“Already on it,” Miguel said cheerfully.
“So, the car? Grandson’s here then?” Colt asked.
“Yeah.”
We all watched as he headed back to his car from the porch, the frozen ground slick with ice. We were in the shadows—he wouldn’t be able to see us—but we had front row tickets to him flailing about. He popped the trunk and hauled out a comically oversized suitcase, the kind meant for airports, not ranch houses. It snagged on the trunk lip, and he nearly lost his footing, boots skidding as he wrestled it free. He stood there for a second, staring at the ground, leaning against the trunk, then headed for the house, stopping at the porch steps. The case was half his size, and who knows how he planned to get it up there. Not my problem.
“You want us to help him first, boss?” Colt asked.
“Nope. He’s good.” I was lying. “Go check the heifers.”
“Six months, Jesse,” Jake murmured next to me as Miguel and Colt left, catching Lucas as he came down the steps and saying their hellos. Or at least, Colt did. Miguel hung back as usual. “That’s all you need to ride, then he’ll see you’re not selling, and he’ll leave.”
Six months of keeping this tight—no rumors, no panic, just work and vigilance—then it would be over one way or another.
A hundred and eighty days give or take, with him living in the same house as me, wanting to sell my life from under me.
He would never change my mind. This ranch stayed whole while I was standing on it.
Chapter 3
Lucas
Icouldn’t believe Lowstat had sent a letter when I wasn’t ready to tell Jesse the extent of my proposals to sell. They’d agreed they wouldn’t send anything here until the six months were up—until I could sell. Nothing more than a mix-up, but I’d hoped to stay under everyone’s radar for half a year, keep my head down, then come back with a finished plan and be done with the place that I already hated.
Everything I owned was back there. Two suitcases. A box of books I should’ve left behind. A duffel with shoes I probably wouldn’t need. I stood there longer than necessary, staring at it, like the ranch might change its mind and spit me back out.
“Mr. Barrett?”
The voice came from my left. I turned and saw two cowboys walking toward me from the barn.
The first one reached me without hesitation. He was tall—taller than me—and built, with a weathered smile.
“Colt,” he said. “Welcome to Snow Creek.” His gaze didn’t only land on my face—it raked down, slow and open, taking in everything from my boots to the tension in my shoulders, then slid back up again. Not rude. Curious. Then he smiled, easy and unguarded.
I took his hand. “Lucas,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
The other man hung back a step. He didn’t offer his hand right away. He watched me, dark eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. He was skinny like me but a good few inches taller, all long lines and quiet balance. Cowboy body, no softness to it at all, but his face didn’t match—elfin, almost. Fine bones, generous mouth. There was something dark smudged under one eye, like eyeliner that hadn’t quite been washed off, and I couldn’t stop myself from noticing it. I’d expected nothing but good old boys and beer, deliberately dressed down, no makeup, no colorful clothes,justso I could avoid the hate that I knew existed in places like this.
“And this is Miguel,” Colt said, jerking his thumb back.
Miguel stepped forward and shook my hand. His grip was lighter than Colt’s but deliberate, and he moved away as quickly. I didn’t recall Miguel or Colt being mentioned on the ranch’s website. There again, it was three boxes with the owner’s name, the foreman’s name, and a picture of some horses.
“That it?” Colt asked, peering at the three boxes in the trunk. There was more on the back seat, but right now I needed to get inside and take some pills, or rest, or something to stop the pain.
“We’ll give you a hand,” he said, already reaching for the heavier box without asking. Miguel grabbed the smaller one, easy, efficient. We carried them to the porch in silence.
“This okay?” Colt asked once the boxes were set down.
“Thank you.”
The two men touched the brims of their hats, then headed out to do whatever ranch hands do. They didn’t look back, and it hadn’t been an open-arms welcome, but at least Colt had been friendlier than Jesse.
I stood on the porch alone, my car half-unloaded behind me, the wind tugging at my jacket. Snow Creek stretched out on all sides, and I told myself again that this was temporary. Six months. In and out.
I bent to pick up a box and pain flared enough to steal my breath. I froze, jaw clenched, cataloging the damage. I’d get the essentials inside first. The rest would have to wait as close to the inside of the door as I could leave them.
As to the rest of the car? Tomorrow would have to be okay.
