Roaring Fork Roughstock (Roaring Fork Ranch #2)

7. Porter

7

PORTER

I woke just before seven, my body clock refusing to let me sleep later even though I’d only managed a few hours of rest. The bunkhouse was freezing—the ancient wood stove had gone out sometime during the night. I pulled on my boots and jacket, knowing there were more reports for me to review before starting the day’s work.

The records painted a grim picture. Years of thoughtful decisions were being undone by necessity and crisis. I understood why Cici had made the choices she had—when you’re drowning, you grab whatever lifeline you can reach. But selling off key bloodlines had created a genetic bottleneck that would take an equal amount of time to correct.

A knock at the door startled me. I hadn’t heard anyone approach, which was unusual, given the crunch of snow that normally gave away visitors. When I opened it, Cici stood there, wringing her gloved hands.

“Thought you might want breakfast,” she said, her tone free of inflection. “Up at the house.”

The invitation caught me off guard. In the three days I’d been here, I made an effort to respect Cici’s boundaries by keeping my distance from the main house unless it was absolutely necessary to stop in. “You sure?”

She nodded once. “The kitchen’s warm.”

I followed her across the yard, watching how she moved through the familiar space with unconscious grace. The morning light caught her dark hair, turning the loose strands to fire. I forced myself to look away.

The kitchen was indeed warm, and the smell of coffee and bacon wrapped around me like the memory of my own kitchen, back when my mom was still alive. She had the same copper pots Cici’s mom had. Like ours, theirs looked less polished now.

“Martinez found shell casings by the west fence last night,” she blurted, pouring coffee into two mugs.

My hand froze halfway to the cup. “What caliber?”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Should I be?” I kept my voice steady, not mentioning the sabotaged equipment I’d discovered or my suspicions about her parents’ accident.

She pushed a plate of eggs toward me. “A few days ago, someone left a note. ‘Sell or suffer.’” Her laugh was bitter. “Real creative, right?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I have?” Her eyes met mine, challenging. “You’re not exactly forthcoming yourself.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. The text was from the event organizers in Fort Worth, saying they needed stock for a competition in five days. It was a prestigious opportunity, one that could help rebuild Morris Ranch’s reputation. But the timing would take me away for longer than forty-eight hours. The trust’s requirements echoed in my head: no absences longer than that or my siblings and I would lose everything. More importantly, the ranch didn’t have stock ready for an event like this one.

“Bad news?” Cici asked when I set the phone down without responding.

“No, just…complicated.” I took a sip of coffee to buy time. “Speaking of complicated, we need to talk about RodeoHouston. The stock’s not ready yet.”

“Yet you pushed me to sign the contract anyway.”

“Because we can get them ready. But we’ll need help.” I thought of Matt Rice, whose family owned the Flying R Ranch in Crested Butte. His father had been supplying stock for major events since before I was born. Matt took over after his dad retired and had probably forgotten more about roughstocking than most contractors would ever know.

We’d partnered in several high-profile events in the last few years, and if asked, I knew he’d help. He owed me one after I’d stepped in at the last minute at the National Finals Rodeo two seasons ago, when his stock manager broke his leg. Even if he didn’t owe me, he’d do whatever he could anyway.

Having Thorn here was a huge help. Especially given he never seemed flustered by anything. The guy was the calmest, most easygoing I’d ever met. Which might also mean he buried whatever shit was in his life as deep as the rest of us did. Bullet and Stetson were assets too, which reminded me that later, I’d need to talk to Cici about him being here.

As far as other outside support, I knew Decker Ashford would set Morris Ranch up with a top-of-the-line security system. The man had revolutionized ranch protection after a series of high-profile livestock thefts hit the circuit. I’d heard he owned another company that did government-type work that was worth billions, but he’d never forgotten his ranching roots. One call, and he’d have a team out here within days, probably at no cost once he understood the situation.

The shell casings Martinez had found made the call to Ashford more urgent than ever. After breakfast, it would be one of the first things I’d do.

After I ticked that off the list, I’d call my brothers. Buck had extensive construction expertise, not to mention he was a former intelligence officer who’d worked for Ashford. Holt, who was typically somewhere in the world, touring with the band CB Rice, would step up too if he was around. The thought of my younger brother’s music made me smile; his songs had gotten me through some dark nights when the urge to drink nearly won.

“What are you thinking about?” Cici’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“My family.” The admission came easily, surprising me.

Her expression softened slightly. “Must be hard being away from them.”

I shrugged, not trusting myself to speak. The guilt of potentially costing them everything was what really weighed heavily.

“I know someone who could help with security upgrades—” I started.

“We can’t afford?—”

“Cost isn’t an issue.” The words came out before I could stop them.

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed and bored into mine. “Why are you really here, Porter?”

The secrets I kept pressed down hard on me—Maverick’s accident, the trust requirements, my suspicions about the sabotage. I thought about telling her everything, but the memory of her brother’s haunted eyes that night stopped me. “I’m where I want to be.”

The moment stretched between us, filled with things I couldn’t say. Then Maverick’s uneven steps sounded on the stairs, followed by the unmistakable smell of whiskey. When he appeared in the doorway, his eyes were bloodshot, his movements unsteady.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, surprisingly gentle despite his obvious intoxication. There was something in the way he looked at me—not with hatred or anger, more like confusion, maybe even gratitude. It made the guilt churn harder in my stomach.

“Mav,” Cici’s voice was sharp with worry. “It’s not even ten in the morning.”

“Don’t start.” He grabbed the counter for balance. “Not today, okay?”

