Chapter Eleven
Sunday mornings on the ranch are supposed to be slow but rarely are lately.
I take one long inhale of the crisp morning air as I follow Matty outside after breakfast. The farrier’s truck is parked near the barn, tailgate down, tools laid out in a row, like he’s setting up an operating room.
Dixon Fisher stands with one boot propped on the bumper, clipboard tucked under his arm, hat pushed back just enough to show off the sharp cut of his jaw.
He’s got that easy, confident posture of a man who knows exactly where he belongs.
Late twenties, maybe early thirties. A little older than me. Closer to Matty’s age.
And handsome in that laid-back, easygoing cowboy way.
“Morning, ladies,” Dixon says, glancing up at us with a half smile as we make our way down the steps and across the driveway.
Matty nods. “Good morning, Dixon. I sure appreciate you coming out on a Sunday.”
Dixon smiles. “No problem,” he says, and then his smile flashes at me. “Good to see you, Shelby.”
His eyes linger for just a second too long, warm and assessing without being crude. Appreciative. I feel it anyway—a flicker low in my belly that catches me off guard. I shift my weight, crossing my arms loosely over my chest.
Matty cuts her eyes to me, arms folded, watching my reaction with thinly veiled amusement.
We help Dixon carry his gear to the holding pen, where Cabe already has one of the new boarded horses—a tall bay mare with nervous eyes and too much energy trapped under a shiny black coat. He talks calmly to her, voice low, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“One of the stallions has been limping a bit since he got here. He doesn’t seem to be in extreme pain, so I’m hoping it’s not a fracture or something more serious,” Matty explains as we walk.
“Limping could be a number of things,” Dixon says. “May just need a good cleaning and filing.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” she says.
I stand just outside the pen, watching him work, while Matty heads to the stables to bring out the stallion in question.
“So,” Dixon says casually as he takes the mare’s back leg between his knees, “you ever think about getting back on the circuit full-time?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats, glancing over his shoulder to meet my gaze. “That’s not a no.”
I shrug.
He grins. “I sure loved watching you compete in college. Talent like that’s rare.”
My cheeks warm despite myself. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who deserve the praise.”
I laugh—a soft sound, laced with disbelief. “You trying to flatter me, Fisher?”
His smile turns slow and unapologetic before his eyes drop back to where he’s removing the worn shoe. “Maybe a little.”
Matty snorts as she leads the large Belgian draft horse with the unbalanced gait into the loading chute. “All right, Romeo, I’m not paying you to hit on my sister.”
Dixon tips his hat at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
The next couple of hours are spent with me, Cabe, and Matty taking turns leading horses to the holding pen and returning them to the stall as Dixon trims, cleans, balances, and shoes each one.
Luckily, his suspicion was correct, and the draft horse was suffering due to overgrown hooves, resulting in abnormal balance and stressing his joints and ligaments, causing soreness.
“Thanks again, Dixon. You can invoice me for the hoof boots,” she says. “How long will he have to wear them?”
“We caught the issue early. He should be just fine in a month or so. I’ll come back in two weeks to have a look and reassess him.”
“That’d be great.”
He loads his instruments back into his truck. Tips his hat, and we wave as he drives off.
The dust hasn’t even settled before Matty’s on me.
“Well,” she drawls, hands on her hips, “if that wasn’t the most action I’ve seen you get in months.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”
“He was flirting,” she insists. “Hard.”
“He was being friendly.”
“Friendly doesn’t look at you like that.”
I shrug. “He’s just … nice.”
Matty smirks. “Nice ass.”
I glare at her. “Matty Storm, you just objectified your farrier. I’m appalled.”
She bumps my shoulder affectionately. “Nothing wrong with appreciating the male form. Besides, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind you objectifying him if you wanted to.”
I don’t respond. Because that’s the thing: I don’t know if I want to.
By the time I head into town later, the sky has softened into that pale Wyoming blue that makes everything feel wide open. These warm afternoons are going to be getting fewer and fewer soon, so I drive with the windows down, hair whipping around my face, country music low in the background.
Ryse & Shine Café comes into view, brick facade warm and familiar, big windows fogged slightly from the heat inside. I spot Daddy sitting at his usual table by the window, newspaper folded neatly beside a mug of coffee.
I smile without meaning to.
Ever since his heart attack, Sunday brunch here has become his quiet show of rebellion. Grandma Evelyn replaced his normal breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade pancakes to healthier fare last year.
Daddy thinks egg white omelets and low-fat yogurt count as torture and would rather take his chances.
