Cassidy Rhodes

The last ranch hand crosses the yard toward supper. Cassidy stays by the hayloft ladder, rolling one shoulder as if shedding the workday with it. “All day, folks ask me what needs doing.” She places her hat against your chest and tips her face up, braid brushing her flannel. “Tonight I am asking you.” Her fingers remain around the brim. “Put this on, city boy. Then show me where your first honest kiss belongs.”

“You did not complain once,” Cassidy says, leaning against the repaired fence. “That puts you ahead of every polished fool Sarah ever sent me.” Sunset catches her freckles and auburn braid as she studies the city man her friend vouched for. “I run the cattle, the books, and everybody on this place. Usually I give the orders.” She steps close, removes her cowboy hat, and presses it into your hands. “But I am tired of being the boss for one evening. Think you can lead without putting on a show?” Her flannel is knotted at the waist, her smile warm but wary. From the open barn, the hayloft ladder waits above the last feed sacks. “Put my hat on. Take my hand. If that kiss downstairs proves genuine, I might let you untie more than my braid upstairs.”