16

The sun had long since disappeared behind thick banks of storm clouds, casting the rural landscape in a heavy gloom. The sky rumbled with distant thunder as a sleek black Mercedes-Benz wound its way down a narrow, pothole-ridden country road. The GPS had stopped working ten minutes ago. The cell signal had died fifteen miles before that. Ashton Steele clenched the wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening. “This is absurd,” he muttered, slowing the car to a crawl as a herd of cows ambled across the road with maddening indifference. One particularly fat one stopped and stared directly at him, chewing lazily as if mocking the man in the thousand-dollar tailored suit. Ashton sighed, checking his watch. He was already behind schedule, and now a bovine blockade was holding him hostage. “This is not how CEOs are supposed to close deals,” he mumbled. He was used to boardrooms and billion-dollar valuations—not mud, livestock, and antique mailboxes shaped like chickens. Yet here he was, trying to buy 300 acres of prime farmland in a town most maps barely acknowledged. Willow Creek, population 2,481. The land wasn’t special to him. What it sat on was. According to his real estate analysts, the stretch of earth was in the perfect position for a new solar farm project—part of a public “green initiative” that his company, SteeleTech Energy, was exploiting brilliantly to curry political favor and environmental credibility. The local owners had mostly agreed to sell. Mostly. Everyone except one. The last holdout. The most difficult of them all. Ivy Carter. Ashton pulled up to a wide gravel drive that led to a white farmhouse. The paint was peeling, but the place had an air of strength—weathered but not defeated. Surrounding it were wide, open fields bordered by a wooden fence that had been mended in places with wire and stubborn willpower. He stepped out of the car and immediately regretted it. The ground squelched beneath his expensive shoes, caking them with wet mud. He looked down, disgusted. Before he could take another step, a voice rang out. “You’re not from around here.” He turned to see a woman standing by the fence, pitchfork in hand, sleeves rolled up, her boots covered in dirt. Her hair was braided back, long and wild, with wisps sticking out from under a weathered baseball cap. “Ivy Carter?” he asked. “That depends,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow. “You the man come to try and buy me out?” He forced a smile, ignoring the chill that ran down his back. “Ashton Steele. CEO of SteeleTech Energy. I believe we’ve spoken by email.” She didn’t offer a handshake. “Yeah, you’re the one who sent me that shiny PDF with all the pretty numbers. Very persuasive. I printed it out and used it to line the chicken coop.” His smile tightened. “Charming.” She leaned the pitchfork against the fence and crossed her arms. “I told your team the answer was no. And then I told you the answer was no. Yet here you are, all the way from New York or L.A. or wherever you’re from, wearing shoes that cost more than my roof. Why?” Ashton adjusted his collar, straightening to his full six-foot-two height. “Because I don’t give up easily. And I don’t take no for an answer until I understand the reason behind it.” “Maybe the reason is I don’t want your money,” she snapped. “Maybe the reason is I don’t want to see another soulless project wrecking what’s left of this place.” “Soulless?” Ashton raised a brow. “I’m offering a solar farm. Renewable energy. Environmentally friendly. Hundreds of jobs.” “And none of them will go to locals,” she shot back. “I read the fine print, Mr. CEO. Your crew would be outsourced, and all profits would fly straight back to your fancy high-rise. You’re not building for us—you’re building over us.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she didn’t give him a chance. “My family’s been on this land for four generations. My great-grandpa cleared these fields with his bare hands. My parents are buried on that hill over there. You think some clean-energy sales pitch is going to make me sign it away?” Her eyes flared with something fierce and unwavering. Not emotion—conviction. For the first time in a long time, Ashton was speechless. The rain began to fall, light at first, then heavier by the second. He looked up, scowling at the sky. “Well, if you’re done speechifying,” he said, “I’d like to at least find shelter and a phone signal.” “Good luck with the second part,” Ivy said, turning toward the barn. “You’re in Willow Creek now. Closest signal is twenty minutes north, and even that’s iffy when the wind blows wrong.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose I could use your—” “Nope,” she cut him off without even turning around. “But you’re welcome to stand under the porch till the storm passes. So long as you don’t talk.” Ashton stood there, stunned, as she disappeared into the barn. The rain picked up, soaking his shirt collar, dripping down the back of his neck. He hurried to the porch and ducked beneath it, brushing droplets off his jacket. He was cold. Wet. Off schedule. And completely, irritatingly intrigued. There was something about Ivy Carter that didn’t add up. She had fire. She had facts. And unlike most of the people he dealt with, she didn’t flinch when he spoke with authority. She didn’t care who he was. That part burned a little. He leaned against the porch column, arms folded, listening to the distant clang of metal and the thump of boots from inside the barn. This wasn’t love. Not even close. It was war. And war had never looked so good.