Back in the Saddle (Cottonwood Creek #2)

Chapter 1

Quinnie the Pooh

Quinn

Ihave no apartment, no man, and now no job. My thirties are going great.

None of this had been part of my meticulously thought-out life plan. Weren't people in their thirties supposed to have it all together? Especially the ones who spent their twenties grinding to hit every goal they set?

Evidently not.

My heels wobble precariously on the uneven gravel of Dawson Ranch as the sun settles low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and purple. I inhale, taking in the scent of damp earth and manure.

When my brother Wes and I came down in the summers, I'd always complained about the smell the second we stepped out of the car.

Pops would just chuckle and say, “Smells like money to me.”

The thought that I might never hear that chuckle again makes my eyes burn.

He’s still in a hospital bed two towns over, fresh out of emergency heart surgery after a second heart attack.

Mom and Dad rushed to his side, and Wes called me, his voice frayed around the edges.

He pulled through the surgery but still has a long recovery ahead.

My boss' protests hadn't stopped me from packing my bags and hauling ass here as soon as I could. I suppose he’s my former boss now—kind of like he’s my former boyfriend.

The job didn’t matter anymore and neither did he.

Wes needed me, and I needed to be here—doing something, being useful—instead of pacing my apartment, waiting to hear how things turned out.

Spring is the busiest time on the ranch—calves hitting the ground, the feeder herd needing to put weight on after winter. Snow might still sneak in over the next month or two, but the work won’t wait.

My exhale is shaky as my gaze flicks to two figures riding toward the white farmhouse—a couple of cowboys who might be surprised to find me here. I didn’t tell Wes I was coming; he’d have told me he didn’t need my help. But I’d heard the tremor in his voice over the phone, the exhaustion.

I had every right to be here. Pops is my grandfather too.

“Quinn?” Wes calls from the horse. “What are you doing here?”

Wes has been pulling himself in too many directions between the new house build, helping his fiancée Sawyer with horse training when needed, and keeping the ranch running.

He was spreading himself too thin. Pops has been in the hospital for three days and from the look of Wes, he hasn’t slept at all.

He swings down from his striking black gelding, the horse nudging against his hand as he strokes its neck.

“I came to help,” I say.

“Quinnie the Pooh!” Tripp hollers as he dismounts. His face splits into a grin that has his dimples denting his cheeks. He wastes no time, dragging me into a hug that knocks that breath out of me.

Whenever I saw him, it was like no time had passed at all. We always picked up right where we’d left off. I hadn’t been called that childhood nickname in ages—one that Tripp had coined when I was five years old because of the stuffed bear I used to carry with me everywhere.

My smile widens, and I melt into the steady strength that has always been Tripp. God, I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed a hug like this one—solid and comfortable.

He feels like home.

I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to soak up every ounce of his warmth.

“Pretty sure I’ve outgrown that nickname,” I say, inhaling the scent of sweat and leather and cattle. My nose wrinkles. The cow smell will take some getting used to, but if Wes could do it, then so could I.

“Never. You’ll always be Quinnie to me,” he says as he breaks into a boyish grin.

At fifteen, that smile never failed to make my heart race. Most girls in Cottonwood Creek had a crush on Tripp Matthews, but mine had been hopeless—he was my brother’s best friend. And I could never quite hold his attention.

His blond hair still falls past his ears, perfectly mussed under his Stetson after a full day in the saddle, five o’clock shadow throwing his jawline into relief.

His shoulders are broad, his stomach flat under his tightly-fitted T-shirt, and those kind brown eyes crinkle in the corners with that damn dangerous smile.

His enthusiasm is contagious, and I can’t help smiling back. “Stubborn ass.”

“Alright, alright,” Wes grumbles, staring daggers where Tripp’s fingers are wrapped around my waist. “Hands off my sister. I haven't even gotten to hug her yet.”

Tripp laughs and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. He squeezes me once more before stepping away, taking all his warmth with him. I shiver, and Wes pulls me into a bone-crushing hug.

“Thanks for coming,” he says tearily. “Christ, I’m glad you’re here.

Rushing Pops to the hospital was—” he cuts himself off and I rest my head on his shoulder, holding him tightly.

His shoulders finally sag, and he squeezes me once more before letting me go.

I give him a sad smile as he rubs the tears from his cheeks with his work gloves.

“You need some help with your bags?” he asks.

