Page 22 of Slow Burn

“I think it would be good for you to show Lyla around,” Wade fires back in that way he does when he thinks he knows what’s best. “She might be able to give you some good suggestions.”

Lyla is nodding along as he presents his argument. “It’s an important part of the process. I like to get a feel for a business before I start throwing out ideas of what to change. I like to understand the daily operations, and the heart of the business, what it is that draws customers in, what it is that keeps it going even if it’s struggling. Those are the areas we can capitalize on.”

“We don’t have traditional customers. And what keeps the ranch going is sheer necessity and force of will.”

“It’s also good for me to know what not to change.” Lyla’s eyes search my face to see how her comment landed.

And fuck if it didn’t hit home. Because I don’t want the ranch to change. Of course I know that improvements need to be made, we can’t keep going like this forever. But high on my list of priorities is preserving the traditions that tie my family to this place, this land, this lifestyle.

Today could be a prime opportunity to show Lyla what it means to me. To bring her back down to earth, to reality, that her idealistic way of looking at life isn’t going to fly on the ranch. It’s not going to fly with me.

“Fine,” I say, swallowing my bite and setting down my coffee. I stride toward the door and Lyla’s eyes follow me. “Let’s go, then.”

“Have fun kiddos,” my dad calls behind us before adding, “but not too much!”

I don’t let either of them see my eye roll. Lyla springs up and follows me out of the house, nearly jogging to keep up. My strides are about three times longer than hers, so she’s breathing heavily by the time we cross the lawn.

“You still know how to ride?” I call over my shoulder. I don’t know when the last time was that Lyla was on a horse, but I’d be willing to bet this ranch on it not being for a very long time.

“Yep,” she squeaks, and I catch the waver in her voice that gives her away. She absolutely does not remember how to ride.

When we get to the field, Lyla looks like a kid in a candy store and heads over to Willow and Bandit, already waiting for us at the fence. She goes between them, giving them equal scratches behind their ears, petting their velvety snouts.

“You can ride Willow today,” I explain. “Bandit can be unpredictable, and has a mind of his own sometimes.”

Lyla lets out a soft laugh. “You’re saying he’s kind of like Austin.”

My mouth lifts up into a smirk, because I had never really thought about it before, but she’s right. Austin has always had a thing for unruly horses. He loves spending time training them, and views it as an investment. Sometimes I think he likes it because he wishes he’d had someone to do that for him. To believe in his potential.

Bandit came to Wild Sage as a wild horse that had been picked up at a meat auction. Horrible fucking places. But Tate Caldwell who owns the ranch next to mine occasionally goes to see if there are any he can buy for cheap and rehome them.

Austin likes to help him out when he gets a particularly challenging one, and that was Bandit.

“Yeah, he is,” I say. I lead Willow into the barn and start saddling her up, when I hear Lyla squeal from behind me. I’m just about to tell her to keep it down, horses don’t exactly love loud, sudden noises. But when I turn around, Lyla is absolutely beaming, and petting Kenny Rogers between his stumpy horns.

“Who are you, lil’ fella?” She croons at him.

“That is Kenny Rogers, and he’s an asshole,” I answer, since Kenny Rogers is unlikely to. “My dad took him in a couple years ago after he lost his leg, and he’s an ungrateful bastard. He’ll act friendly and sweet to your face, but turn around and he’ll head-butt you.”

“No… not Kenny Rogers… he would never,” she says, looking at him like he could never do any wrong.

I turn back to Willow, almost fully saddled up and ready to go. “Goats are like farm trolls, they spare no one.”

“That’s a little prejudiced, don’t you think? Has Kenny Rogers ever head-butted you?” Lyla stands up straight and then pops her hip, crossing her arms across her chest.

“No. Not me personally but–”

“Exactly. He likes you. He thinks he’s your pet,” she says with so much certainty that I almost believe her.

“He is not my pet. Goats are not pets. They’re farm animals. Dogs are pets. Cats, I don’t like ‘em but I can get on board with them as a pet. No one has a goat for a pet.”

“You do.” Lyla’s plush pink lips quirk upward, cheeky and teasing. “You have Kenny Rogers.”

“I do not.” I’m arguing like a child, and about what? This is what Lyla does to me, she eggs me on until I can’t even remember what we were teasing each other about. And I never want her to stop.

“Okay,” she replies, with a tone that says she doesn’t accept my argument, and she’s about to prove me wrong. “Let’s ask him.”

And then out of nowhere, Lyla Morgan makes a sound I would have never in a million years thought could be attractive. Lyla Morgan looks Kenny Rogers in the eye and bleats.