Chapter 25
aria
The week before the Gunnison Auction is a frenzy of last-minute work.
Every day, I’m out before sunrise, clipboard in one hand, lead rope in the other, moving through the holding pens.
Every animal slated for auction gets a second, even a third look, checking for limps, signs of stress, heat, or anything that might knock down the value at sale.
I run my hands along the hides, brushing loose hair and checking for ticks, ensuring coats are clean and gleaming.
Even small imperfections could hurt us in the ring, and with so much riding on the sale, I’m not leaving a thing to chance.
I’ve had the vet out twice already, paying her more than I can really afford. But I’d rather call Dr. Sarah Kirk than the so-called top dog in Wildflower Canyon—he charges a fortune.
I’ve heard the stories about Sarah, some old scandal from years back. Doesn’t matter to me. She’s a damn good vet, no patience for nonsense, and a soft spot for small working ranches like ours (which is why she’s giving me a discount on her services).
I knew her father—he used to be the most-respected vet in the canyon and worked alongside mine. Sarah grew up here, same as I did. Left, same as I did. And now she’s back, just like me, picking up where her father left off.
Dr. K, as she likes to be called, moves through the herd like she was born in the chute—checking eyes, teeth, lungs, temperature, and weight, but also noting subtler signs most folks would miss: posture that hints at hoof soreness, the faint rattle of early respiratory trouble, haircoat dullness that could signal mineral imbalance, even the hesitance in a heifer’s step that might mean she’s coming into heat too early.
She’s given boosters where needed, flagged one steer with a cough for stall rest, and made sure our sale stock is cleared, certified, and trail-ready.
She’s efficient, thorough, and gentle in a no-nonsense way. She might’ve made a hell of a rancher herself if she hadn’t loved medicine more.
Earl and Tomas run chute work while Wes tracks weights and feed schedules.
Nadine wants to help, but I’ve told her to focus on the farm. Harvest comes sooner than we know, and we need that part of our ranch to deliver just as much as the upcoming auction.
I oversee everything—pacing the perimeter, double-checking ear tags against the master list, recalculating feed rations, and adjusting mineral supplements to keep the herd balanced.
We’ve switched to premium feed with a higher protein content, carefully mixed with dry hay to prevent bloat.
Hydration is non-negotiable—I monitor water troughs morning and evening, making sure there’s no algae, no backflow, and that intake’s consistent.
Manure color is gospel now—too loose, too pale, too dark—and I know instantly if something’s off.
Every calf is walked, joints flexed, and hooves inspected for abscess or wear.
We’re rebalancing trailer loads for weight and temperament, making sure no one ends up penned beside a kicker or a bull-headed steer.
We’ve been running mock load-ups every evening, guiding the skittish ones through the chute, slow and steady, so they don’t panic come auction day.
I’ve even been using a Bluetooth speaker to pipe in stockyard noise—buzzers, voices, metal gates—so they get desensitized to the chaos.
It’s backbreaking, dusty work.
I end each day soaked in sweat and grime, but I’ve never felt sharper. Never more like a rancher. Never more like I belong.
Two days before the auction, I’m covered in dust when a bright red SUV, looking completely out of place on the dusty ranch road, stops in front of the house.
A stranger, a woman, walks out.
She’s dressed in what I’d call cowboy chic, but it’s still functional. Jeans tucked into polished boots, caramel-blonde hair twisted up in a clip, oversized sunglasses perched on her head.
Her eyes give her away.
She’s got Maverick’s blue eyes.
I’m not sure what she’s doing here. Is she going to ask me to back off her brother? When it comes to sisters, I have little faith.
I walk up, brushing hay off my sleeves. “Can I help you?”
She smiles, tilting her head. “You must be Aria.”
“Yes.”
She flings herself at me and hugs me.
To say I'm shocked would be an understatement
“I’m Joy. Mav’s been talking about you, but he won’t let me meet you—keeps saying you’re busy with the auction. So I said, ‘The hell with it. I’ve got to come see the woman who’s got my brother all tangled up in himself.’”
She has a unique New Yorker meets Texan rancher accent.
“Girl, where have you been!” Earl sounds almost cheerful as he pulls Joy away from me and embraces her.
Earl? Cheerful? Seriously?
“Mr. E., you smell like cow shit.” Joy wrinkles her nose and plants a kiss on Earl’s weathered cheek.
Tomas is staring at Joy like he’s in the presence of an angel from heaven. The boy has a crush. It’s sweet.
Then Joy hugs Nadine and Vera. They all know her. She knows all of them. I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing here. Either way, I don’t have the time for this.
“Ah…Joy…how can I help you?” I can’t keep the tightness out of my voice.
Her eyes are bright with curiosity, not judgment. “I came to see you for myself.”
