A Baby to Tame the Scarred Rancher (Preview)

Chapter One

The meadow grass whispered against Millie Ashford’s skirts as she followed the narrow path curling along Pine Ridge’s outer edge. Today the air seemed different—charged, almost expectant—as if the land itself were waiting for something to come. The golden late-afternoon sun shone down, warm on her shoulders, but a faint shiver traveled down her spine, more from some unknown tension than from chill.

The sweet tang of sage drifted in the breeze, mingled with the dry dust rising from her steps, and far off, a meadowlark sent a clear call into the wide sky. Even the usual comfort of her walk felt altered, as though familiar sights had shifted slightly, watching her. She clutched her basket tighter, every step measured against the hush of the land, her senses sharpened by that strange, uncanny stillness.

This little walk had become her daily salvation. It was the one place she could still claim as her own, when so much of her life no longer felt like hers. Here, away from the clap of boots on the boardwalk and her stepfather’s watchful glare, she could breathe and remember. She bent to gather a sprig of yarrow, the motion stirring memories of her mother teaching her which plants healed fever and which eased a cough. Her mother’s voice still lingered in her mind, gentle and sure, a comfort Millie carried though the woman was gone.

The edge of her book peeked out between the herbs, its worn leather binding scuffed from years of hiding. She carried it for more than stories—it was a keepsake of her mother and a symbol of her own unyielding hope. It was proof she still held some private piece of herself: a reminder of evenings spent curled beside her mother, reading by lamplight. Now, under Henry Dawson’s roof, books were frowned upon as foolish fancy. He saw no value in them, no value in her dreams, only in the bargains her beauty might fetch. That frustration gnawed at her daily, and so she came here, clutching the book like a secret talisman. Sometimes she opened it to escape, sometimes only to feel its weight in her basket, a quiet rebellion against the life she lived now that her mother was gone.

Pine Ridge lay behind her, its noise muffled by the roll of the land. Only the meadow stretched before her, dotted with cottonwoods at the far boundary. That line of trees marked the beginning of Bradford’s land. People said to keep away. The Bradfords’ house had burned five years ago, and with it a family once admired. What remained was called cursed. The man who lived there, worse still.

“The Beast,” folks whispered, like children daring each other at the schoolyard fence.

Millie frowned at the memory of such cruelty. Rumors painted Cole Bradford as scarred, bitter, half-mad. Children claimed he prowled his own land like a wolf. Yet Annabelle—her mother’s oldest friend—insisted he had once been kind, quick to laugh. The fire had stolen more than family and home. It had stolen his life.

If Millie feared him at all, it was not for gossip. It was for the loneliness she imagined clung to him, thick as smoke that never cleared.

She adjusted her basket and looked again toward the cottonwoods. The shadows beneath them seemed deeper than they should be. Even the wind grew still, as if holding its breath.

Then—crack.

A branch snapped.

Millie’s heart stuttered. She spun, eyes darting between tree trunks. The hush pressed close around her, as if the meadow held its breath as Millie did.

The brush exploded.

A hulking dog bounded into view, ears flying, sandy coat catching the light. Millie gasped, stumbling back. Her basket slipped from her arm, spilling herbs in a tangle, and she landed hard on the grass. The breath rushed out of her chest.

The dog barked in delighted rhythm, circling her with a tail that whipped like a rope. Millie tried to wave him off, half-laughing, half-scolding, but he only bounded closer.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her bodice. “You gave me a fright, you silly beast.” She snapped her fingers as if he were a naughty child, then wagged a finger. “Sit now—do you know that word? Sit?”

The animal cocked his head, tongue lolling, then plopped his haunches down with a thud that sent dust flying. Millie’s laughter rang brightly. “Why, you do know it! Clever fellow.” Emboldened, she brushed grass from her skirts and offered her hand as though shaking a gentleman’s. “How do you do, sir? Quite a well-trained beast.”

At that word—beast—the dog froze for an instant, ears twitching as though insulted. A soft whine followed until Millie leaned nearer, her voice lowering to a coaxing murmur. “Oh, don’t pout. You’re not a beast at all, are you? You’re a knight in a shaggy coat.” She reached to scratch behind his ears, and the animal leaned against her shoulder as if he had always belonged there.

