Chapter 1
Colt
“You want me to do what?”
I scrub a line of dried sweat off my neck with the heel of my palm, the kind that only shows up after a long day. The feed delivery was late, one of the mares is colicky, and now my sister has that look, which means she’s about to ruin my night.
Sadly, I’ve only half-listened to what Brooke’s been yammering about.
We’re in the breakfast room of our childhood home, my late grandfather’s place, sitting at the handcrafted table. Windows over the large sink overlook our Texas ranch, the early evening sun streaking pinks and oranges through the sky. His old radio sits on the counter next to the toaster, the latest country hit by Nash Rivers playing in the background. Gramps’s favorite Stetson hangs on the hat rack near the kitchen door, right by mine, a stack of holiday boxes underneath waiting for attention.
Brooke types something on her laptop screen, a Cheshire cat grin spreading quickly across her face. The keys click so sharply that I swear each drills straight into the center of my skull.
Dammit to hell. Nothing good ever follows that look. A few Halloweens ago, she voluntoldme to dress up as the Grinch for the kindergarten class when I was in town. I still have nightmares about the trail of children following me everywhere after reading to them.
“This is perfect!” She practically squeals in delight. “Your participation in the bachelor auction will bring in a lot of money for Riverside Senior Outreach.”
My hand freezes halfway through flipping the page of the ranch breeding schedule, my fingers stiffening around the paper like it just bit me. Next season’s horse pairings won’t plan themselves. “Absolutely not. No. I’m not a raffle prize.” I don’t bother looking up.
“Not everyone can afford elder care, Colt.” Brooke’s words are pointed, the way only a little sister can pull off. “This year’s auction is for such a great cause!”
Every year, our hometown of Stone Ridge, Texas, hosts a bachelor auction on the first Saturday of December to raise money for a local charity. It’s a long-standing tradition hosted by the Magnolia League and raises tons of money. Participants range from eighteen to eighty, with Old Clarence Williams one of the most sought-after bids this town has seen. He was even participating back when we were kids.
A slow pressure tightens behind my ribs, the way it does right before a horse decides to buck. “Three dates with a complete stranger? Hell no. The last thing I need is some starry-eyed woman wasting my time when I’ve got a ranch to run and a breeding season that won’t manage itself.”
“Grandpa did it last year.”
This one hits low and mean. My gaze snags on his old Stetson by the door, tilted just the way he left it. The rest of the room blurs around the edges, the way it used to when I’d take a hoof tothe side and had to stay standing, anyway. I close my eyes, a gust from the screen door swirling a whiff of hay around us.
“That’s fighting dirty, Brooke.” I can’t believe she just went there. He hasn’t even been gone for a year.
“It’s not fighting dirty if it’s true.” She blinks innocently, chewing absently on her pen cap, the old fridge droning in the corner. “Gentry McCallum said yes.”
“That’s because he’s half in love with you and hopes you’ll bid on him.” Gentry’s my best bud and has been in love with her since they were kids. There are very few people I trust in this world, and he is at the top of the list. For whatever reason, she won’t give him a shot, which is too bad. He’s perfect for her.
My pain-in-the-ass little sister doesn’t respond, her way of acknowledging I’m right without having to say it.
Taking the win, I pour some water from the fridge, drinking it down in five gulps. I fill it up again before returning to the handmade table as familiar to me as anything. For just a second, pangs of grief edge in. I push them aside, reminding myself that Gramps had a good life.
He raised me and Brooke in this house without much help while running one of the top champion horse breeding businesses in Texas. The whole reason I’m back in Stone Ridge is because our grandfather left Sawyer Farms to us after he passed away. An elite roper on the rodeo circuit, that last concussion finally convinced me to hang it up. Gramps bred some of the best heading horses in Texas, and I was lucky enough to ride them.
He and I shared a love of riding, so much so that we were both professional rodeo cowboys. I never did beat his record, but I hold second place. Not too bad for a once-scrawny kid. Ever the math nerd, Brooke graduated college with a master’s in finance and has run the books for Gramps ever since.
With a voice that’s made me want to pound my head against the wall more times than I can count, Brooke won’t let up.“Please, Bartholomew Colt Sawyer? Puleeeeze?” The way she draws out Bartholomew makes me want to throw myself out the kitchen window.
I stare at her, unmoved. I’ve outlasted a stubborn thousand-pound quarter horse, so I can outlast my baby sister. Especially when she pulls out my first name. I’m the fourth Bartholomew Sawyer on my father’s side of the family, not that the name did much good. After my dad left, and my mom died, none of the other Bartholomews stepped up to help.
Brooke and I are total opposites. She’s a good foot shorter than my 6’1” frame. Her dark wavy hair always hangs loose, while my blond hair is cropped short, the way it’s been since my rodeo days except for the top, which I’m growing out some.
“Do I have to call Gentry and get him on my side?”
I lunge for her phone too late. She’s already got the damn thing unlocked, thumb hovering like a sniper ready to fire. With a sigh, I drop back into the wooden chair, jaw tight, knowing the hell Gentry will give me if she pulls him in. “What do I get in return?”
Both brows raise. “Besides the satisfaction of helping out your fellow townspeople?”
“Yep. And it’s got to be good, Brookie. None of this ‘I’ll wash your car for a month’ crap like when we were kids.”
She shoves her laptop aside, nearly tipping over her sweet tea, chewing her bottom lip while calculating her next move. Whatever she’s about to give up must hurt. “I’ll stop pushing the rebrand. You win. We keep Grandpa’s logo exactly as it is.”
