Mountain Time (The Diamond Hart Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

Kacey

April, Four Years Later

Groaning, I roll over, away from the sun burning through the windows and right into my retinas. I mentally scold myself for forgetting to close the blinds last night.

As I climb out of bed, I can hear people outside, telling me the work for the day is starting on the ranch.

I get dressed, throwing on a long-sleeve button down, a pair of jeans, and my jacket.

Dragging my feet, I slowly make my way into the kitchen for coffee.

I pour some in a to-go mug, grab a protein bar, put on my boots, and walk out the door.

From my front porch, I have a perfect view of the brown and white horse barn and south pasture where the mares and foals live.

With the Rocky Mountains in the distance, it really is picture perfect.

I love this ranch. It’s been in my family for four generations and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

I take a deep breath and one last look before I head to the barn to saddle my horse.

I walk about halfway down the barn alley and stop.

Where is my dog?

I whistle loudly. “Oh Rein,” I singsong.

From around the corner runs a little half-breed Red Heeler, Australian Shepherd mix dog.

At only thirty-five pounds, she looks innocent, but don’t let her looks fool you, she has a wild side a mile long.

I bend over and give her some scratches behind the ears, her soft red and white speckled fur flying up and sticking to my sleeve.

After I’ve paid Rein’s pet tax, I walk down a few more stalls, grab a halter, and open the stall door.

Inside, ears perked forward, stands my horse—a little sorrel gelding named Hooch.

He’s 14.2 hands tall with a white blaze and four white socks.

Most girls want a more colorful horse, like blue roans, buckskins or palominos, but that’s not me.

I like red dogs and red horses. Other girls also like pink and sparkle tack, while I prefer the classic suede-like appearance of plain, rough out, tan leather.

With Hooch saddled, I whistle at my wild child and ride out of the barn.

April mornings in Colorado are always chilly.

In the crisp morning air, with dew on the grass, the foals like to race across the pasture finding their legs.

So even with the chill, spring is always my favorite season on the ranch.

Nothing is better than foaling season.

About 100 yards into the pasture, my dad is sitting on his horse talking to our ranch foreman.

Dad is a third-generation rancher—and he’s good at it.

He saved this ranch by talking Grandpa into starting the cattle feedlot, which then turned into adding a butcher shop and selling meat directly to high-end restaurants.

Located southwest of Denver, The Diamond Hart Ranch consists of roughly 45,000 acres and is the most successful, diverse, and well-operated ranch in the state.

And in my opinion, it’s the prettiest ranch, too.

Today, we’re going to the mountain pasture, my favorite place to ride. It’s always a beautiful ride, like something you would see in a magazine or movie.

The ranch foreman, Chester, mostly known as Chet, was brought on a few years ago and we don’t exactly get along.

He’s sitting by Dad, wearing his gray silverbelly cowboy hat that always looks a little crooked.

He’s pretty smart when it comes to cattle health, and he does great with the pairs on pasture.

So much so, Chet has a bit of a chip on his shoulder.

As for training horses, not so much. He doesn’t have the patience for it.

I still don’t understand why my dad hired him—he never even asked me if I wanted the job.

The men turn when Hooch and I get closer.

“Why is your hat always crooked?” I tease Chet.

He reaches up, adjusting it. “It is not.”

I smirk at the fact that he checked.

My father chuckles behind his thick beard. “Please be nice to the cowboys, we have a long day ahead of us.”

Chet holds his tongue, but the way his face flushes is priceless.

“Well, one of you holler at the boys. We got cattle to gather,” my father says.

Chet whistles and seven nearby cowboys heed his call, riding up on their own horses. With that, we all head up the mountain.

After about two hours, we reach the top. My father sends two cowboys and me down the north side—the closest side to the corrals—while he and two others take the south. Chet and one cowboy take the east, while Carson and another take the west.

Carson is my favorite of the cowboys. He’s in his mid-thirties with blonde shaggy hair and a scruffy face under a ragged old black Resistol cowboy hat.

He’s the best ranch hand we have. He can rope, train horses, fix about anything, and he’s tougher than nails.

I’ve seen him get kicked in the ribs, saddle the same horse and ride away on it like it never happened.

He’s quiet, reserved, maybe even a little grumpy, but he’s as loyal as they come—you definitely don’t want to mess with someone he cares about.

Carson has been on the ranch since I was eight and he’s more of a big brother than a ranch hand to me.

I know he sees me as a sister, too. He started teaching me to train horses when I was twelve.

He’s helped me ever since, including Hooch.

He really should be the foreman, not that Dad hasn’t offered him the job, but every time, Carson just says he likes his current position.

I’ll never understand it.