“Well,” I say, half-laughing, “I hope I live up to the hype.”
“You do.” I can’t tell if she’s teasing or serious. “I’d love for you to come to dinner tonight. Nothing fancy. Just me, maybe Mav if he shows, a bottle of wine, something grilled. You game?”
I blink. “Tonight?”
“Sure.” She shrugs. “I figure it’s time we got to know each other.” She turns to the others. “Mr. E, Nadine, Vera, Tomas…and I think you got a new guy? You’re all invited.”
They all look at me and then smile slyly. This is not gonna be good.
“Sorry, girl, it’s Sunday night. I gotta be at The Blazing Saddles,” Earl says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Mandatory poker game; you understand.”
Earl plays Sunday night poker with friends at a titty bar at the edge of the canyon. According to him, it’s tradition and ritual.
I roll my eyes.
“I’m learning poker,” Tomas adds, nodding. “Can’t miss that.”
“You corrupting this young’un, Mr. E.,” Joy admonishes.
Earl pats Tomas. “A man needs to learn poker.”
“In a titty bar?” She arches an eyebrow
“The Blazing Saddles is a titty bar?” Earl frowns. “You notice that, son?”
“Me?” Tomas shakes his head, pretending to be the innocent he’s not. “I only see the cards on the table, Earl, you know that.”
Nadine waves a wooden spoon from the kitchen. “Vera and I got a book club meeting.”
“We read a Sadie Kincaid book,” Vera says like it’s a secret.
“Oh, was it the latest one? Where the wife and husband who’re getting divorced have kinky sex in a hotel?” Joy asks conspiratorially.
“You bet.” Nadine nods eagerly. “We’re having the ladies come over to Vera’s.”
“You gonna talk dirty stuff with Benji around?” I ask.
“Benji has a sleepover,” Vera says smugly. “So, sadly, none of us can join you, Aria.”
Joy eyes me with a look that says, ‘You’re all out of buffers and excuses, baby.’
I chuckle, can’t help myself. “Alright, alright. I’ll be there, Joy.”
Earl tips his hat with a smirk. “You got this, boss. Just don’t let those fancy folks talk you into drinkin’ anything pink.”
“Or dancin’ with anyone who can’t tell the front end of a horse from the back,” Tomas warns.
I tilt my head, more entertained than I should be.
“Six-thirty,” Joy orders, getting back into her car with the look of someone who achieved a momentous goal.
I text Maverick, just to make sure he’s okay with it.
Me: Your sister invited me for dinner…tonight.
Maverick: I’ll make sure my grill game is at peak efficiency.
Me: You don’t mind?
Maverick: Come over for dinner every night. Hell, Aria, stay every day and night with me.
Okay!
Yeah, well…what?
No way. No. No. No. I’m not ready for any of this.
I put the phone away like it burned my hand.
“Are you wearing that?” Nadine demands as I head out that evening.
I look down at my jeans, which are a decade old, and a Chambray shirt that’s probably equally old and belongs to Nadine.
“Now, we both know you have some very nice clothes in your closet.” Vera folds her arms across her chest.
Sanya shipped me my clothes, so I don’t really need to wear old jeans, but…I like them.
“Where’s Benji?” I ask, desperately wanting to change the subject.
I debated what to wear a million times before settling on something I’d wear to the Rusty Spur—casual enough that no one, especially me, gets any ideas.
“Don’t you worry about Benji,” Vera retorts, her expression grim. “Now, go back upstairs and wear something…in the dress category.”
“Look—” I start to protest.
“Now,” Nadine snaps.
“Geez.” I look at them. “You really think I need to like…wear somethin’ else?”
“Yeah,” they both say in unison.
“Won’t that give him ideas?”
Nadine rolls her eyes. “Honey, that’s the point, ain’t it?”
“Wear something easy to take off…you know, sexy like,” Vera suggests.
My eyes narrow with barely contained irritation.
I really do want to look nice, not dusty cowgirl, but something that still feels like me. Just not the me who’s been fixing tractors and hauling hay. And definitely not something that gives him—or me—let’s get naked vibes.
When did getting dressed become this exhausting?
I trudge back up to my room.
“You’ve been stomping around in boots and denim for weeks,” Vera calls out. “Let the man see you.”
“Yeah, show some skin,” Nadine cheers.
I open my closet and scowl at its contents.
A little black dress stares at me like a dare. It’s simple, fitted, with thin straps and a low back. The kind of dress that only comes out for weddings or…regrets?
I hesitate, then put it on.
It hugs my curves in all the right ways.
The truth? It says, “Fuck me.”
God! What on earth possessed me to buy this stupid dress?
I dust off a pair of black heeled boots, then rummage through my drawer for mascara that hasn’t dried out and a lipstick that doesn’t scream I’m trying too hard.