Chapter 1
One
Tabitha
The road unwinds in front of me as I leave Boulder behind.
I’m a Colorado native, and I’ve made this trip many times, but each time I’m amazed at the splendor of it.
The world seems to shift the farther west I go.
Back in Boulder, everything’s neat and green. Cyclists in packs, electric vehicles driving past organic grocers and yoga studios. The gorgeous Flatirons watching over the town.
But out here…
It’s…wilder somehow.
The foothills give way to the majestic Rockies, and after that the sky opens wider. The air feels cleaner.
I pass through tiny towns. Silos, grain elevators, a few stray cattle grazing. A diner’s neon sign flashes, except it says iner because the D is burned out.
The Rockies shift too. They’re less pine covered, more jagged and exposed. The red and terra-cotta rocks hide figures and faces.
And then the light.
It’s different here. Thinner and sharper. I roll down the window, let the air hit my face. It smells like pine and dust and wildflowers. Nothing like Boulder’s patchouli-scented breeze.
I pass a rusted-out truck half buried in a field and a small herd of black cattle near a split-rail fence. No yoga pants or cold brew in sight.
It’s humbling.
Every time I come out this way, I feel like I’m stepping into another version of Colorado. Remnants of the old west. Of the gold rush. It’s different. More real.
And even though I’ve seen it before, it still catches in my throat.
Like the first time.
Every time.
Especially since I’m headed into the largest ranch in Colorado, Steel Acres.
You don’t forget a place like that. Not after the first time. Probably not after the tenth, either, though I’ve only been here once before. The land just keeps going. It’s not just big. It’s staggering.
I turn onto a narrow road framed by a wooden arch that reads Steel Acres Ranch in wrought-iron letters. Dust kicks up behind my car. The cattle guard rattles under my tires as I cross it, and then it’s just the land.
Fields stretch out in every direction, lush in some spots, dry and sun-cracked in others. Fences run across the hillsides, and I spot a few cattle grazing near a line of cottonwoods. A hawk circles in the distance.
Everything feels slower out here.
I’m not an envious person by nature, but in this moment, I covet Angie Simpson, my bestie at medical school.
She grew up in this ethereal place, away from the hustle and bustle of the big city.
I grew up in a suburb of Denver, in a suburban house with a suburban middle-class family.
I had a grassy yard with a swing set when I was younger, a volleyball net when I was older.
My own room in a midsize two-story home, and a dog and a cat.
The quintessential American family life.
Nice.
No complaints.
My parents stayed married, and my older sister, Samantha, and I fought like siblings do.
Basic normal.
But this?
Angie and her three siblings, along with myriad cousins, grew up in the most amazing place on earth.
I pass a row of outbuildings—barns, grain silos, a bunkhouse. A ranch hand rides horseback, guiding a few strays toward a far gate. A truck loaded with fencing supplies pulls off toward one of the pastures.
The main house appears, perched on a rise like it’s watching over the entirety of the property. It’s not ostentatious—at least not in the Boulder sense—but it’s commanding. Big wraparound porch, stone chimney, rust ceramic shingles. It’s gorgeous and huge.
That’s not where I’m going, though. Angie Simpson’s aunt and uncle live in the main ranch house.
I’m going to another huge-ass house several miles west, where Bryce and Marjorie Simpson live.
Where Angie grew up…along with her three siblings, Sage, David, and Henry.
My breath catches.
Henry.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Henry Simpson. I’m a sucker for blond men. I’m also a sucker for gorgeous and muscled men.
Henry Simpson fits all those bills.
I spent some time at the ranch after everything that went down with Angie and her fiancé, Dr. Jason Lansing. But I didn’t get to spend much time with Henry.
He was a little distant after…
Who can blame him, though?
He’d just killed a man.
In defense of Angie, Jason, and me, of course.
We were all wrecks afterward, and the fresh air of the ranch was just what the doctor ordered.
I’ve been through a few months of therapy since then, and Angie and I were both able to complete our first year of medical school.
Jason got a life-changing surgery that gave him back the use of his hand, so he’s no longer a professor at the medical school.
He’s once again a full-time surgeon, about to marry into the Steel family.
Now I’m headed to the ranch.
For the wedding.
Angie didn’t have to ask me to be a bridesmaid. She has a twin sister—her maid of honor, of course—and two cousins she’s really close to. Then there’s Dave’s wife, Maddie, who Angie grew up with. That’s already four attendants.
But she asked me anyway.
Her new bestie.
I’m truly honored.
And a little apprehensive, to be honest. I’ll be the only non-Steel in the lineup. Jason asked Henry to be his best man, and he’ll be the only groomsman. I’ll quite literally be the only person standing at the altar without a multimillion-dollar trust fund to my name.
Besides Jason, I guess. Until he signs on the dotted line.
I ease the car to a stop at the Simpson house, which is just as gorgeous and luxurious as the main house and kill the engine. The silence that follows is full—birds, wind, the distant low of a cow. My phone buzzes once before I switch it to silent and slide it into my purse.
I take a deep breath and step out, my boots hitting gravel. Yes, I bought some cowboy boots, even though it’s the end of July and too hot for them.
They fit the vibe of the ranch, and I won’t lie, I look damned good in them.
The sun warms my skin. It feels so much warmer here than in the foothills. I spread my arms around me and take it all in. I even do a Julie Andrews twirl.
And then my heart kicks against my ribs and I stop dead in my tracks.
Because standing outside the front door on the wraparound porch is none other than Henry Simpson.