Chapter 18
maverick
“Who’s that?” I ask when I see a stranger walk beside Earl and Tomas.
“Wes Boone. Just hired him. Had to, ya know.”
“Never seen him before.”
“He’s from Aspen, thereabouts. Comes highly recommended. Tate Pryor said he worked for a friend of his who had to sell when his cattle got Mad Cow.”
The Pryor family runs one of the biggest feed businesses in Colorado, and Tate knows everyone worth knowing when it comes to cattle, horses, and ranching. If he says someone’s solid, I’d believe him.
“He workin’ out?”
She shrugs as she opens the passenger door of my truck. “He’s been here a couple of days. Earl hasn’t kicked his ass, so far, and Tomas says he pulls his weight, so…it’s lookin’ promising.”
We drive in silence for a while. I guess we’re both deep in thought. Well, I’m thinking about her.
I like having her in my truck, and I’m hoping that it goes better this time than it did the last, when I was an asshole of the worst kind.
“It’s been years since I went to the Canyon Heritage Sale,” she says, almost dreamily as she looks out of the window. “Those days, we could sell our cattle there.”
Longhorn used to have a reputation as a destination for serious players who attend the Canyon Heritage Sale. The auctions here aren’t the kind with folding chairs and burnt coffee. This sale is one of Wildflower Canyon’s most anticipated events.
High-end. Legacy-level cattle only. No culls or second-rate stock here.
What will be paraded through the ring today are prime breeding bulls, foundation heifers, show steers, and even a few pairs—all with top-tier genetics, clean lines, calm eyes, and documentation thicker than most ranchers’ tax returns.
Ranchers in pressed Wranglers and branded ball caps will nod at each other across pens, and breeding bulls get evaluated like stallions.
People come here from four states over for a chance to improve their herds, or to sell to the kind of buyer who knows a good animal when they see one, which is why the sale barn usually smells both of manure and money.
“Maybe someday I’ll be able to get us back to it.” There’s a touch of wistfulness and a whole lot of ambition in her voice.
I want to tell her that it may not happen. Most probably won’t!
She keeps talking about legacy, but I’ve seen ranchers lose their hats, regardless of how many of their ancestors walked the land.
I also don’t have confidence in her. She isn’t a real rancher. She hasn’t lived this life for a decade. This is hard fucking work and requires a mindset that is unique to those of us who live and breathe cattle and farm every day.
So, she managed a dainty little vineyard, that ain’t the same thing.
But I’ve already decided to help her lose this battle with as much grace as possible. Then I’ll take the ranch off her hands and make it bigger and better.
I think she’ll appreciate that.
At least I hope she will because it’s happening whether she likes it or not.
By the time we get to the venue, an open-air sale barn built up near the base of Grady Ridge, it’s early afternoon, and the sun is out, sharp and strong as it helps spring claw its way out of winter.
“The smell of livestock, hay, and kettle corn.” Aria smiles as she looks around. “It’s so familiar and yet…so foreign.”
For a woman who appears to be closed and has walls ten feet tall, she seems to blurt out some truths about how she feels to me. I wonder if it’s me that evokes this in her, or if she's like this with everyone.
Trailers, tents, and crowds welcome us.
There are tiered wooden bleachers flanking a well-swept dirt ring, with flags flying overhead and a small announcer’s booth that’s already barking out lot numbers over a crackling PA system.
The sale ring’s freshly chalked, and the handlers lead animals in one by one while spotters scan the crowd for bids.
I walk with Aria up to Duke and Elena. They’re showing three bulls and two bred heifers from Wilder Ranch—lineage going back to a National Western grand champion on one side and a proven calving-ease bull on the other.
“How you doin’, Wildflower?” I gently kiss Elena’s cheek.
Duke gives me a warning look, which I ignore. It’s a game we play. I show him how familiar I am with his wife, and he tells me to keep my hands and lips to myself.
Duke and Elena greet Aria—I can foresee these two women getting along. They’re similar in some ways and absolutely different in others.
Elena is salt of the earth and wouldn’t know a chardonnay from a sauvignon blanc. Elena is more skilled than Aria, since she’s been working on a ranch all her life.
But they have the same protective walls, the same combination of vulnerability and strength, and equally big chips on their shoulders. Elena has been losing hers since she and Duke got married, but Aria still carries a big one that comes from being the exiled child.
Aria looks over Elena’s shoulder at the catalog. “What are you showin’?”
Elena brightens. “A pair of bred heifers and three bulls. One of them is out of Smoke Jumper.”
“The one that placed second at the National Western?” Aria’s eyes widen.