“Duke.”

The voice cut through the meadow air, low and commanding.

Millie looked up.

A man stepped from behind the cottonwoods, tall enough that the sunlight caught his shoulders before it reached his face. Broad, solid, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, boots coated in dust. His hair, dark and uneven, hung uncombed around his face, and a beard shadowed his jaw.

And across the left side of his face stretched a scar, jagged and angry, impossible to miss.

Millie’s breath caught. The stories had not lied, but they had failed to capture the truth of him. For it was not the scar that rooted her still, but the eyes—piercing blue, sharp as river ice, yet weary with a weight that seemed older than his years.

“Duke,” he said again, sharper. The dog bounded obediently to his side.

Millie scrambled upright, brushing grass from her skirts, steadying her heart. She realized she had been staring. Heat prickled her cheeks. She bent quickly to gather her scattered herbs, fingers trembling.

Bootsteps approached. A hand entered her view—large, calloused, steady.

Millie hesitated, then set her smaller hand into his. His grip was firm, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Suddenly, she was closer than she had meant to be. She saw sunlight catching golden strands in his hair. She noticed the way the scar tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth, as though even smiling would hurt.

“I didn’t mean him to frighten you,” he said. His voice was rough, gravel over stone, but not unkind.

Millie steadied her basket against her hip. “Truly, sir, he only surprised me. He seems a friendly creature.”

The man studied her, eyes narrowing, testing her words as if for falsehood. “Most don’t call him friendly.”

“I imagine most haven’t met him.”

The words slipped boldly from her tongue, surprising even herself.

Something flickered—almost a smile—before his expression shuttered again.

“I’m Millie Ashford,” she said.

“Cole Bradford.”

“I know.” The admission leapt out before she could stop it. Color rushed to her cheeks. “I mean—I’ve heard of you.”

“Everyone has.” His tone carried a sardonic edge, heavy with expectation.

Millie lifted her gaze, pulse hammering but steady. “Not everything people say deserves to be believed.”

His eyes shifted, as though her reply struck somewhere he had long since walled off. For a moment, silence stretched between them. He broke it with a gruff warning. “You shouldn’t be walking this close to my land. Folks might misunderstand.”

“I was gathering herbs.” She raised her basket, fresh, fragrant leaves spilling out between them. “The best grow in the shade of your cottonwoods.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the sprigs, then back to her. “Still. Folks talk.”

Millie tilted her chin. “They talk already. I’d rather not live by their tongues.”

This time, he did not mask his surprise. Something in his eyes warmed, fleeting, before he straightened his shoulders. “You should go. Before the beast decides to follow you home.”

Millie crouched to stroke the dog one last time. “He’s no beast. He’s a good companion.”

“He’s mine.” The words came clipped, final. Yet beneath them she heard something raw—a loneliness she felt she could understand.

Millie dipped her head. “Good day to you, Mr. Bradford.”

He dipped his head in return, the scar tugging with the motion.

She turned, skirts brushing the grass, her pulse still racing. Behind her, his gaze lingered warm as the midday heat.

She glanced back once. Cole Bradford stood rooted at the tree line, Duke at his side. Man and dog—guardians of a forgotten fortress.

Her breath snagged. She turned forward again, heart stumbling.

The footbridge arched narrow across the creek, its planks worn smooth. Millie paused, letting the water’s cool murmur steady her. Mint crushed underfoot released a sharp fragrance into the air.

A whine drew her gaze. Duke had followed. The dog pressed close, tail wagging, insistent on escorting her.

“Oh, Duke.” Millie sighed, pushing his chest gently. “Your master wouldn’t like this.”

“Well now.” A drawl slid across the water. “If that ain’t a sight.”

Millie’s heart leapt. Sheriff Jack Caldwell leaned against the far railing, badge glinting on his vest, hazel eyes sharp with amusement. He was Mayor Caldwell’s son, and with his station as sheriff and the son of the town’s leader came an unhealthy dose of arrogance.

“Seems the Beast’s hound fancies you,” he said.

Millie stiffened. “Sheriff Caldwell, it isn’t kind to speak of a man that way.”

Jack’s grin widened, careless. “Kind or not, that’s what folks call him. Don’t tell me you came close enough to see for yourself?”

