Chapter 1
Chapter One
HUDSON
Almost eight years later . . .
Summer 2024
C harlie trots beside my paint gelding, nose to the ground, tail up. As if he is tracking the herd of pregnant mares ahead of us through the flowing grass on the hilly peak. He’s shorter than the grass and disappears now and then, the swaying sea of stalks swallowing him whole. I chew on one such stalk I plucked before we set out for home.
The wind is up today, buffeting against the brim of my Stetson, and the gelding tosses his head, mane flopping over his patchy neck. The sun warms my tanned arms. There’s a solid line where the light blue t-shirt ends and the sunburnt skin starts. Mountains flank us on either side. Snow-capped and blue, and they darken as the clouds drift overhead.
Our pace is steady, despite the fact that my father will be pacing the barn as he waits. Nothing is ever fast enough or done well enough for Harrison Rawlins. The oversized, full bellies of my mares sway ahead. We are taking it slow; they will be foaling in a few months. The ranch will need new blood in a few years.
Charlie barks, taking off after a rabbit, his ragged terrier instincts kicking in.
I slide my sunglasses down a little as he darts around the grass, white with patches of tan long-haired pup appearing now and then. I chuckle, enjoying the serenity of the quiet ride home. I know that the moment I’m off this horse, the old man is going to want to get right into breaking in.
And while I love that part of raising ranch horses, and the challenge that comes with every new filly and colt, I hate playing by the old man’s rules. But since I will always be the dutiful son, the only one out of the four of us that is still here and invested in the ranch, I do.
Not too many people would dare talk back to Pa. It’s his way or the highway. Which for the middle of nowhere, mid-Montana, that’s saying something. My three younger brothers found a work-around for the old man’s condescending and continuous demands. One joined the army, one decided to be utterly uninteresting and work in ranching, happy to be left alone. One moved to New York and got a human resources degree. Sold his soul to the devil, if you ask Harry. They have balls, my little brothers, I’ll give them that.
We round the last of the hilly terrain and start the descent toward the homestead. The house my father built spans the big yard. Big windows and a wraparound porch complete the multi-gable home with twin chimneys. Charlie takes up his place beside the horse—he has the drill down pat.
The homestead is flanked by smaller paddocks for the working horses. The two large red barns sit behind the homestead, with old oaks dotted around the area. Ma’s favorite spot, the southernmost oak, shelters a long wooden table for Sunday lunches and other occasions.
Reed’s fancy truck is in the driveway still. Must have had a big night. Reed Rawlins, youngest of the four of us, and the only one of my brothers to still live at home with us, despite his waning interest in ranch life.
When we reach the holding paddock the mares will stay in for the next few months, I ride in behind them until the last of the mares has filed in. I turn the gelding, maneuvering him sideways to shut the gate. Charlie slips under the wooden railing and trots around the herd, as if inspecting the goods.
I whistle and he races back. I push the gelding into a lope down the long, fenced laneway between the foaling paddock and the barn and sit back in the saddle. The steady lope of the gelding reminds me why I do this every day. The effortless movement of man and beast—my favorite part of the job.
When I slow to a halt, Pa waits, his arms slung across the top rail. Charlie races past my old man and jumps away when Harry reaches out to pat him. Charlie has never liked anyone but me. Reed jokes about Charlie’s aversion to the old man, says the dog is a good judge of character. He’s probably onto something; Harry Rawlins is a hard man. Hard to work with, hard to live with. Expectations are impossibly high when it comes to our father.
“Damn dog got social anxiety, Hudson?” Pa asks. His words are gravelly.
“He’s picky. Don’t take it personal.”
“Any trouble with the mares?”
“Nope, all good and steady. Looking ready for November foaling.”
“Good. Keep an eye on them. Don’t want to lose any when the weather starts to cool down. You ready for this colt? I ain’t gettin’ any younger, son.”
He nods to the yearling in the pen he leans on. The young’un walks in circles, sniffing the ground, trotting, and prancing.
