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Charlie cocks a dark brow. “Where’s the beer?” he asks.
Wyatt looks confused.
“It wasn’t in the house?” I ask, giving Wyatt a look and hoping he picks up on the message I’m sending.
His attention flickers to me and he nods. “Sure wasn’t, Ruby. Davis must have grabbed it.”
Davis eyes his little brother shrewdly. “Shirt’s on backward.”
“New trend,” Wyatt swaggers. But the tips of his ears, barely covered by his shaggy mop of hair, are bright pink.
Minutes later, Fallon appears, her expression unreadable. She goes to Stede’s side and slips her arm through his.
Clocking that everyone is present and accounted for, Davis lifts a big hand and motions us all forward. “Let’s go.”
“You ready, Sunflower?” Charlie asks. And then he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward his truck.
My heart leaps.
I’m so fucking ready.
We get up to Meadow Mountain and unpack everything. Coolers of beer. Paper lanterns. A small Bose speaker cranks out Sturgill Simpson while the campfire burns. Ford and Wyatt stand at the edge of the sandstone ledge, looking south across the vast canyon landscape as they light sky lanterns and let them loose into the air.
Ruby watches with wide eyes, her hands clasped to her chest. “Oh,” she gasps, trailing the glowing lantern with her finger. “There it goes.” She looks up at me. “What happens to it?”
I keep a protective hand on the small of her back, reminded of the last time I took her up here. Last thing I need is her getting too close to the edge.
“It’ll float down there,” I tell her, pointing below the cliffside. Runaway Ranch is microscopic, but we can see the smoke from the campfire. “It burns out in the air but stays lit long enough for the guests to see at the end of the night.”
Her mouth drops.
She looks ethereal in the setting sun, her long rose-gold hair falling across her face. Montana may be majestic in her beauty, but so is Ruby.
“Make a wish,” Ford drawls, lifting another lantern into the sky.
“Make a wish?” Ruby asks.
“Hopes. Dreams. Wishes.” Hand dropping to her waist, I lean in and explain our annual tradition to Ruby. “For next season.”
Ford kicks us off. “To the Braves winning.”
Davis rolls his eyes. “He means the ranch, asshole.”
“To next year,” I grunt, giving Ford side-eye. “No more goddamn videos.”
Fallon extends her arms. “To Pappy Starr,” she says, toes hanging off the ledge of the cliff.
Wyatt makes a face of revulsion. “What do you want with that prick?”
Fallon cocks a shoulder. “I’m taking up with him.”
A scoff pops out of Wyatt. “He doesn’t rep girls.”
“I think the statement you’re searching for is he doesn’t repyou.”
“Wouldn’t want him to,” Wyatt grumbles, snapping a twig in half and tossing it over the cliff.
The disgusted look on his face echoes my own. Pappy Starr is a sleazy rodeo agent who worries more about what his clients can do for him than what he can do for his clients. He treats the rodeo like a game instead of the sport that it is.