“I did. And he was nothing but polite.”

Jack chuckled, though the sound held more bite than humor. “Polite? That’s a first.” He sauntered closer, spurs clinking with deliberate slowness, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. “Best be careful, Miss Dawson. Men who hide from town usually have reason—and a scar like his don’t come from honest work. Some say he earned it shamefully, not the fire folks whisper about.”

Millie felt heat rise but forced her chin high. “Rumors are cheap, Sheriff. Scars speak of survival, not shame. I’d sooner trust a man who carries his pain plain than one who hides cruelty behind a grin.”

Jack faltered, grin slipping before he masked it again. He tipped his hat lazily. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He strode toward town, boots ringing. Duke barked after him once, then turned back toward the cottonwoods, leaving Millie alone.

Her pulse raced again. She wasn’t sure which unsettled her more—Cole Bradford’s scarred gaze, or Jack Caldwell’s smug warning.

*

Supper was a cage.

Henry Dawson carved his beef with harsh strokes, knife scraping pewter. The dining room lamp smoked, its dim light casting long shadows over heavy oak furniture and velvet drapes, filling the air with an oppressive weight that pressed down on Millie as firmly as her stepfather’s glare.

“You linger too long on those walks,” he snapped. “A girl alone invites trouble.”

Millie laid her fork aside, careful. “I gather herbs. That’s all.”

“You gather excuses.” His eyes narrowed, cold and sharp. “Jack Caldwell passed word you were near Bradford’s land. You’ll not go there again.”

Her fingers clenched against her skirts. “I did nothing wrong.”

“You did enough.” His knife stabbed into the meat, the motion more like striking an enemy than serving supper. “Cole Bradford is a ruined man. A scarred recluse with no standing. There’s no coin, no advantage, no reputation to be gained from so much as looking his way. You’ll not sully this family, or weaken my dealings, by being seen near him. Already tongues wag—you’ll not make me a laughingstock at the saloon or at the mayor’s table. Remember your duty, girl: your name, your face, your future are worth something if you keep them unspoiled.”

The words cut deep. She longed to shout that there was no family left to protect—her mother gone, Henry’s heart never hers. Instead, she bowed her head, silence her only shield.

But inside, a spark kindled. She had seen Cole’s eyes—haunted but honorable. They were not the eyes of a beast.

Later, in the quiet of her room, Millie drew her book from the basket. She lit her lamp, the glow falling warm on her mother’s quilt.

The story told of a knight scarred in battle, who hid himself away until kindness found him. The tale lingered on the cruelty of rumor, how villagers whispered of the knight’s face, calling him cursed. It spoke of the weight he carried, and the one woman who looked past the scars to see his honor. Tonight, the words ached, alive in Millie’s chest, as though written for the man she had just met.

She traced a line on the page. “Not every scar makes a beast,” she whispered, and her thoughts flew to Cole’s eyes, weary yet honorable, so unlike the monster people painted. His scar had not made him less—it had marked his survival.

The lamp flame wavered as if answering. She closed the book, pressing it to her chest.

Duke’s joyful bark echoed in memory, followed by Cole’s gravelly voice. She shut her eyes and saw him again—broad shoulders at the tree line, scar tugging at his mouth, eyes both sharp and sorrowful.

Millie leaned, blew out the lamp, and the room sank into shadow. In that shadow, her heart held its own light, restless, trembling, and strangely hopeful.

Chapter Two

The fire roared again in his dreams.

It always began the same way—his sister’s laughter, sweet and high, drifting down the hall as she read by candlelight. Then the smell of smoke faint at first, then choking. Flames bursting through wood, catching draperies, devouring the walls. Her screams. His parents’ desperate cries. And him—helpless, clutching the door handle that burned his palm, the burning beam that came down on him to mar him forever as everything he loved turned to ash.

Cole Bradford jerked upright in his bed, sweat soaking his shirt. The room around him was blackened still, walls scorched from that same fire five years past. He had rebuilt nothing here, save what he needed to survive. Half the house stood hollow, a husk. He preferred it that way. A reminder. A punishment.

Duke whined at the foot of the bed, nails clicking against the floorboards as he padded closer. Cole dragged a hand through his damp hair and muttered, “I’m fine.”

