Chapter Eight
Saturday starts quiet. The sun’s barely up, streaking orange over the pasture, and I can already smell the aroma of coffee brewing coming from the main house as I step out onto the little porch of the guest cabin.
These last few days have been productive. Once I made up my mind to stop resisting and start showing some real effort, training progressed quickly, and on Tuesday, Charli is taking me to a neighboring ranch to work with a couple of broncs.
I haven’t decided yet if I want to go saddle or not.
Charli agrees with Shawn and thinks I should train for saddle.
Although safer than bull riding, bareback bronc riding still uses rigging and relies on a rider’s raw power, whereas saddle is safer and more about the rider synchronizing his movements with the horse’s, requiring both strength and grace.
Both take athleticism. Both are fairly popular events.
Neither is as popular or thrilling as bull riding.
I scrub my hands over my beard and sigh.
Charli told me yesterday that I had the day off today.
“Go do something besides annoy me,” she said, that sharp little smirk tugging at her mouth.
I should’ve taken her advice. I could’ve slept in. Watched a baseball game. Streamed an action film. Hell, even found a pole and gone fishing. Anything other than wandering out to the barn before six, like I’m on autopilot.
I find Cabe already working through morning chores. He’s slinging hay bales like they’re light as a feather.
“Mornin’, superstar,” he calls when he spots me. “Thought Charli cut you loose today.”
“She did,” I answer.
He gives me a surprised look.
“Guess I’m not that good at sittin’ still.”
Cabe chuckles. “Yeah, me neither. Although I could use a few extra hours of sleep every now and then.”
“It must be hard. Having to be up at the crack of dawn every day and working until the sun’s down,” I muse.
He just shrugs. “It wasn’t always so taxing.
Our staff is low at the moment. The ranch has been experiencing some financial hardship the past few years, and Matty had to let people go, which meant Charli, Shelby, and I had to step up and cover the work.
But things are getting better now. Albert and Matty sold some acreage to a neighboring ranch, and she’s been using those funds to make some much-needed repairs, buy new equipment, construct the new boarding stalls, and build our breeding program.
All of which will start generating the income needed to begin hiring again. ”
“Then you’ll get a vacation, I hope.”
He scoffs. “I’d settle for a day off a week.”
That hits me in the gut. Maybe Charli’s right, and I am spoiled.
“Have the girls always worked the ranch?” I ask curiously.
“Pretty much. Before their mom passed, they were just kids, figuring out what they wanted in life. After, however, they had to grow up fairly quickly. Matty, in particular. Albert was a mess. An old-school rancher, lost in his own grief, who didn’t know what to do with four young girls.
He loved them more than anything, but was clueless how to raise them without Miriam. ”
“How old were they?” I ask.
“Matty was fifteen, Charli thirteen, Shelby ten, and Harleigh was just six.”
“Babies,” I mutter to myself.
“Yeah, Earl and Evelyn moved in and helped run the ranch for as long as they were able. Matty was in high school and planned to go away to college, but instead, she stuck around and helped with the other three girls. Shelby was a junior barrel racer. Matty made sure that she did get to go to college.”
“A barrel racer, huh?”
“Yep. A damn good one. She was even on the circuit, tearing things up, until things went south, and we needed her help back here on the ranch.”
Shit.
“And Charli?” I ask.
“Well, now Charli is the only one who was born to do exactly what she’s doing. Aunt Miriam was a horse woman. She just had a way with them. It was like she understood them in a way other humans don’t—or can’t.”
“Natural talent,” I state.
He nods. “Yeah. Charli has it too. Always has. She’s great with both riders and the horses. It’s like watching a dance. Her instincts and patience are impeccable.”
I snort. “Could have fooled me. She has the patience of a gnat where I’m concerned.”
He pauses in his work and looks at me. “Hmm, that’s true. Nothing usually flusters her, but you got under her skin from day one. Wonder why that is.”
I shrug. “No clue. I’m a fucking delight.”
He chuckles. “Anyway, Charli started working under Giles the minute she graduated high school,” he continues.
“Giles?”
“Yeah, he used to be our head trainer, but he left last year to start working with racehorses, and Charli took over. And Harleigh, who you haven’t met yet, is now in college, and she’ll be home for the summer later today.”
“I thought Matty said that she’d be another week?”
“I know, but Matty’s birthday is tomorrow, and her man has something extra special planned. He isn’t saying what exactly, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess. So, Harleigh is sneaking home for the big surprise.”
