Chapter 3
BLAINE
T he cavalry arrived on a Thursday.
I set down the pitchfork and walked outside, squinting in the morning sun.
"You look terrible," he said by way of greeting.
"Thanks. I've been up since five."
"In the morning?"
"That's when the horses expect breakfast. They're very demanding."
Tre emerged from his BMW, looking around with an expression of barely concealed horror.
Carlton Bailey III— Tre to everyone who knew him—was the opposite of Jake in almost every way.
Tall and lean where Jake was broad, flashy where Jake was understated, perpetually between projects and relationships and life plans.
He'd made his money in a crypto startup that he'd sold at exactly the right moment, and he'd been "figuring out his next move" ever since.
"There's dirt everywhere," Tre said.
"It's a ranch, Tre."
"I know it's a ranch. I just didn't expect so much... ranch."
Jake was already unloading bags from his car. "Ignore him. He'll adjust."
"I will not adjust. I will endure." Tre stepped carefully around a puddle, grimacing at his designer sneakers. "These are Balenciagas, Blaine. Balenciagas."
"Maybe don't wear thousand-dollar shoes to a horse farm."
"They were twelve hundred, actually, and I didn't pack farm shoes because I don't own farm shoes because I've never needed farm shoes because I've never been stupid enough to move to a farm."
"And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am." He spread his arms wide. "Because you're my best friend and you called me at midnight sounding like you were having a nervous breakdown and asked me to help you run a horse ranch even though I don't know anything about horses except that they're large and they smell."
I couldn't help but laugh. "I appreciate the sacrifice."
"You should. These shoes are ruined. Absolutely ruined."
Jake dropped a duffel bag at Tre's feet. "I brought you work boots. Size eleven, right?"
Tre stared at him. "You brought me work boots."
"Someone had to be practical."
"I hate you both." But he was smiling as he said it.
This was why I'd called them. Not because they knew anything about ranching—they didn't—but because they were my people.
We'd been through everything together: the startup grind, the failures, the successes, the weddings and breakups and late-night phone calls when life fell apart.
When I'd inherited a ranch I didn't know how to run, they were the first people I thought of.
Jake had quit his job within forty-eight hours of my call. "I've been looking for an excuse to leave," he'd said. "This is my excuse."
Tre had taken slightly more convincing, but not much. "I'm between things anyway," he'd admitted. "And honestly? This sounds insane. I'm in."
Mike, the fourth member of our group, couldn't leave his job—he was six months from making partner at his law firm—but he'd promised to come up every weekend. His fiancée Amanda had been surprisingly supportive. "It'll be good for him," she'd said. "He needs something that isn't billable hours."
Now Jake and Tre were here, standing in the dirt driveway of Sierra Sol, looking at me like they expected instructions.
For once, I actually had some to give.
"So," Jake said. "Where do we start?"
"I've got you set up in the guest cottages," I said, grabbing one of Jake's bags. "There are three of them behind the main house — nothing fancy, but each has a bedroom, bathroom, and a small kitchen. Hector's got the foreman's cabin closer to the barn."
"Our own places?" Tre looked impressed. "I was expecting bunk beds and a shared bathroom."
"Grandpa Earl built them years ago. Breeding season brings clients who like to stay close while their mares are here.
" I led them around the side of the house, where three small cottages sat in a row, each with a covered porch and a view of the pastures.
"Pick whichever two you want. The third is for Mike when he comes up on weekends. "
"This is nicer than my apartment in the city," Jake said.
"Don't get too comfortable. You're going to earn your keep."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
I gave them the tour.
I'd spent two weeks learning everything I could about Sierra Sol—from Hector, from the old records in Grandpa Earl's office, from late nights researching Quarter Horse breeding operations online.
Jake had done his homework too; he'd emailed me a twenty-page analysis of stud farm economics before he'd even packed his bags. That was Jake. Always prepared.
"I remember breeding season from when I was a kid," I told them as we walked toward the main barn. "February through June, Grandpa Earl used to say it was the craziest time of year. Mares coming in from all over California, Arizona, Nevada. We couldn't visit during those months—he was too busy."
"So you know the basics," Jake said.
"The basics, sure. Bits and pieces from summers here, things Grandpa told me. But the actual day-to-day operations?" I shook my head. "That's what I've been cramming for two weeks."