The dog rested his broad head against Cole’s knee, warm and insistent.

“Fine,” Cole repeated, though his chest still heaved, and his heart still thundered. He rubbed the dog’s ears, grounding himself in the steady thump of Duke’s tail. “Reckon you don’t believe me either.”

The door creaked.

“Cole?” A voice, rough with age but steady, filled the hollow space in the front room.

Cole swung his legs to the floor. He’d moved into the downstairs room since the fire. He walked to the front room when Benjamin Hayes stepped inside, carrying a burlap sack over one shoulder and a small crate of groceries in his other hand. Benjamin had been his father’s friend before the fire, a loyal ranch hand who’d stayed when others drifted. At nearly fifty, his hair had gone silver at the temples, his skin weathered from sun and years of outdoor labor. He’d moved to town with his wife Annabelle since the fire, setting up house there, living the kind of life he deserved. His brown eyes held quiet patience, though they sharpened whenever he looked at Cole—as if trying to gauge whether this was the day he might crawl back into life.

“You’re up early,” Benjamin said, setting the sack on the rough-hewn table by the wall. “Or late, dependin’ on whether you slept at all.”

Cole grunted. “Sleep enough.”

Benjamin ignored the lie. He opened the crate, pulling out a sack of flour, beans, coffee, and a small wedge of cheese. “Picked these up in town. Folks paid rent on the lower pasture, so I brought you the cash.” He set a few coins and folded bills on the table. “You should use it. Hire help. Can’t live on bread and jerky forever.”

“I manage.”

“You don’t.” Benjamin’s voice held no heat, just plain truth. “Martha’s gone, and you’ve no cook now. You need someone steady in this kitchen before the place falls in on you.”

Cole’s jaw tightened. Martha had been the only one willing to work here after the fire, an old woman with no patience for gossip. She had died quietly in her sleep three weeks ago, leaving the house emptier than ever.

“No one’ll come,” Cole said flatly. “Not here. Not for me.”

Benjamin turned, arms folded across his broad chest. “That ain’t true.”

“It is.” Cole stood, stretching to his full height. The scar along his face pulled with the movement, running from temple to jaw, a reminder of his failure to save his family carved into flesh. “I’m the Beast, remember?” His tone bit, half mockery, half resignation. “Children throw stones and grown men let ’em. Nobody in Pine Ridge wants to set foot on this land.”

Duke barked once, sharp, as if to contradict him.

Cole crouched, resting his hand on the dog’s back. “Save your breath, old friend. It’s the truth.”

But even as he said it, another image intruded—the girl from the meadow.

Blonde hair catching sunlight in loose waves. Green eyes, clear and soft, unflinching as they met his scarred face. A small frame, delicate as a wildflower stem, yet she had stood her ground where others had flinched. And her smile—gentle, kind—offered without pity.

Cole frowned, shaking his head as though to banish her.

Benjamin caught the movement. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The older man studied him for a long moment. “Funny. You’ve got that look in your eye. Same one you used to wear after meetin’ a girl at church socials. What happened out there today?”

“Nothing happened,” Cole snapped, harsher than he meant. Duke’s ears twitched at the tone.

Benjamin raised his brows but said nothing, only busied himself with stacking supplies on the shelf.

Cole turned away, staring at the blackened wall where wallpaper still curled in brittle strips. He tried to fix his thoughts on the ruin, on the punishment he deserved. Yet Millie Ashford’s face lingered, stubborn as the dawn.

Benjamin stacked the last of the flour on the shelf and dusted his hands on his trousers. “You know,” he said evenly, “folks are talkin’ in town. Always are. But they’ll never stop if you don’t give ’em reason to think different.”

Cole snorted, dragging on his boots. “You think if I smile and stroll into the mercantile, they’ll forget what they call me?”

“Maybe not.” Benjamin leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “But sittin’ out here with only ghosts for company don’t change a thing either.”

Cole rubbed his scar, an old habit when temper edged close. “I don’t need their company. Or their charity.”

“That ain’t charity, Cole. It’s life.” Benjamin’s voice softened. “And you’ve still got some left to live.”

Duke trotted across the room, then, dropping a chewed stick at Cole’s feet with a hopeful wag of his tail. The dog’s timing drew a reluctant huff of breath from him—half laugh, half sigh.