“Sure, give me a minute to turn out the gelding.”
“Make it quick. Larry’s waiting and wants to see how the little upstart gets on.”
“Yes, sir.”
I walk the gelding to the barn and unsaddle him. Swapping out his bridle for a halter, I take him to the concrete pad by the side of the barn and hose him off. Unclipping the lead, I turn him out into his yard. He wanders away, content to graze, and I make my way back to the round yard. Pa has the young’un already in the center, halter on with a long lead. I climb through the rail and walk to where they stand.
The colt nickers as I take the lead from Pa.
“Send him ’round, then bring him in.”
I click my tongue and toss the end of the lead toward his rump. The colt takes off around the pen, following the rail as I hold him in the center. He is doing well. For just over a week of working together, he has picked up most things fast.
“Fast learner,” Pa says, now outside the round yard again.
“Yep.”
“Keep him goin’, don’t let him turn lazy.” He pushes off the rail and walks back to the house. Always has the last word, Pa. Always.
Steadying the colt, I tug the lead, coaxing him in. When he stops inches from where I stand, he rubs his face on my shirt. “Yeah, I know, buddy. He’s a mean old man. Lucky for you, you’re stuck with me.”
Charlie trots back over from wherever he’s been. No doubt herding Ma’s chickens behind the eastern barn. He’s going to get his ass whooped one day, when she catches him. My stomach grumbles. I rub the colt’s face and remove the lead. I work the colt until the top of the hour. With a broken pipe to mend this morning and ten miles of fencing to start on, I call it quits. But first, Ma’s cooking is callin’ my name.
Charlie follows as I walk to the gate that leads to the colt’s paddock. I open it and he walks through before I shut it behind him. I hear her nicker before I find her. Silver. The mare I learned to ride on. Ancient, as far as any horse goes. But she’s special. Too old now, I keep her in the paddock closest to the homestead. Having been promised a cushy retirement, that’s what she got. She worked hard, my girl. Owes me nothing.
Charlie sits, watching Silver take her time getting to the fence. I rub her forehead. “Hey, girl. You alright today?”
Charlie has been my constant companion for the last five years. I brought him home from a shelter in the city, the day after my heart was broke in two. I was twenty-nine, thought I had life handled. Sworn off women since then. Settling down is something I am supposed to want, but once bitten, twice shy. It’s going to take one hell of a woman to convince me to hand over my heart again.
Charlie is right behind me when I push through the back door and make my way to the kitchen. Ma is rolling out dough for something that will be delicious, no doubt. She glances up from her work as I drop into my chair at the table. The kitchen is enormous, a testament to her constant cooking. And I figure she loves doing it, since she is always cooking up something—literally.
“Huddy, how are the girls?”
“Good, Ma. All settled in.”
“See your father? He wanted to take a look at that colt.”
“Yup. Done that, too.”
Dusting off her hands, she plucks a couple of freshly baked cookies from a cooling rack and pours a cup of coffee before rounding the counter and dropping both in front of me on the table. Leaning against the table, she folds her arms over her chest. “Your brother was out again last night. You should have gone along, too.”
“Not interested. Reed’s the ladies’ man, Ma.”
She shakes her head at me and sighs. “Only want you to be happy. Next weekend, tag along. You don’t have to stay as long as Reed, but go out, hang with your friends, meet some new people.”
“By new people , you mean women.”
She raises both hands, palms up, with the most innocent ‘I don’t know’ face. Nice try, Ma. “Did I say that? Come on, Hudson, thirty-four is well and truly the age to be settled. I’m not getting any younger, and this old lady wants grandbabies, you hear me?”
I roll my eyes at her and sip the coffee. Sharp, bitter and hot. The way I like it. “You should have this conversation with the ladies’ man instead, then.”
As if summoned by Lucifer himself, Reed walks around the corner, hand running through his blond bedhead, bare-chested in boxers. “What did I do this time?”
“Nothing yet, little brother.”