Elena arches an eyebrow. “Thought you lived in California?”
Aria looks sheepish. “Well, I read the livestock news…aggressively.”
Elena chuckles, clearly pleased with Aria. “He’s throwing good bone and calm eyes. Solid conformation.”
“That’s what you want when you’re building bloodlines,” Aria muses.
I’m impressed with Aria. I didn’t expect her to know quite so much or be so engaged. She might not have been in Longhorn for a decade, but she remembers the rhythm.
We find seats on the bleachers for the auction.
Aria’s excited—kid in a candy store excited. Didn’t expect that either.
The energy in the ring sharpens as a Wilder bull enters with Hunt holding its lead. A handler from the auction program flanks the other side.
The animal moves elegantly—dark red hide, thick-necked, wide-backed, muscles stacked clean down to the hock. You don’t need a pedigree chart when the genetics walk in looking like that.
“That’s Lot 24,” Elena murmurs for Aria’s benefit. “Bull calf, fifteen months, sired by Smoke Jumper and out of a proven dam from Cascade Creek Ranch.”
Bids fly fast and hot, like a dry lightning storm.
The auctioneer’s voice rattles through the speakers in that rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. “Five thousand—five-five, can I get six, six, now six-five, lookin’ for seven—yes sir, seven in the back—seven—five, seven-five, who’s got eight?”
A tall man in a dark felt hat—Wyoming brand on his coat—jerks his chin up from the second tier of the bleachers.
The auctioneer nods. “Eight thousand! That’s eight in the second row. Can I get eight five?”
A woman from New Mexico’s Landera Creek Ranch, wearing turquoise earrings and boots polished like glass, lifts her bidder’s card with two fingers.
The auctioneer’s tone rises—each number a hammer strike, building tension. “Eight five! Now nine! Nine in the back! Who’s got nine five?”
The crowd tightens around the edges of the ring. Eyes narrow. Some folks nod at the bull like they’re blessing it.
Others just want to see blood.
This bull isn’t just meat and muscle—it’s pedigree, promise, potential. This is the type of animal that redefines herds and starts legacies.
“Ten thousand! I got ten on the rail—lookin’ for ten five!”
I raise my hand once.
The spotters call it in with a whistle and a finger snap.
The auctioneer doesn’t miss a beat. “Ten five from Kincaid Farms! Do I hear eleven? Eleven thousand!”
Wyoming man’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t move. New Mexico lady hesitates just long enough for me to know she’s out of rope.
“Goin’ once….”
The auctioneer pauses. The crowd stills.
“Goin’ twice….”
He lifts the gavel. “No more?” He scans the crowd, just in case.
The gavel drops with a satisfying crack.
“Sold! Ten-five to Maverick Kincaid.”
There’s a light smattering of applause. It’s not for me but for the bull. For good breeding and a clean sale.
I nod once at the ring and catch Hunt’s eye. He tips his hat.
I turn and see Elena grinning.
Aria shifts beside me, her eyes on the ring. “That’s a hell of a bull.”
“Wildflower,” I say under my breath. “I’ll need the semen rights.”
Elena smirks. “You always do.”
“I’ll give it to you if you stop calling my wife Wildflower,” Duke interjects.
“No, you won’t.” Elena slaps his arm playfully. “Mav, we’ll negotiate, yeah?”
“Not gonna stop calling’ her what I’ve always called her.” I lean back and put my arms on the empty seat behind me on the bleachers. “So, yeah, Wildflower, we’ll negotiate.”
Aria looks from Elena to me and then back.
She’s wondering if there’s something between Elena and me. Probably cementing the idea in her head that I’m a manwhore.
I brush my lips against her ears and murmur, “She’s just a friend.”
She glares at me. “And why do you think I care?”
“I know my cattle and my women,” I say, knowing it’ll just inflame her, and it does. She hisses but doesn’t cause a scene.
I’m enjoying myself, perverse son of a bitch that I am.
After I buy another steer and Wilder Ranch finishes selling theirs, we head to the food tent, where smoked brisket, potato salad, and baked beans have been simmering in cast-iron pots since sunrise.
Elena and Aria take a seat while Duke and I head to the bar.
By the time we have enough food to feed an army on our table and beer for everyone, a country band starts to tune up on the small stage in the large tent.
In the summer, we’d be sitting outside, but it’s too fucking cold for that. The tent has enough heaters to start a heat wave, so everyone’s shedding their coats and getting comfortable.
I spot Cade Mercer near the edge of the pens and give him a nod. I’ve been meaning to talk to him about the fence line we share on the south pasture. It’s been needing attention—some wires are down and posts are leaning.