“Persistent cuss, ain’t you?” Cole muttered, tossing the stick toward the open door. Duke bounded after it, nails skidding on the wood floor.

Benjamin smiled faintly. “Dog knows better than you do. He keeps draggin’ you forward, even when you’re set on standin’ still.”

Cole bent to rub Duke’s ears when the animal returned, panting, stick clamped triumphantly in his jaws. “Forward to what?” he asked, voice low.

Benjamin studied him. “To whatever’s waitin’. Maybe someone who don’t flinch at the sight of you.”

Cole stiffened. He hadn’t spoken of Millie, yet her face flared unbidden—green eyes steady as she gathered her herbs, lips curving in that small smile meant for him alone. She had looked at him plain, not with horror or pity.

“I told you,” Cole said roughly, rising to his full height. “It was nothing.”

Benjamin’s brow creased. “So there was somethin’.”

Cole cursed himself silently. He’d walked right into that.

Benjamin’s tone gentled again, fatherly. “You’re still a man, Cole. Scar don’t change that. Sooner or later, a woman’ll see it.”

“She already did.” The words escaped before he could bite them back.

Benjamin blinked, waiting.

Cole dragged a hand over his beard. “Girl was gatherin’ herbs on the edge of the meadow. Duke startled her. I helped her up, that’s all.”

Benjamin tilted his head. “And?”

“And nothing. She left. Best thing for her.”

“What’d she look like?”

Cole hesitated, then surrendered. “Young. Fair. Hair the color of wheat at harvest. Eyes … green.” He stopped there, unwilling to admit how those eyes had searched his face without flinching.

Benjamin nodded slowly. “Sounds like Millie Ashford. Annabelle’s girl.”

Cole turned sharply. “She your wife’s friend’s kin?”

“Stepdaughter to Henry Dawson. Hard life since her mama passed. She’s got more grit than folks reckon.”

Cole grunted, unease tightening his gut. A merchant’s stepdaughter. A girl trapped under a man’s thumb. He had no business even remembering her.

Benjamin’s eyes softened. “If she didn’t run screamin’, that tells me somethin’. Maybe it ought to tell you too.”

Cole shook his head hard. “Don’t start dreamin’ for me. I ain’t fit company for any girl, least of all her.”

Benjamin opened his mouth, but Cole cut him off. “You said it yourself. Hire help. No one in Pine Ridge will come out here, not for a cookin’ wage, not for a beast. You’ll waste your breath tryin’.”

Benjamin pushed away from the counter. “Then maybe you ought to let someone else waste it. Stranger things have happened than a woman willin’ to walk through fire to find her own freedom.”

Cole’s throat clenched. The words struck too close, echoing against memories he couldn’t bear. He turned his back, busying himself by packing away the groceries Benjamin had brought.

Benjamin let the silence stretch, then picked up his hat. “I’ll be back next week. Don’t let the roof cave in by then.”

Duke followed him to the door, tail wagging.

Benjamin paused in the frame. “Cole—don’t lock yourself tighter just because one girl looked your way. That ain’t shame. That’s hope knockin’.”

Then he was gone, boots crunching across the yard, leaving Cole with the echo of his words.

Cole leaned both hands on the bench, head bowed. Hope. The word scraped like grit in his throat. He’d buried hope in the ashes five years ago. He wasn’t about to dig it out now.

But when Duke nosed his hand, whining softly, Millie’s smile slipped back into his mind unbidden.

When the sound of Benjamin’s horse faded down the road, silence settled heavy again. Cole stood in it for a long moment, fists braced on the bench.

Duke padded back in, stick still clenched proudly in his jaws. He dropped it at Cole’s feet, panting, tail wagging as if nothing in the world was wrong.

Cole crouched slowly, resting a hand on the dog’s thick neck. “You’re easy pleased, ain’t you?” His voice rasped low. “Stick in your teeth, pat on the head, and the world’s good again.”

Duke barked once in agreement, tongue lolling.

Cole gave a rough laugh, more exhale than sound. “Wish it were that simple.”

The dog nudged his palm, insistent. Cole obliged, rubbing behind his ears, and let his mind wander where it had been trying not to.

