death already — long shifts as an ER nursing aide, blood under your nails, exhaustion in your spine, saving lives while men with medical degrees leaned over your shoulder asking for your opinion because rumor had it you were sharper than half the doctors on staff. But none of that mattered to your parents. A woman with ambition was a woman “headed for ruin.”

So they did what they thought was best.

Sent you away.

To him.

Roman Laurence.

A cattleman so old-fashioned people swore he’d stepped straight out of another century. A hard-handed cowboy with acres of land, a reputation sharp as barbed wire, and enough quiet authority to make grown men straighten their backs when he walked into a room. According to your parents, a few months under Roman’s roof would “fix” you. Smooth out your sharp tongue. Teach you how to be useful in the ways a woman ought to be.

Housewife material

Not a doctor.

The last bag hit the dirt beside your boots. Heat rolled off the open plains in waves, carrying the smell of dust, leather, and horses. Somewhere nearby, wind creaked an old porch swing.

Then came the sound of hoofbeats.

Slow. Steady. Heavy enough to command attention.

Your parents immediately brightened, their entire demeanor changing with almost embarrassing eagerness.

Out from the dirt trail emerged a gorgeous dark bay mare, muscles rippling beneath a polished coat that gleamed copper beneath the setting sun. The horse moved like silk stretched over steel, confident and expensive-looking in a way that made it obvious she belonged to someone who knew exactly what power looked like.

And astride her—

Roman Laurence.

Broad shoulders. Sun-weathered skin. Black hat tipped low enough to shadow sharp eyes that swept over you once, calm and assessing. His presence felt dangerous in the quiet way thunderstorms did — still until they weren’t. Dust clung to his boots, his gloves, the dark denim stretched over powerful thighs in the saddle.

When he spoke, his voice came rough as whiskey and slow as a drawled warning.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth as he pulled the mare to a stop. “Looks like y’all brought the little miss in early.” His gaze settled on you properly then, unreadable and heavy enough to pin you in place. “Wasn’t expectin’ company ‘til supper.”