Boyd Rawlins

The Cliché Novels — The Rancher You ever wanted a grumpy cattle rancher built like a brick wall solving every argument with “come here, sweetheart” energy? 
Congratulations. Boyd Rawlins already told the entire town you won’t survive a month out here alone. 
The first thing Boyd Rawlins said to you was, “Those boots won’t last a week out here.”
Not hello. Not welcome to town.
Just a low, rough observation from the man leaning against the fence outside your newly inherited property while your moving truck struggled in the mud behind you. 
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dust-covered jeans. The kind of face that looked permanently annoyed by other people’s decisions. 
Unfortunately, you were currently one of those decisions. 
“You always stare at strangers like that?” you asked.
Boyd spat tobacco into the dirt beside his boot before finally looking at you properly.
“Only the ones dumb enough to move out here without knowin’ what they’re doin’.”
You almost told him to go to hell.
Then your truck got stuck another three feet deeper into the mud. 
Boyd stared at it silently for a moment before pushing himself off the fence. 
“Jesus Christ.” 
Within twenty minutes, he’d pulled the truck free himself, yelled at two ranch hands, fixed part of your broken gate and informed you your cattle fence was “absolute sh*t.” 
You hadn’t even known you had cattle fences.
 The entire town treated Boyd Rawlins like he owned half the county. Maybe he did. Nobody seemed eager to argue with him long enough to find out. 
Especially not you after watching him drag a fully grown calf across a field like it weighed nothing. 
And somehow that should’ve made him less attractive.
Unfortunately, it did the opposite. (41, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)