Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Delaney
Two weeks ago, if someone had told me Sunridge Ranch would host the Coyote Cup Showdown kickoff, I would’ve pictured something low-key: a couple of card tables, some lukewarm chili, five men arguing about beanbag trajectories.
What I would not have imagined is… this.
The south pasture has transformed into a festival.
String lights sparkle overhead like fireflies.
The smell of smoked sliders and fresh cornbread has men moaning in line.
The music from the hay bale stage, Wild Reverie in acoustic mode.
Children race across the grass.
Adults scream at plywood boards like their souls depend on it.
And the men?
They are acting like cornhole is the Olympics.
“Miss Delaney!”
A mini tornado launches into my thigh. Sadie wraps her arms around me, breathless with excitement and possibly sugar.
“Daddy says we made it to round three! And Uncle Silas said our team is destined to win, but also said that he can levitate beanbags with his mind, so I’m not sure if I believe him.”
“That’s a fair assessment.”
She grabs my hand. “Come see! All the teams are warming up, and Pickle is on the loose!”
Oh no.
She drags me toward the competition area, weaving through the crowd.
There are four main courts, each with hand-painted boards and dramatic signage.
Court 1: The Ranch Wranglers — Boone & Caleb
Court 2: Wild Crew — Silas & Jesse Fletcher
Court 3: Ink & Intimidation — Mitchell & Freddie
Court 4: Fire & Spice — Leo & Karl.
And roaming freely between all four courts… Pickle, wearing a tiny referee jersey and blowing a whistle definitely stolen from someone’s pocket.
“Pickle!” Ivy shrieks. “Drop it!”
Pickle drops nothing and immediately commits to havoc, a hazy, snorting blur tearing across Court 3.
Mitchell lunges like the board personally offended him.
Timothy drags a hand down his face. “He’s doing this on purpose.”
“Let him play,” Freddie shouts, already clapping. “Natural athlete.”
Penny covers her eyes. “Daddy, Pickle is going to jail.”
From Court 1, Caleb exhales through his nose. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Boone doesn’t say a word, just watches the carnage with the resigned calm of a man assessing a structural failure.
Silas lifts the megaphone like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
“That’s an official foul, folks! Absolutely criminal behavior!”
Pickle ignores all of it and heads toward the food tables.
I sprint after the dog.
“No, no, no, not the cornbread!”
Pickle leaps.
I brace for tragedy…
But a strong hand catches Pickle mid-flight.
Jesse’s tattooed arm flexes like in a scene from an action movie.
Pickle hangs there, offended.
Ivy cheers, “Fireman snatch!”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “He’s going to start charging for that move.”
Leo mutters, “He already does.”
Karl winks. “Only for birthdays.”
I blink at Jesse. “Thank you. I spent ages making all of that.”
He gently hands me Pickle. “Hazard pay appreciated.”
Pickle licks my chin.
Sadie tugs me forward. “Hurry! Daddy is warming up!”
Boone stands over a board, shoulders tight, expression carved from stone, focused as a sniper.
Caleb stands at his side, warm and quietly competent, guiding Sadie through the “official” rules even though none of the rules here are official.
Silas strolls up with swagger. “Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to BOONE ‘THE BEANBAG BANSHEE’ TAYLOR! A man whose precision is rivaled only by his inability to take a compliment!”
Boone shoots him a death glare.
Silas laughs. “Sexy glare. Ten out of ten.”
Caleb hides a laugh behind his cider.
Boone throws… perfect arc, perfect drop, dead center.
The crowd screams like someone just proposed.
Sadie jumps into Caleb’s arms.
Caleb catches her effortlessly.
I forget how to breathe.
“Daddy is so good at this,” Sadie whispers in Caleb’s arms, clutching his shirt like she’s watching the Super Bowl.
Caleb chuckles, low and warm, and the sound does something to me. It slides heat down my spine.
Okay. No. No feelings. I am here for moral support, baked goods, and to protect the cornbread.
Not to ogle the men.
Except…
Well.
When a man looks like Boone and concentrates like that, broad shoulders tense, one hip cocked forward, veins flexing down his forearm, it’s honestly rude not to ogle a little.
And Caleb?
Caleb holding a kid is a biological weapon. He’s not even trying. Just… balanced, strong, gentle. His flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair falling into his eyes, smiling at Sadie like she’s his whole universe.
And then there’s Silas.
Silas, who sees everything I’m thinking the second it crosses my mind.
He sidles up behind me, leaning down so his breath brushes my ear.
“You’re drooling,” he murmurs.
“I am not.”
He hums, amused. “Okay, but you were definitely making your thinking about sin face, which feels adjacent.”
“I do not have a face like that.”
“You absolutely do,” he says calmly. “It’s very specific. Very expressive. Deeply incriminating.”
“I… I don’t have a thirsty face!”
“You absolutely do,” he says. “It’s adorable.”
I glare at him.
He grins, unbothered, eyes glinting wickedly.
“Besides,” he adds, low and teasing, “it’s only fair you get a little treat. You’ve earned it. Look at this lineup. Ranch defensive line. Dad squad. Former soldier turned stoic cowboy. Reformed fuckboy with excellent hair. You’re welcome.”
I swat him.
He winks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, places!” Arlo calls out. “Next round is beginning.”
A cheer erupts across the field.
Sadie wiggles out of Caleb’s arms and grabs my hand. “Come on, Miss Delaney! We have to cheer!”
She tugs me toward Silas and Jesse, who are now preparing for their turn.
Jesse is stretching like an actual athlete. Silas is stretching like a musical theatre major.
“Behold!” Silas bellows, pointing at the board. “Witness the majesty that is…”
He winds up.
He throws.
He misses the entire court by three feet and nearly hits Karl.
“You wanna fight?” Karl bellows playfully.
“It curved!” Silas calls. “The wind is rigged!”
“There is no wind,” Jesse deadpans.
“There’s emotional wind,” Silas insists.
Jesse groans.
I laugh until I have to wipe tears.
Then Mitchell and Freddie are up.
Mitchell lines up like the board owes him money.
Freddie flirts with everyone in a ten-foot radius.
Penny acts as referee even though Pickle stole the actual whistle again.
Mitchell throws… bullseye.
Freddie cheers like he won a Grammy. “That’s my boy!”
Mitchell scowls. “Stop calling me your boy.”
“But you are my boy.”
“I will throw you.”
“You won’t.”
Mitchell sighs. “No. I won’t.”
Their dynamic is better than TV.
Olivia is coaching like her team is competing for the fate of the world.
Leo stands with military-level seriousness.
Karl flexes for the crowd again.
“Form!” Olivia shouts. “Elbow! Follow through! Activate your core!”
Karl winks. “My core is always activated, babe.”
Olivia throws a napkin at him.
I don’t understand any of the strategy. I don’t know what “airmail drag” is. I don’t know why Mitchell keeps muttering about bag friction.
But I am having the time of my life.
Much of that has to do with Sadie, who narrates like she’s announcing a horse race:
“He’s winning! No, wait… yes? Maybe. Miss Delaney, do you think Moose could play cornhole? He’d be so good!”
But the rest?
The rest is the men.
Boone, intense and beautiful in that carved out of stone way that makes my breath hitch.
Caleb, gentle and steady, soft smiles that knock the world off its axis.
Silas, wild and bright, eyes finding mine every time he says something ridiculous.
It should be overwhelming, and it is, but it’s warm too, like stepping into sunlight after months of cold.
I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop cheering, and definitely can’t stop noticing them.