Page 94 of Wilder

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s doing just fine.”

She shot me a relieved smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. He’s always been so polite when he comes up to the house.”

I tried to smother my smile.

Hard to whenever Asher came up in a conversation, even more so when people were complimenting him. My mama’s approval meant more to me than she knew. Her liking Asher filled me with a sense of pride.

He’d come to Texas all on his own but I’d been the one to hire him. I’d trained him, molded him into a fine ranch hand, and quietly encouraged that wild knack of his when it came to our rescues. He was mine the moment he’d shaken my hand and fixed me with that eager grin of his the day he’d arrived.

“It’s our other one. Carter. We’ve been having some issues with him the past few weeks.”

“What kind of issues?” she asked, her curious gaze sharpening.

“Attitude mostly,” I said. “Not real good at taking direction. Talks back. Picks fights with the other hands when he thinks he’s right instead of trying to listen and understand.”

Not bringing up what happened with the feed just yet before I had solid answers would save my poor mama from worrying herself sick.

She cared about our horses just as much as we all did. Not being able to attend to anything like she used to before her health had started to fail still kept her up late into the evening watching out our big bay window until everyone finally made their way up to the bunkhouse for the night.

It felt unnecessary scaring her like that when this was all still an ongoing investigation.

If it turned out to be a big misunderstanding, then so be it.

If not, Sully and I already had a plan in place on what we were going to do with Carter afterward. And that included sitting him down in my office and forcing him to talk.

She hummed softly. “Some folks just aren’t cut out for this line of work. Can’t handle the pressure of having to work together.”

I nodded, even though this wasn’t only about Carter not being a team player. It was about trust at this point, and how fast that could shatter with a single situation. One that in our line of work meant life or death with the animals if not addressed.

I couldn’t shake the image of Asher’s face from earlier—tight with concern when he’d turned around with that bottle in his hand inside the storage shed. His voice had been pinched as he’d confirmed it was the right one, just like it did when he was recounting the story of how he found Carter with the feed and that same bottle the day before.

He hadn’t hesitated coming to me to tell me.

He could’ve ignored it. Written it off as something that seemed off but not out of the ordinary. But he hadn’t. He’d come straight to me and dragged me back to the stables regardless of the weird tension that had settled between us.

That was impressive.

“You gonna fire him?” she asked.

“We might. We have to wait and confirm some things first.”

She nodded in approval. “I trust you’ll make your daddy proud with how you’re handling things. You were always good at making sure everyone got their fair share.”

I smiled faintly.

Sometimes, I wished that were the case. She meant well when she spoke like that, but she didn’t know the half of it. Everyone around me seemed to think I’d been born with my boots already laced, like stepping into my father’s role was as natural as breathing.

But truth be told, my father’s shoes were big ones to fill and most days, I never felt like I’d ever measure up to the legacy he left behind, no matter how long I kept the ranch running or how hard I worked to do right by the land and the people on it.

I tended to put him on a pedestal, sure, but hell, the man deserved it.

He was a great man and an even better rancher. Fair, firm, kind when it counted. He led by example and everyone respected him for it. I’d spent my whole life watching him command a room with nothing more than a look and a tilt of his chin. And now, two years later, I was still trying to master even half of what came so effortlessly to him.

After we both finished off our plates, I gathered them and brought them to the kitchen to wash and set in the dry rack.

The window over the sink gave me a clear view of the path that wound down from the bunkhouse, the dirt trail empty under the warm cast of the porch light. So far, no sign of a soul traveling down it.

I itched to check the time but forced myself to focus on the dishes cluttering the sink instead.