Pushing out of the chair, I pluck a cookie from the plate and shove it into my mouth, heading for the door. Fences don’t build themselves, and the day is only going to get hotter. “Working on the northern fence line today. See you out there in an hour, Reed.”
He grunts and sinks into a dining chair.
“I’m serious, lover boy. Or I’ll send Charlie back for you.”
“Alright, I’ll be there, tyrant. Don’t send that cranky mutt anywhere near me.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Ma,” I say.
“Anytime, my love. Think about what I said, will you?”
I grumble a half-answer and walk through the back door. I’ll think about it—maybe for ten seconds. Hudson Rawlins and women is a bad idea. It will end the same way it did with Jemma. Her wanting something I can’t give. Me with a broken heart.
I snatch my phone from my pocket and check the battery life.
I’m not anticipating anything to go sideways, but fencing can be a sneaky trade. One wrong move on taut wire can have it slip and fling back to slice you open. I still have the scar on my wrist from back when I was seventeen to prove it. I try not to make that mistake too often, but you can never be too careful. Jumping into my banged-up old Chevy, I head to the barn.
Hooking up the fencing trailer, I toss in more wire and the post rammer. I’ll give Reed that job; he needs the practice more than I do. I chuckle to myself as I pluck up two sets of heavy-duty gloves and jump back in the truck. At my whistle, Charlie bounds up and into the back of the truck. An hour later, I am at the northernmost end of the ranch.
I pull up and shift the stick before turning off the truck. Mountains stud the horizon on all sides now. Yellow wildflowers cover the sunny patches between the trees. The hilly paddock is large enough that the rest of the boundary is out of sight. The old fence is all but laying over, the cattle milling around the few clumps of old trees down one side of the hill.
Charlie jumps down and heads straight under the dilapidated fence, heading for the cattle. He trots around, sniffing the ground, as if too scared to interact with the cattle, tail between his legs. Wimp. Reed drives up along the side of the fence as I start unloading the gear. He shuts off his truck and wanders to the trailer. “Surprised Harry hasn’t sent us up here before now.”
He has always called the old man Harry. Beats me how he gets away with it. I sure as hell won’t be trying it. “I’ll dismantle the old fence. You start laying out the new posts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me that, Reed.”
“Why not? You’re gonna be the boss around here in less than a year, aren’t ya?”
I grunt. God willing.
He rolls his eyes, shrugging as he slides a post from the trailer onto his shoulder. “You know, Huddo, if you don’t want to end up like the old man, you should probably stop acting like him.”
I snip the stretched and bent wire and slide it out of the holes in the weathered, splintered posts. Reed has always liked to offer sage advice when it’s not wanted. I’ve gotten used to ignoring him. But something in my gut twists with that particular piece of advice. Because, deep down, I know he’s right.
He’s not the only one, either. Jemma knew it. I’m hard to love. Don’t open up easily and get invested even less easily. As much as I hate to admit it, I am a chip off the old block. Harry’s right hand, and on the hard days, his fall guy. His yes-man.
Kind of a rite of passage being the oldest, I reckon. But we are more alike than I care to admit. Even through my carpentry apprenticeship, I felt different to the other guys. Not the fun-loving, partying type that the rest of my class was.
Ma calls me an old soul. But I’m about ninety-five percent sure that’s her diplomatic way of saying I am a boring grump.
“Like I mean, seriously, Huddo. Look at you. Lean, mean, and all muscle. A Stetson, blue t-shirt, and Wranglers. Brown hair, blue eyes for years. And that jaw... Now, you got that from the old man, you lucky prick. You’re not bad on the eyes, big brother. Ma’s got a point. The ladies are missing out. Let someone in, Hudson, anyone. I’m begging you!”
I toss the pliers at his head, and he ducks. Wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face.
“Shut up, Reed. More posts, less words.”
“You know, women are always asking about you when I’m out. I know at least three that would die to climb you like a tree. You’re not gonna be short of choices.” He winks at me and shoulders another post. Cocky little upstart. Trust him to take Ma’s side.
Mama’s boy.