He saw again the meadow grass brushing against Millie Ashford’s skirts. Blonde hair spilling loose from her bonnet, catching the sun like it was woven with gold threads. Those green eyes, not darting away, not fixed on his scar in horror, but steady, searching, curious. And that smile—gentle, a kindness offered plain, no pity in it.

Cole muttered, “She ought not smile at me like that.”

Duke tilted his head, ears pricked, as if waiting for more.

“Don’t look at me like you understand,” Cole grumbled. “She belongs in town, with friends and family. Not out here with a man half burned and half mad.”

The scar on his cheek itched, memory of heat and smoke rising sharply. He pressed his hand to it, eyes shutting against the image of flames devouring his sister’s room. He could almost hear her cry again—Cole, help me!—before the roof caved in.

His voice broke roughly. “I couldn’t save ’em, Duke. Don’t matter what Benjamin says. Don’t matter what some girl’s smile stirs up. That night’s on me.”

Duke whined low, pressing closer.

Cole sank to the floorboards, leaning his back against the bench. The dog settled beside him, warm weight a comfort. Cole scrubbed both hands over his face, dragging them down into his beard.

“She don’t know the stories,” he said at last, voice softer. “Give her a week, she will. Folks’ll tell her to steer clear. Best thing for her.”

But the words rang hollow even as he spoke them. He could still feel her hand in his, small and soft against his calloused palm. He’d helped plenty of folks to their feet before but never felt a jolt like that.

“Blast it,” he muttered. “Don’t even know the girl, and here I am talkin’ like she matters.”

Duke rested his head on Cole’s knee, sighing as though to say she did.

Cole stared at the blackened wall, charred timbers silhouetted by lamplight. Five years, he’d let the ruin stand as penance. Five years of solitude, broken only by Benjamin’s steady visits and Duke’s loyal presence. And now, one slip of a girl in a meadow had cracked the shell he’d built around himself.

He pressed his hand against the dog’s fur, anchoring himself. “She’s better off forgettin’ me, boy. And I’d be wise to do the same.”

But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t.

The lamplight guttered as the night deepened. Cole finally pushed himself to his feet, shoulders heavy. He banked the fire in the hearth and crossed to the small table where Benjamin had left the folded bills. He stared at them for a long time.

Money enough to hire help, Benjamin had said. A cook, someone steady. Someone who might bring life back into this place.

His jaw tightened. “Who’d come? Who’d dare?”

Duke thumped his tail against the floor, as if volunteering.

Cole gave a faint huff. “Reckon you’d burn the biscuits same as I would.”

He tucked the money into a drawer, shut it firmly, and turned away.

Sleep would not come again, he knew. Instead, he strode into the adjoining room—the library, its shelves still miraculously spared from the fire. Rows of leather spines greeted him, books collected by his father and sister, books he still read by lamplight when memories grew too sharp.

He ran a finger over a charred edge of one volume, heart tightening. It reminded him of the girl again—how she had carried a book in her basket, hidden beneath her herbs. A reader, like his sister had been. Like him.

“Green-eyed girl with a book,” he murmured, voice low. “That’s trouble.”

Duke followed, circling once before lying at the hearth.

Cole sank into the worn chair, the one piece of furniture he hadn’t replaced. He opened a book at random but found the words blurring. His thoughts tangled back to Millie’s face, to the way she had lifted her chin when she spoke, unafraid.

He closed the book with a snap, pressing it shut against the pull in his chest.

“No.” His voice carried harshly in the empty room. “I’ll not go down that road again. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

The house seemed to disagree, its silence pressing in until the creak of timbers sounded almost like an answer.

Duke lifted his head, eyes steady on him.

Cole swallowed hard, then leaned back in the chair, gaze fixed on the dark window. Out there stretched the meadow, the cottonwoods, the trail where he had met her.

A chance meeting, he told himself. Nothing more.

Yet his scar itched again, not from guilt this time but from the memory of her gaze—clear, kind, and unflinching.

He whispered into the emptiness, barely more than breath, “Why’d you have to smile?”

Duke gave a soft whine, then rested his head back on his paws.

Cole sat in the half-burned house, haunted by fire and ghosts, but for the first time in years, something else kept him awake: the echo of a green-eyed girl’s smile, and the dangerous spark of wanting more.