Everyone disperses in their assigned directions, but before I head down the mountain, I take a second to soak up the view.

It’s breathtaking. Each time I see it is like the first. I can see all of the main parts of the ranch, the stone house and big, old wood barn with white trim my great-grandparents built.

Just north of the old barn is the horse barn with an indoor arena Dad built for me.

To the west of the arena is the house my grandfather built—which I now live in—and southwest of it is the ranch foreman’s house.

Although it’s not where Chet lives, Dad made Carson take it when he turned down the foreman job the third time.

I smooch at Hooch and begin our descent down the mountain. Twenty minutes later, I spot a group of the yearlings.

I look at Rein and give her the cue, “Ssksskssk.”

She speeds through the trees, barking as she gets close, nipping at their heels, effectively pushing them into a group. A few rebels head to run up the mountain, but we’re quick to cut them off on our horses. They spin around, all of them now running in the right direction.

I call off the feral red hound.

She lays down, her tail wagging like, “Look what I did, Mom!”

I chuckle at her.

We locate more cattle after another fifteen minutes and direct them down the mountain.

Within about three hours, the trees start to clear, signaling we’re near the bottom.

Everything is going smoothly until I turn my head to the right to see a single yearling break off into a dead run back up the mountain.

I holler at the closest cowboy, “Open your eyes, your future isn’t that bright!”

He looks up in time to watch the steer run right by him.

“Stay with the herd!” I yell as I kick up Hooch and shake out a loop in my rope.

Rein is reliably at my side. We run back into the woods where I can see the black calf weaving between trees.

In my pursuit, I’m dodging branches. Everyone gave me hell for keeping Hooch, but riding a short horse means I don’t have to duck near as many branches.

I give Rein her command and she takes off like a bolt of lightning.

She heads off the steer in a small clearing.

The calf cuts back left, but not before I throw my loop.

It goes perfectly over its head as one front leg slips directly into it.

I pull the rope’s slack and wrap it around the saddle horn, dallying off.

I whistle, calling off Rein while Hooch pulls the calf back toward the herd. As soon as we exit the trees, I ride around the calf and un-dally. I give it a little push toward the herd now that it can see them.

By midafternoon, we get about thirty-five head of cattle back to the ranch and into the corral. The others are an hour or so behind. Except for Dad, he’ll be about five hours on that south side and I know that’s why he took it. He’s always watching out for me.

I was seven when my mom died. Since then, it’s just been me and Dad.

Growing up, he was my superhero, and I guess he still is.

It didn’t matter what function it was, my dad was there.

Whether dance recitals, tea parties, or ropings, he always made time to be there.

Half the time at school events it was him and thirty-five moms in the room, but it never seemed to bother him.

The two cowboys and I ride back to the barn to untack.

I put my saddle and bridle away and walk Hooch out to the wash rack to spray him down.

After tying him up, I grab a hoof pick and pick up each of his feet to clean them out, making sure no rocks are stuck.

I work my way around him, and when I get to the last foot, I notice the shoe is gone.

“Damn it, Hooch, you pulled a shoe,” I reprimand like he can talk back.

Thankfully, it came off clean. He didn’t break out any of the hoof wall, but I’ll still be calling the farrier.

I put him on the walker to cool down while I pick his stall. I give him some hay and top off his water bucket, then I do the same for Dad’s horse’s stall.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I dial the farrier. It rings until I get his voicemail, and I leave a message.

“Hey, Jack, it’s Kacey. Hooch lost a shoe today. I know it’s short notice, but I have a jackpot next weekend. If you can make it over before then, that would be great. Call me back when you get a chance. Thanks.”

As I put Hooch away for the day, I can see four cowboys in the distance with about thirty head in front of them. I relax when moments later, I see Dad accompanying the last thirty-five or so.

I’m latching the gate behind Hooch when my phone rings.

“Hey, Kacey, it’s Jack. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it out. A horse kicked me today and broke my shinbone.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that.”

This is not good. I not only need a shoe back on, but I have other horses that will need to be reset in a few weeks.

“Ah, it’ll buff. I’ll be back at it in six weeks.”

“Okay, well, get healed up. If you know any other farriers, please let me know.”

“Yep, I’m going to call around and see who I can get to fill in that doesn’t suck.”

I snort. There are a lot of farriers who suck. “Thanks, Jack. Take care of that leg.”

“I will. I’m going to the Fort Worth Stockyards with some buddies this weekend. I’ll have to crutch my ass around, but at least I won’t have to drive.”

“Well, have fun and stay out of trouble down there.”

“We will. Tell your old man hi.”

“I will. Bye, Jack.”

Click.

Fuck.

I might have to ask Carson to put on this shoe and he hates farrier work.