I grab a pitchfork from the rack. “Want some help?”
He looks at me and grins. “I won’t turn it down.”
Truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m idle.
Years of chasing eight seconds on the back of a bull doesn’t leave much room for rest. You live between adrenaline and exhaustion and fill the space in between with whiskey and women.
Being left to myself and my own thoughts feels uncomfortable.
We fall into a rhythm—him mucking out the stalls and me bedding them down with fresh hay. Every so often, I catch myself glancing toward the barn door, expecting to see her walk through.
Charli.
Sharp tongue. Sharp wit. Eyes as blue as the azure sky and legs as long as the Trinity River that runs by my place in Fort Worth.
I try not to make it obvious, but Cabe notices. He leans against one of the stall doors, smirking.
“You lookin’ for somebody?” he asks, voice teasing.
“Nope.” I toss a scoop of clean hay into the stall.
“Uh-huh.” He gives a short laugh. “Charli and Shelby took off for town this morning.”
That catches my attention. “Town?”
“Yep. They usually do supply runs on Saturday mornings. Grab breakfast and sometimes lunch, groceries, maybe hit the feed store.” He straightens his hat. “Just sayin’. If you were hopin’ to see her.”
“I wasn’t hopin’ for anything,” I say too fast.
Cabe grins. “Sure you weren’t.”
I grab another forkful of hay just to give my hands something to do. “She say when she’ll be back?”
“Nope. But if you’re feelin’ restless, I was headin’ that way after chores anyway. Gotta pick up some posts and wire at the hardware store.”
That perks me up a little. “Mind if I tag along? Need a few things for the cabin.”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “Passenger buys the coffee.”
“Deal.”
We finish out the morning side by side, the work going quicker with two sets of hands.
By the time we’re done, the sun’s high, the horses are fed, my shoulders are tight, and sweat trickles down my back.
I hose off by the well pump, run to the cabin to change shirts, and meet Cabe by his truck—a dusty old Ford that looks like it’s seen better days but still roars to life when he turns the key.
The road to town winds through open range, dipping in and out of the cottonwoods until a sign for downtown Wildhaven appears.
The town is small but bustling. Trucks and SUVs are parked all along Main Street.
Families walk the sidewalks. The scent of baked goods and coffee drifts through the air as patrons mosey in and out of storefronts.
“Welcome to Wildhaven,” Cabe says, sweeping a hand out the window. “Population: just enough, but not too many.”
I laugh. “Seems fitting.”
We roll past a feed store, a Western wear shop, general mercantile, pharmacy, a florist, and a tiny bookstore with a hand-painted sign. Then we turn into a narrow lot beside a building with a yellow awning that reads Ryse & Shine Café.
Cabe kills the engine and climbs out. “Best coffee and pie in Wyoming. The owner, Imma Jean, is a family friend. She’s a character. You’ll see.”
The moment we step inside, the smell hits—fresh-baked bread, apple, cinnamon, and strong coffee. The place is crowded but cozy, all wood floors and mismatched tables. There is a large L-shaped counter in the center with a glass pastry case to the left.
A woman behind the counter—with honey-colored hair piled on top of her head and big, kind eyes—clocks us as we enter, and her face lights up. This must be Imma Jean herself—slight, warm, and glowing like sunshine in her yellow apron.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite Trust boy!” she says, hurrying around the counter toward us with arms open. “Cabe, you’d better get over here and give me a hug.”
Cabe obeys, chuckling as she squeezes him tight. “Mornin’, Imma Jean.”
She swats his chest. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Blame Matty. She’s the one keeping me so busy,” he says before kissing her cheek.
Then her gaze lands on me, and her keen eyes assess me. “Oh my word. Who is this tall drink of coffee you’ve brought with you?”
“Imma Jean, this is Bryce Raintree,” Cabe says, clearly amused. “He’s stayin’ out at the ranch. Been workin’ with Charli.”
“Bryce Raintree?” she repeats, squinting like she’s trying to place me. Then her eyes widen, and she lets out a squeal that rattles the glass cases. “The Bryce Raintree?”
“Guilty,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, a little embarrassed. “But you can call me Ry.”
“Well, I’ll be.” She clasps her hands over her mouth. “I’ve seen you on television!”
Cabe grins. “Didn’t know you were such a rodeo fan, Imma Jean.”