“That would be amazing. Thanks.”

I pop my trunk, and he glances inside before side-eyeing me. “How long are you planning on staying, Quinn?”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “As long as I’m needed.”

Wes heaves one suitcase after another out of my trunk, grunting. “Did you put bricks in this thing?”

“Of course not. It's just my clothes. And shoes. And cosmetics.”

He mutters something about me going overboard before he calls out to his best friend, “Tripp, help me take these upstairs, would ya?”

“Sure thing, Boss Man.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“No can do.”

Wes sighs heavenward, lugging two suitcases up the porch steps.

Tripp grabs the other two bags, smirking at me. “Did you bring your whole apartment?”

“No,” I shoot back, a little too defensively.

It wasn’t everything, but it wasn’t light packing either.

I didn’t exactly have a place of my own to leave things behind since my ex kept the apartment we’d shared.

Crashing with my best friend Marlowe and her wife while I searched for a new place made it easy to fill my car like I was staying for months.

The thought of being here that long doesn’t seem so bad.

Feeling like a third wheel in an apartment that would never feel like mine was getting old.

I was thirty-two, one of the best veterinarians in my specialty in the tri-state area. On paper, I had everything I’d worked for. In reality, it all felt a little hollow.

“How’s he doing?” I nod toward the house, changing the subject.

“Stressing. You know how he gets.” Tripp rolls his eyes.

I swallow down the lump forming in my throat, unsure if I want the answer, but I ask anyway. “How’s Pops?”

His lips press together before he finally says, “Weaker than last time but stable. One of us can take you to see him tomorrow during visiting hours.”

I nod and follow him into the farmhouse, trailing him up the narrow staircase. I try—and fail—not to stare at his jean-clad ass.

Tripp Matthews is a different kind of man than I’m used to. Dust clings to his jeans; his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, tattoos wrapping both forearms. Thick cords of muscle flex as he carries my bags, veins standing out with the effort.

The years have been good to Tripp.

When I reach my old room, Wes is setting some fresh sheets on the bed. “I didn’t know you were coming, so the bed isn’t made, and it’s a little bit of a mess in here.”

Boxes clutter the floor, but otherwise it looks exactly as I left it twelve years ago—peach curtains, a shelf of horse figurines, even the faded poster of the kitten clinging to a branch with the words hang in there printed across it.

It smells like dust and mildew, but it’s nothing I can’t fix. I add it to the mental checklist of things I need to get done.

“It’s perfect. Thanks, Wes.”

“I need to run and grab clothes from Sawyer’s, but if you want me to come stay tonight so you’re not alone here, I can.”

I laugh lightly. “Nah. I stay by myself all the time, Wes. I don’t need a babysitter.”

He shrugs. “Call if you need anything. We’ll see Pops tomorrow. Right now, I desperately need a shower.”

I give him a once-over, noting the splotches of mud decorating his shirt for the first time. At least, I hope that’s mud. I wrinkle my nose and glance down at my nice blouse, swiping at what might be imaginary spots.

“What happened to you?” I ask, noting that only Wes is covered in mud.

Tripp laughs. “One of the mamas got pissed off when he tried to tag her calf. Nearly trampled him.”

Wes skewers him with a dark look. “You were supposed to keep her distracted.”

He shrugs. “I did what I could.”

“Whatever,” Wes grumbles.

“You two are like an old married couple,” I say, my lips twitching in amusement.

They both snort.

“On that note, I’m out of here. Let me know if you need any help getting settled.” Wes squeezes my shoulder and then bounds down the stairs and out the door, hinges screaming behind him.

I look around the tiny room once more, cataloguing what I need to get done tonight to make the space more habitable, adding even more to my mental to-do list as I spot the mess in the closet. Unpacking will have to wait.

“Did you eat supper yet?” Tripp asks from the doorway.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“Come on. I’ll take ya to the diner. You need something in your belly if you’re gonna tackle this room tonight.”

“I don’t know if I can eat,” I admit.

Tripp throws an arm around my shoulder, warm and solid. “Pops is gonna be alright.”

God, I hope he’s right. But if I keep dwelling on it, I’ll spiral. Better to grab onto something lighter. I huff out a beleaguered sigh. “Do they still have those cheese curds?”

His dimples pop with a grin. “Still the best thing on their menu.”

“Alright, I’m in.”