I showed them the main house—a rambling farmhouse with a wraparound porch—where I'd been staying. The equipment shed, full of machinery I was slowly learning to identify. The pastures, the paddocks, the fencing that needed repair.
We reached the barn, and I led them to Starlight Maiden's stall.
"Okay, this," I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice, "is the highlight of my two weeks."
Starlight Maiden stood in her stall, looking tired but content. And there, pressed against her side, was Sunrise—fluffy chestnut coat, impossibly long legs, those big curious eyes.
"Oh wow," Jake said softly. "She's beautiful."
"She almost didn't make it." I leaned against the stall door, watching the foal nuzzle her mother. "Breech birth. Two in the morning, Hector's pounding on my door, the mare's in distress—I had no idea what was happening. The vet showed up and basically saved her life."
"And you just watched?" Tre asked.
"No, actually." I couldn't help grinning.
"The vet—Dr. Miller—she made me help. And I'll be honest, when she stepped out of that truck, I thought someone was playing a joke on me.
This gorgeous woman with a ponytail and muddy boots, couldn't have been more than five-foot-four, and I'm thinking there's no way she's here to handle a horse emergency. "
"Uh oh," Tre said.
"She made me help. Told me where to put my hands, when to push.
And I'm trying to focus, but it's two in the morning and I'm covered in stuff I don't want to think about and this beautiful woman is giving me instructions and I'm terrified I'm going to screw it up.
" I shook my head. "Thankfully, she's a total pro.
Tiny little thing, but strong as any guy—handled that mare like it was nothing.
I've seen executives crumble under less pressure than she was dealing with, and she never even flinched. "
"But when Sunrise came out and took her first breath?" I shook my head. "I've closed billion-dollar deals that didn't feel that good."
Jake was studying me with that knowing look he got sometimes. "Dr. Miller, huh? Gorgeous, competent, handles pressure well..."
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"Is she cute?" Tre asked. "The vet?"
"She's competent," I said firmly. "She's professional. She saved this foal's life."
"So yes," Tre said to Jake. "She's cute."
"Go get a life!"
But I was smiling as I said it. And when Sunrise wobbled over to investigate us, poking her soft nose through the stall bars, I reached out to stroke her face.
"Hey, baby girl," I murmured. "These are my idiot friends. Don't judge me by the company I keep."
Sunrise snorted, which felt like agreement.
And then it was time to meet the crew.
Hector met us by the main barn, arms crossed, sizing up Jake and Tre with the same skeptical expression he'd given me on day one.
"More city boys," he said. It wasn't a question.
"My friends," I said. "They're here to help."
"Help." Hector's tone suggested he had doubts about what kind of help we'd actually provide.
"Jake's going to manage operations. Finances, scheduling, logistics. And Tre is going to..." I looked at Tre, who was still mourning his shoes. "Tre is going to help with the crew. Staffing. Morale."
"Morale," Hector repeated.
"I'm very good at morale," Tre said. "I once planned a corporate retreat that was featured in Forbes."
Hector stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away without another word.
"He seems fun," Tre said.
"Give him time. He's warming up to me."
"That was warm?"
"Compared to the first day? Absolutely."
Hector led us around to meet the rest of the crew. Miguel had been at Sierra Sol for fifteen years—a quiet, solid man in his forties who seemed to know everything about everything. Carl was newer, maybe six months, still learning the ropes. And then there was Danny.
Danny was young—early twenties, barely more than a kid. He had a nervous energy about him, couldn't quite meet my eyes when we shook hands. His grip was tentative, his smile shy.
"Nice to meet you," he mumbled, already stepping back.
"Danny's quiet around people," Hector said. "But put him with the young horses and he's a different person. Best hand I've got for training the yearlings. Animals trust him."
Danny ducked his head at the praise, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "I just like working with them," he said quietly. "The yearlings. They're still figuring things out, you know? Haven't learned to be scared yet."
There was something sweet about that. Something genuine.
"Come on," I said to Jake and Tre. "Time you met the real star of this operation."
The stud operation was the heart of Sierra Sol.
"Quarter Horses," I explained as we walked toward the stallion paddocks. "That's what Grandpa Earl specialized in. Bred for sprinting, cattle work, ranch work. Calm temperament, athletic build. The all-American horse."