The barn closed around me with warmth and familiar smells—hay and leather—and animals breathing. Boone lifted his head when I came in, ears forward, eyes calm, planted solid as if nothing in the world could rush him. He was a sturdy ranch horse through and through, broad-chested and thick through the shoulder, built to work all day and still have something left. His coat was a deep bay,almost black along his back, with a darker mane and forelock that always fell into his eyes, no matter how often I brushed it flat. Walter Barrett had handed me the reins on my twenty-first birthday and told me a man ought to have something in his life that would carry him when he was too tired to carry himself. At the same time, telling me that my dad might well be a good foreman for business, but sure as shit was awful at being a papa.
He was like that, full of honesty that he dispensed whether a cowboy wanted to hear it or not.
“Hey, Boone,” I said.
I hung my heavy coat on its hook and stepped into the stall, the chill gripping me, but soon easing—this wasn’t the coldest night we’d had, and I’d seen worse, and was an expert in layers. Boone chuffed a welcome and leaned into my space as I ran my hand down his neck, feeling the strength there, the heat. My breath slowed because it had to.
Mouse stirred in the straw near Boone’s legs, the black-and-white cat thoroughly unimpressed as one eye cracked open, took me in, and slid shut again. He was one of four barn cats, but the only one who stuck close to Boone, like they had some Disney buddy thing going on. The others were around somewhere too: Rusty, orange and half-wild, who lived up in the rafters; Nell, gray and sharp-eyed, who kept the feed room clear; and Patch, old and scarred, who slept wherever the heat settled and barely moved unless he had to.
“You’re going to get stepped on,” I told him, but Mouse stayed put.
I took up a brush and went to work on Boone, shoulder toflank, with long strokes and steady pressure. Dirt came loose, hair smoothed down. I stayed with it longer than necessary because there was no reason to hurry and every reason not to.
Boone shifted, relaxed, and blew out a breath. He trusted the routine. I needed that more than he did.
“I might have to head out again tonight,” I told him, conversational, as if I wasn’t already running through the checklist in my head. “Miguel says another cow’s close, and Gunner’s with him, but if I’m needed and she drops late, I’ll take the ATV. Won’t need you for that.”
Boone chuffed, warm breath puffing across my shoulder, and bumped his nose into my chest as if he understood and disagreed with the idea. I rubbed between his eyes. “Yeah, I know you’d come if I asked.”
I checked his hooves next, lifting each leg, clearing what didn’t belong there. My hands stopped shaking when they had something useful to do.
Snow ticked against the roof, and the rest of the ranch faded out.
For a second, Lucas crossed my mind, and I found myself talking before I meant to. He wasn’t my type—too pretty, too breakable—and I shut that thought down hard before it could go anywhere. “He’s all color and flamboyant confidence and shit,” I told Boone quietly, brushing slower now. Boone kept my secrets and never interrupted. “Curls everywhere, and I swear he had eyeliner on, and shiny shit on his lips, and fuck, he needs to cut that shit out, otherwise he’ll get the same crap from Dad that Miguel gets.” I shook my head once. I set my jaw; the hate I felt for my dad’s bigotedopinions had colored my childhood, and the damage his hatred did to other people was poison. “I can’t protect everyone, for god’s sake.”
A familiar engine note cut through the quiet outside, the low whine of an ATV starting up and then fading as it moved off. Gunner, taking the second one to link up with Miguel to watch on the heavy-bellied cows in the north pasture, waiting for signs. I didn’t envy them the watch tonight—the long, cold hours, and the uncertainty—but that was the way it went. Their turn tonight. Colt and I were out tomorrow.
“He went and started a fire, the idiot, after I told him not to touch a thing. I wasn’t worried, though, just needed to stop him from burning my home down. Fire makes you move fast; it didn’t mean that I was worried about him getting hurt.”
Boone snorted as if he didn’t believe me.
“I’m not lyin’ to ya,” I muttered. “Maybe he’ll run back to Denver and break the six-month shit, and then, we can all continue with our lives,” I rested my forehead against Boone’s shoulder, breathing until the spike burned off. Riding would’ve burned it faster. Speed always did. But it never lasted, and connecting with Boone kept me steady, upright, and out of trouble.
“There was a letter too, from the real estate people.” I dragged the brush down his flank harder than I meant to, then eased up. “I’m not signing anything. I’m not selling. I won’t let some kid from the city take this place out from under me—” I stopped, corrected myself, and placed a hand flat on Boone’sneck. “Out from under any of us.”
Boone stood quiet and solid while Mouse rolled onto his back, belly up, before curling into a ball again.
When I finished, I left my hand on Boone’s neck, feeling the last of the edge drain away, not gone, but dulled enough that I could stand still inside myself.
“Good boy,” I said.
Boone didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Outside, the snow kept falling, settling in for the night, and I needed to eat and get whatever sleep I could on the off-chance that I was called out by Miguel. Reluctantly, I headed past the snow-covered car and into the house I’d inherited—well, quarter-inherited—and wondered if I should drive into town and check on Dad. Duty tugged at me, the sense that I should go check on him, but the memory of the way he’d dressed me down that morning still burned hot enough to stop me short. I didn’t have it in me to do all of it tonight—the checking, the criticism, the fresh list of things I’d apparently done wrong. Last time I’d visited, he’d left every light on in the place and accused me of sneaking in after dark, moving things just to piss him off. The kettle had been boiled dry, the smell sharp and metallic, and he’d sworn blind that he’d only stepped out for a minute.
Things were getting worse, and I didn’t know what to do. He’d need full-time care soon, the doctors had warned me about that, but how in hell was I supposed to handle that?
Sometimes, I caught myself wishing I didn’t have to deal with him, because he didn’t deserve any empathy from me. Yet, here I was, wondering if he was okay and whether he needed me.
I let myself into the house, stamping off snow; shruggingout of my coat, hat, and boots; and lining them up by habit, seeing a line across the old painting on the wall. Seemed as if our guest had run his finger through the dust, probably judging me for how I didn’t look after the place.
Hell, I was just getting used to Walter’s house being part mine, and housework wasn’t top of the list when I had a ranch to run. The kitchen was colder than the barn, the air flat and still, and I brought the stove to life, theclickandwhooshloud in the quiet. The faint bite of gas hung for a second before the flame settled, blue and steady, heat licking my knuckles as I held my hands there and waited for the water to heat to make shitty, but necessary, instant coffee.
I didn’t bother with anything fancy—leftover stew reheated straight in the pot, eaten standing up, coffee made on the stove. I filled the flask with more coffee, strong and black, the way it needed to be to do any good at three in the morning.
I grabbed a couple of protein bars from the cupboard, shoved them into the canvas bag by the door, added jerky and a headlamp, and set it all where I could grab it fast if Miguel called. Everything stayed half-packed this time of year. Easier that way.
I caught the soft scrape of boots and the whisper of blankets shifting before I heard him breathe in. “How the fuck do you have coffee?” Lucas grumped from behind me.