I push open the door, bell jingling overhead.
“Shelby!” Imma Jean’s voice rings out from behind the counter.
She comes around, pulling me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and coffee. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun, flour dusting her apron.
“Hey, Imma Jean.”
“You eat yet?” she asks, already scanning me like she’s deciding whether I look too thin. She thinks everyone looks too thin.
“Yes, ma’am. I just stopped in to say hello to Daddy before heading to do a little shopping for Grandma.”
She squints. “You sure? Not even a cinnamon roll? I just took a fresh batch out of the oven. Icing them now.”
“All right. You twisted my arm.”
She beams as she grabs a carafe, and she follows me over to Daddy’s booth.
He looks up then, his face lighting up. “There’s my girl.”
I slide in the bench across from him and turn over the mug that’s sitting on the table. Imma Jean fills it.
“You being naughty again, I see.”
He grins, unapologetic. “Doctor says coffee’s good for the heart.”
I glance at his half-finished plate—sausage gravy and homemade biscuits. My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t feel the same about your food. Grandma either.”
He leans closer. “That woman took away my bacon. I had to do something.”
Imma Jean returns at this exact moment with a plate of cinnamon rolls.
He looks up at her. “Bless you.”
Her eyes soften, and she squeezes his shoulder before walking away.
He points his fork at me. “Not a word.”
I laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I glance toward the counter, where Imma Jean is watching him with a knowing smile, and I lower my voice as I say, “All of your secrets.” I grin back at him.
His ears turn pink.
“You know it’s okay if you were to, say, go on a date or something, right?” I ask.
“I’m a little long in the tooth for that,” he says.
“No, you’re not. There’s no such thing as too old to enjoy companionship, Daddy. Look at Grandma and Grandpa. I still catch them smooching in the kitchen all the time.”
He chuckles, and then his eyes flicker to Imma Jean. “When your mom passed away, I didn’t know how to move on. I didn’t want to. I was so blindsided by her loss. I was so heartbroken and trying to focus on you girls, and not doing a very good job of it. I just hit pause on life.”
“It’s been a lot of years.”
He shakes his head as his eyes come back to me. “I don’t regret the years I’ve spent looking after you four. Not a single minute. You girls were my biggest concern.”
I reach over and take his hand. “I know you don’t, but, Daddy, we’re all grown up now. I think it’s okay to un-pause and hit play again.”
“Maybe.”
I dig into the sticky iced buns as he changes the subject. We discuss the ranch—the new horses, the rodeo school, the plans that feel like they’re unfolding faster than any of us expected. Daddy’s eyes shine when he talks about it.
“The place is finally turning a corner,” he says. “Feels good.”
“You excited about the academy?” I ask.
He nods. “I am. Real excited. It’s gonna be good for everyone, which has me wondering …”
He doesn’t finish the thought, so I look up from my plate and raise a brow.
“Wondering what?”
“You thinking about competing again?” he asks gently.
I take a sip of coffee, considering the question. “I don’t know.”
He waits.
“Last year was amazing,” I admit. “Being back out there with Jupiter. Winning that purse. Proving I could do it felt good. It reminded me of who I was.”
“Who you were?”
I nod. “Who I used to be.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sure I want to live out of a trailer again.”
He smiles softly. “That’s all right too.”
“I love the sport,” I say. “But teaching … helping young girls find their confidence in a male-dominated rodeo arena? I don’t know. It feels right.”
His smile widens. “Bryce is going to love hearing that.”
My chest tightens. “You think so?”
“I know so. He was hoping you would stick around. Manage the girls’ event training for him. But Matty told him that if you wanted the opportunity to get back out there, she was going to support you a hundred percent.”
I blink fast, suddenly emotional.
Before I can say anything else, the bell over the door jingles again.
I turn just as Waylon steps inside, holding the hand of a little blonde-haired girl with pigtails and big blue eyes.
Imma Jean squeals, “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Ludlow!” She rushes over, pulling him into a hug before he can react. “And this must be Miss Ruby. Priscilla told me all about her little granddaughter.”
Waylon laughs, as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek.
Ruby peeks out from behind his leg, shy but curious and in the sweetest little voice asks Imma Jean about cookies.
A moment later, Imma Jean has her by the hand and is leading her to the pastry counter.
Waylon shakes his head as his eyes glance around the café. When they land on our booth, he smiles, and the dimples that made my heart race in high school appear. I sigh before I can stop myself, and Daddy’s eyebrows lift.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, taking a sip from his mug to hide a grin as Waylon heads our way.