Painted in Wildflowers (The Darling Brothers #4)

Chapter 1

Remi

My boots leave imprints in the snow blanketing Darling Ranch as I walk the familiar path toward the petting farm. Even more flakes fall feather-light from the sky.

It’s the sort of morning where everything is crisp and calm, the sun not yet having risen, although a hint of pink is making itself known along the horizon. My breath puffs white in the cold air, but my hood keeps my ears warm, my gloved hands tucked in the pockets of my heavy-duty coat.

I wrench the door to the petting-farm barn open after unlocking the padlock, the air inside smelling strongly of goat and chickens.

There’s Snickerdoodle, as well, but the pony’s scent is masked underneath the others.

I give the lot a visual sweep before opening Snickerdoodle’s stall.

She kicks her head up in greeting, her tan-colored mane bouncing through the air.

“Morning,” I tell the pony, running a hand between her ears as I flick on the rest of the lights. The small barn illuminates, allowing me to give the residents a proper rundown. I count the chickens first and then the goats. All accounted for.

A tug at my sleeve has me huffing a small laugh. “You’re impatient.”

Snickerdoodle doesn’t refute it, merely trots over to her grain bowl, tail swishing behind her. I open the door to the feed room and grab a measuring scoop.

I don’t have to check the charts anymore.

I’ve been feeding these animals daily for so long it’s second nature.

I portion out the pony’s grain, adding the vitamins and other supplements she needs, before bringing the mix to her bowl.

The goats run back and forth in their large pen, jealous Snickerdoodle gets her breakfast first.

The golden-tan pony looks smug, per usual, as she sets in to eat.

I take care of the goats next. They’re Nubians, mostly brown in color with some black and white mixed in. Their ears hang long, horizontal pupils tracking me keenly as I head toward their pen with two large scoops in one hand.

I’m swarmed as I open the door, but no one tries to make an escape. Tiny hooves clamber over my boots and up my pant legs before the goats race for the long feeders at the back of their pen. An absolute menace. The lot of them.

With two outward swoops of my arms, I deposit the feed and back away.

While the goats are preoccupied with eating, I bring new hay into their pen, along with a sprinkle of alfalfa.

They get a little more of it in the wintertime, the higher protein content helping to keep them warm through the colder months.

Of course, their portions have to be balanced with what visitors feed the petting-farm animals during the day.

In the summer months, a lot of their diet comes from the hands of visiting kids.

Adults, too. We get fewer visitors in the winter, understandably so.

Most folks don’t want to be out in this weather any longer than necessary.

After refilling the goats’ water with a hose, I shut their pen back up.

Snickerdoodle is finishing her own breakfast as I fill her water bowl.

The chickens barely notice my existence.

They do, however, try to escape around my feet when I finally enter their pen.

I’m quick to close the door behind me, their wings ruffling and feathered heads bobbing as they zoom away.

My brother Lawson once equated them to dandelion fluff. It’s an apt descriptor considering the Silkies’ especially fluffy feathers that make their heads look like cotton balls. The breed is even-tempered, good to keep as pets. And they’re adorable on top of it.

I fill their feeders quickly before refreshing their water. I’ll come back through mid-morning to let everyone out of the barn and clean up. But for the time being, this group is set.

Exiting the chicken pen, I click my tongue. Snickerdoodle is far too curious of a pony to leave unsupervised inside the barn for any measure of time. Luckily, she knows exactly what’s expected of her and trudges ever so slowly back to her stall. I bring her hay and alfalfa with me.

“Won’t be long,” I assure her, running a hand along her neck. I can’t feel the fine hairs with my gloves on, but Snickerdoodle likes the attention. She cranes her head further to the side, demanding scratches I give easily.

Once the pony is satisfied, she heads toward her morning hay.

I latch her stall back up, knowing she and the others are happiest inside this early during these long winter months.

Once the weather starts to warm, I can let them out sooner in the day.

For now, I pull my hood tighter around my head and make for the door.

I leave the lights on as I shut the barn, not bothering with the padlock now that the farm is awake.

I’m only one of a couple dozen workers already into their day, although the majority of the ranchers here work with either the dairy or beef cattle.

I’m the odd man out, responsible for the petting-farm animals and horses, but I don’t mind that.

I like the freedom of being able to do my own thing. The only timeline I’m on is my own. So long as the animals are taken care of, I can come and go as I please.

The sun is breaking over the horizon as I turn away from the barn. I’m preparing to head to the stables when a figure in my line of sight causes a hiccup in my plans.

There’s someone inside the closed petting farm. Someone I recognize. Someone who’s been coming here a lot ever since returning to town a few months back.

Benson Harper.

He’s sitting on a bench, his hands tucked between his legs, a beanie covering his hair and ears but not concealing the beard that’s most definitely a new development.

He didn’t have that before. Not when I was a kid and he was the somewhat mysterious older brother of my best friend, an acquaintance I only saw once a year or so during the holidays.

And not in the years after, when I grew into an adult capable of recognizing the attraction I felt for a person I barely knew.

It’s still there. That attraction.

Worse, maybe.

Because Benson Harper had the audacity to age like fine barreled whiskey.

