Page 25 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Triple D Ranch stretched across the hills like a place designed to make other ranchers cry—emerald pastures, gleaming barns, horses moving through the sun like living trophies.

Boone stopped at the fence line and let out a low whistle. “If heaven has a pasture, it looks exactly like this. Probably smell better, though.”

Eli snorted. “Yeah, because you wouldn’t be there stinking it up.”

Boone flipped him off without looking away from the view.

They might be cow ranchers but today they were businessmen. So they changed out their dusty jeans for dark ones, and their T-shirts for button-down ones with collars. They all had on their best cowboy hats and wore dress boots in lieu of shitkickers because this was cowboy country after all.

Three grown men who mucked stalls for a living, dressed up like they were selling timeshares. Colter had never felt more ridiculous in his entire life.

“Talk big while you can,” Boone said. “I’ll remember this when we’re picking out your Christmas gift.”

“Please don’t. Last year’s weighted blanket almost killed me.”

“That was a thoughtful gift,” Boone protested. “You look like a man who needs grounding.”

“I look like a man who needs airflow,” Eli said. “That thing could smother a grown moose.”

"A moose that also happens to be emotionally unavailable," Boone added. "Which, coincidentally⁠—"

"Don't," Eli said.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were absolutely going to say something."

Colter stepped past them, pretending he wasn’t trying to hide a smile. Keller, the breeder, was an old bastard with sun-creased cheeks and a nicotine-stained mustache that drooped like it had given up on life thirty years ago. With a stoic expression, he opened the gate and waved them toward the first corral.

“Boys, meet your future,” he said.

Inside, a roan mare lifted her head, ears flicking forward with interest.

Boone slapped Colter’s shoulder. “Tell me she isn’t perfect.”

“She isn’t perfect,” Colter replied automatically, crouching to study the mare’s legs. “Her left hind fetlock’s a little looser than ideal.”

Boone blinked. “Why does he ruin everything?”

“It’s a gift,” Eli said.

"It's a curse," Boone corrected. "A gift implies someone wanted it."

They moved down the line to a tall bay stallion whose muscles looked like they’d been sculpted by a deity. His coat shimmered in shades of red, with white boots and the lines of a champion. Which made sense as he was a barrel racing legend.

Boone and Eli launched immediately into a debate about genetics, bloodlines, and potential pairings.

“We put him with that chestnut mare, I swear we’d get foals that could win at birth,” Boone said.

“That roan’s the better match. Look at her gait.” Eli countered. “She floats.”

Boone rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. Eli and his feelings about gait.”

“It matters!” Eli protested. “A horse with pretty motion sells itself.”

“A horse with power sells the ranch,” Boone shot back. “We need strength.”

“You’re strength,” Eli said. “I’m elegance. Colter’s…” He glanced at his older brother. “I don’t know. Anxiety?”