I stood slowly. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” Maverick said, his words slurring. “Looks like Ceec made breakfast.”

Something in his tone made my chest ache. Here was a kid, fighting demons he couldn’t even remember. I’d promised him that night, when he was barely conscious and begging me not to tell his sister, that I’d protect him. And I would keep that promise, no matter the cost to me. Still, watching him struggle now was painful to witness.

I wanted to tell him about that night, about his desperate plea that I still honored. About how none of this was my burden to bear, but I chose to carry it because he’d asked me to. Because, sometimes, protecting people meant making hard choices.

“Another time,” I said quietly. “Thanks for breakfast, Cici,” I added, even though I hadn’t eaten more than a couple of bites.

I heard them arguing as I left—Cici’s worried tone, Maverick’s defensive responses. Their voices followed me across the yard, reminding me of all the ways I’d failed my own family.

When I went inside, ranch work waited on the bunkhouse table that had become my temporary desk, but I couldn’t focus on it. Instead, I found myself thinking about the similarities between Maverick’s struggle and my own battle with alcohol. I knew the signs and recognized the desperation in his eyes. Part of me wanted to reach out, to tell him about my own journey to sobriety, about how Kaleb had helped me through those first brutal days. How he’d helped me just last night.

But I wasn’t his friend or his mentor. I was the man keeping his secret, the man his sister blamed because that was exactly what I’d agreed to let happen. Any attempt to help would only complicate an already impossible situation.

Still, watching him spiral hit too close to home. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Kaleb’s number for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. My friend and AA sponsor, and the only other person who knew what really happened that night, might be able to find a way to get through to Maverick.

But no, that would be another deception, another manipulation. First, the kid needed to acknowledge his problem and want to do something about it. No one could force him into it.

I tried to focus on the papers strewn about on my table, but my mind kept drifting back to Maverick. The trust requirements meant I had to stay here and watch him struggle. But maybe that was the real challenge—not the year of confinement.

I stood near the window, but the morning sun did nothing to warm the cold certainty in my gut when I thought about the mounting evidence that someone was willing to kill to get what they wanted.

I returned to the table and opened my laptop, determined to lose myself in work. The roughstock program needed an overhaul, the security systems needed upgrading, and the equipment needed repairs. These were problems I could solve, unlike so many other things in my life.

But first, I had to figure out how to handle the event request. Three days away would violate the trust’s requirements, potentially costing my family everything. Yet, turning it down might cost Morris Ranch a crucial opportunity for redemption. Then again, we weren’t ready.

Another knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. This time, when I opened it, Cici stood there holding a big basket wrapped in a towel.

“Peace offering,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let things get heated earlier.”

“Let me get that for you,” I offered, stepping back to let her in.

I set the basket on a chair, then grabbed the mess of papers on the table. While I took them into the bedroom, Cici unpacked what she’d brought.

When I returned, steam rose from two cups of coffee she’d poured, and the smell of homemade biscuits and bacon filled the small space.

“Tell me about the Roaring Fork,” she said as we dug into the food she brought. “What were you building there?”

The question surprised me. “A well-rounded roughstock program, focusing mainly on bucking bulls with specific traits—more athlete than outlaw.” I took a sip of coffee, remembering my pride in what we’d accomplished. “We’d just started seeing results when…” I trailed off, not wanting to mention either the accident or the trust that had brought me here.

“Dad talked about your program sometimes.” She broke a biscuit in half, studying it rather than looking at me. “He admired what you were doing. Said you understood bloodlines in a way most people didn’t.”

“He taught me most of what I know.” The admission came easily. “Everything else I learned, trying to live up to his standards.”

“Why did you give it up?” Her eyes met mine. “Why come here when you have something of your own?”

I set my coffee down, weighing how much to tell her and taking a deep breath before I spoke. “Cici, I made a promise to your father. If anything ever happened to him, I’d make sure his family was taken care of.”

“You what?”

“It was the last time I saw him. He was worried about something, though he wouldn’t say what. Made me swear I’d look out for you, your mom, and Maverick.” I swallowed hard. “I never thought…”

Cici’s hands trembled, and she set down her coffee. “I was at school at Western State when it happened,” she said softly. “I got a call in the middle of the night. By the time I made it home…” She shook her head. “Dad was always so careful about road conditions, especially with Mom in the car. He’d cancel major meetings if the weather was bad enough. It never made sense that they’d go out in a storm like that. Nothing was worth that kind of risk to him.”

Her words stirred something in me. Hank Morris, who’d built his reputation on careful, calculated decisions, inexplicably took a fatal risk.

“Porter?” Cici’s voice pulled me back. “You went somewhere just now.”

“Just thinking.” I couldn’t tell her my suspicions yet, not without proof. “Your dad was a smart man. He must have had a reason.”

“You know what’s strange?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Their accident happened almost exactly where Mav’s did. Same curve, same guardrail.” She noticed my reaction and misread it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t say that to make you feel?—”

The rest of her words faded as blood rushed in my ears. Same curve. Same guardrail. The pieces started shifting in my mind, forming a picture I didn’t want to see.

A loud crack from outside made us both jump. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of movement by the equipment barn.

“Stay here,” I said, reaching for my coat and gun.

But Cici was already on her feet. “Like hell, I will.”

I grabbed her arm as another crack split the air—this one unmistakably from a firearm.

“Mav!” she gasped, face going pale. “He was heading to check the back pasture.”

The horror in her voice mirrored what I felt as we both raced out of the bunkhouse.