Birds jolt from the trees. The echo bursts across the water. I scream again, louder, until my voice breaks and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
My hands shake as I brace myself on my thighs. Sweat trails down my temples in the cold morning.
Sedona left me. My parents died. Dr. Archer is gone. Joey left Prairie Pine just to start over somewhere else. One by one, every piece of the life I thought I would have has slipped through my fingers.
And somehow I’m still here, holding what remains, trying to run a ranch, trying to be the man everyone expects me to be.
I breathe so hard my chest burns. I lift my head and stare across the land, watching the first thin stretch of sunrise break along the horizon.
Gold softens the edges of the valley. The fields glow in muted color.
Responsibility waits for me today. Reality always does.
I swing back onto Whiskey Jack and ride toward the house. The meeting with Grant Silver starts at eight sharp.
Silver sponsors half of the Prairie Pine Rodeo, and now that Joey is off competing in Austin, I’m the one handling our ranch’s entries and deals.
Tex is the superstar in bronc riding this year. Always has been. The kid has a body made for the arena and a mind that never loses its edge.
Seth and I hold our own in team roping. We placed well last season, and I plan to do better this year.
There’s even the thought of buying bulls from the Torres ranch down in San Marcos. Bull riding is becoming the main draw, and Prairie Pine needs fresh stock.
Rhett Dalton, Joey’s biggest rival, will be a shoo-in for champion this year, and if we don’t provide bulls that challengehim, the crowd will lose interest. The economics matter. The prestige matters.
The future of this ranch matters.
Focusing on all of that feels safer than thinking about Sedona and the blond Beta with his hand on hers. I shove the bitterness down and keep riding.
The ranch comes into view as the sun finally breaks over the hills.
Boone sprints toward us from the porch, barking once in greeting. I dismount, pat Whiskey Jack, lead him into his stall, and grab a brush to wipe him down. His skin twitches under the bristles, his breath warm and calm. Caring for him settles me.
By the time I head back toward the house, the sky has turned pale blue.
The day whispers its demands. Grants to negotiate. Inventory to check. Staff to pay. Land to manage. Cowboys to schedule. Rodeo rules to finalize.
Normal things. Safe things.
Things that don’t involve the sight of Sedona Archer looking heartbreakingly beautiful while she reads her father’s eulogy.
Things that don’t involve the memory of her hand being held by someone else. Things that don’t involve five years of silence and an absence that feels like a bruise pressed too long.
I stop on the porch, boots planted on the old planks, breath fogging faintly in the air.
I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself the ranch needs me far more than the past does. I tell myself Sedona belongs to another world now.
I tell myself every lie I need to get through the morning.
I step inside and move toward the kitchen, eyes fixed on the coffee pot I still need to fill. Routine is everything. Work is everything. Focus is everything.
Whatever else I’m feeling stays buried, right where it belongs.
For now.
Grant’s office sits on the second floor of the old grain building that got remodeled two summers ago. Morning sunlight comes in through those broad windows he’s so proud of, warming up the polished wooden floors and the dusty rodeo posters he framed like museum pieces.
Mayor Ruth Holloway is already here, planted right across from his desk in one of those leather chairs. She’s wearing a plum blazer and boots with turquoise stones, her hair draped over her shoulder.