His face, with strong features and an often-serious expression, looks even more handsome coupled with a beard.

He’s a little stockier than he was in years past, giving him the appearance of a bear, far more alluring than the professional businessman I knew him to be.

Add in the hefty flannel coat and the man could pass as a lumberjack.

I hate how the mere sight of him makes my heart race as if I’m sixteen again and not twenty-nine, only weeks from my thirtieth birthday.

The man is hot. It’s not a crime.

Benson turns his head, catching sight of me standing near the barn. With a tiny sigh, I step his way, knowing there’s no avoiding the hello I’ve managed to dodge since his return to Darling, Montana.

I pull off a glove to click the on button for my CI as I walk, sound flooding in between one moment and the next. A bird is chirping nearby. Chickadee, based on the pattern.

Benson’s smile is tight as I bound the gate into the petting farm, his eyes returning to the east, where the sun is rising. “Morning.”

“You realize we’re not open yet?” I ask, taking a seat next to him on the bench.

His shoulders move in a small huff, his smile twitching ever so slightly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Everything okay?”

His eyes flick to me briefly before returning to the woods. “Fine.” He appears to clear his throat before asking, “How’ve you been?”

It’s my turn to huff. “Fine. Good. Why are you out here this early?”

Benson blows out a breath, his hands twisting between his legs. “Just…needed to get out of the house.”

He looks over when I chuckle. “Auggie or your mom?”

Benson’s mom, Louise, is my mother’s closest friend. It’s why Benson’s younger brother, August, is my closest friend. We grew up together, since the time we were infants. We were six when Benson moved out of Montana, eighteen himself.

These past few months, Benson has been staying at his childhood home again, much to Auggie’s frequent and inventive complaint.

The two don’t exactly get along, although I always got the impression it was more an Auggie thing than a Benson thing.

Regardless, my friend isn’t a fan of his brother’s new temporary living arrangement.

Although for how long temporary is, I’m unsure.

“Can I say both?” Benson replies.

I bark a laugh. “You can say whatever you want.”

“They’re…”

“A lot,” I fill in.

He looks relieved and guilty in equal measure. Auggie and Louise are explosive in entirely different ways. Louise is outgoing, a total mother hen to half the town, always in your business and always happy to be. Auggie keeps more to himself, but he’s never been quiet about his opinions. And Benson?

Well, I don’t know him all that well. But he’s…nothing like his family.

Benson says something I miss, the words low and his face turned away enough I can’t fill in the blanks.

“What was that?” I ask.

He turns more my way. “I’m grateful.”

It takes me a second to understand what he means. He’s grateful to be staying there while he’s back in town. The pinch in his expression and the way he’s staring forlornly at the sunrise tell another story entirely.

“Hey, Ben? You don’t need to be diplomatic with me. I’m not gonna report your words back to August.”

He meets my eye for a moment, his brown like caramel, the shade similar to the dark auburn of his hair. Another way in which he’s an outlier in his family. His mother and brother are both stark redheads.

His gaze shifts downward, landing somewhere near my shoulder. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful.”

“Is that why you’re back in Montana?” I ask, the question having been burning inside my head ever since he returned to Darling without any notice whatsoever. No one seems to know why he’s back, not even Auggie. Nor how long he’s staying.

Benson’s chest rises with his breath, his clasped fingers squeezing rhythmically as he seems to search for an answer. Finally, he says, “Something like that.”

Well, that’s descriptive.

I shrug, resisting the urge to shake the man just to see if some answers will fall out. “All right. Well, if you’re going to hide out at the ranch, you might as well help.”

Benson’s eyes whip to mine. “What?”

“I’m heading to the stables,” I tell him, standing. “Want to come?”

“Are you…putting me to work?”

“It’s not a requirement,” I answer, his furrowed brow making me chuckle. So serious. “It’s entirely up to you. If you’d rather sit here having a one-sided love affair with the sunrise, be my guest.”

His lips twitch, an almost-smile on his face. “It won’t be one-sided for long. Once it’s up, it’ll keep me warm.”

“Once it’s up?” I repeat, delighted.

His eyes widen as his gaze meets mine. He seems to run over his words. “The sun,” he stresses. “I meant the sun.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you enjoy your alone time with that big warm sun. I’ll be mucking horse stalls.”

Benson groans. “I feel like you’re purposefully misunderstanding me.”

“I absolutely am,” I agree, deciding not to call attention to the fact that Benson is following me toward the exit. I climb over the locked gate, the elder Harper brother on my heels. “Aren’t you glad you decided to run away and ended up here?”

Benson huffs an audible breath before pinching his fingers in a quick, ‘No,’ the casual signing making my pulse take off. Since I rarely ever see Benson, it’s easy to forget the man learned a good deal of ASL along with the rest of the Harpers when I was still young.

He probably forgot much of it over the years.

I clear my throat, pointing at the tiny smile gracing Benson’s face as we tromp through the ankle-high snow. “You don’t look sorry.”

“No,” he says simply. “Guess not.”

He smiles for real then, hands in his pockets and cheeks reddened from the cold, looking so damn beautiful my breath stutters.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.