Chapter Three
I’m scraping the last of the manure into the wheelbarrow when my legs finally start to shake.
Not the good kind of shake that comes with a hard ride. This is the bone-deep, everything hurts kind that settles in when your day started before the sun and never once slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath or eat a sandwich.
I love all the changes that are happening here on the ranch.
It wasn’t that long ago that our outlook was bleak.
We were operating on bare bones, and Matty was holding this place together with duct tape and pure determination.
Now, we’re taking on new clients, our stalls are full, and the new rodeo school will be opening next year.
It’s a complete one-eighty, but rapid growth comes with its own set of challenges, and today is a great example.
We need more hands on deck.
Daddy and Matty have been concentrating the influx of revenue on much-needed repairs, replacing old equipment, constructing new boarding stalls, and buying stock for our breeding program. Charli, Cabe, and I have been bearing the brunt of the work.
I lean on the pitchfork for a second, breathing through my nose—the familiar scent of hay, horse, and sweat wrapping around me like an old, comfy blanket. The barn lights hum overhead, casting everything in that soft yellow glow that makes even the messiest stalls look peaceful.
Almost.
Charli drags the water hose across the concrete aisle, water slapping against the floor. “Last one,” she says, her voice echoing. “Thank God. My tank is completely out of gas.”
Cabe laughs from the far end of the barn, already swinging open the gate to turn out the final mare. “Your tank ain’t never been full.”
“Whatever,” Charli mutters. “I can go toe-to-toe with you any day. Even on empty.”
I snort despite myself and push the wheelbarrow out into the cool evening air. The sky is already slipping into that deep post-sunset purple, the kind that makes you realize how late it really is. My stomach growls like it’s personally offended.
Seven thirty. I know without checking the time. Because Grandma turned the porch light on half an hour ago.
And I also know what that means.
She’s not going to be happy with us.
We finish in practiced silence—feeding, checking water, latching gates. It’s muscle memory at this point, the three of us moving around each other without getting in one another’s way. When we finally make our way across the gravel toward the main house, my hands ache, and my shoulders are tight.
The aroma of Grandma’s meat loaf hits us as soon as we step up onto the porch.
Charli groans. “They’d better have saved some for us.”
“They did,” Cabe says cheerfully. “Grandma knows I love her meat loaf, and seeing as I’m her favorite grandchild, she’d never let them finish it off without me.”
“She sets that table at seven on the dot,” I say, untying my hair and running my fingers through the sweaty mess. “We’re thirty minutes late. And you know the rule—if your butt isn’t in a seat by seven, there’s no guarantee.”
“Well,” Charli says, “we would’ve been done on time if you hadn’t decided to get into a pissing match with a contractor, throwing our whole day off.”
I shoot her a look. “That was fifteen minutes at most. Besides, he’d started it.”
Cabe chuckles. “I heard about that. Lord help that poor man.”
The back door creaks when we step inside, and the smell of supper hits me full force—meat loaf, potatoes, gravy, cornbread. My stomach actually hurts now.
Grandma’s voice carries from the dining room. “Seven o’clock means seven o’clock. Not six thirty. Not seven fifteen. Not whenever you feel like it o’clock.”
“I’ll take the blame,” I say, already heading for the sink. “I’m the oldest.”
“You are not,” Charli calls after me.
“I feel like it today.”
I scrub my hands at the kitchen sink, mud swirling down the drain, while Grandma continues to mutter under her breath. Charli and Cabe disappear down the hall to the bathroom, arguing about who gets the sink first.
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We lost track of time.”
She huffs, but doesn’t look at me. “Time doesn’t get lost. People do.”
That’s her way of saying she forgives us.
I dry my hands and grab the bowl of cornbread from the counter. “Let me help.”
She lets me carry it and leads the way to the table. The dining room is already full—Daddy at the head of the table, Grandpa beside him, Aunt Irene and Uncle Boone across, Matty at the other end with Caison next to her. Plates are half empty, conversation already underway.
Everyone looks up when Grandma and I enter.
“You’re late,” Grandpa says.
“I know,” I say. “Late and starving.”
“Horses don’t always respect our schedules, Grandpa,” Matty says gently.
Charli and Cabe slide in a moment later, and Grandma resumes her grumbling while we load our plates.
I barely taste the first few forkfuls, and I don’t even pretend to pace myself.
“You know,” I say around a mouthful of potatoes, “if we had more help, we might actually end the day on time.”
Grandma makes a noise of agreement.
“I’m working on it,” Matty says. “Now that the bunkhouses are completed, I’m starting to interview. I’ve got several set up for next week.”
That gets my attention. “Really?”
She nods. “Yep. I want to have the ranch fully staffed—the cowboys: ranch hands, wranglers, and barn hands—before Bryce and I begin hiring for the rodeo academy.”
“Can we afford that?” Charli asks. “I mean, before the academy is open and making real money?”
Matty nods. “With the extra training work you two have brought in, the new boarders we got this spring, and the down payment of the stud fees this season, we should be able to swing it. I’m going to start conservative.
I’m thinking four for now and hopefully another four to five after the first of the year. ”
“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” I say.
It’s been a tough few years. But we weathered the storm, working together and refusing to give up.
“Yeah. And once we have everyone in place, you and Charli will be relieved of daily chore duty.”
Charli and I exchange a look over the table.
Hopeful. Skeptical. Amused.
“No one’s ever really off chore duty,” Charli says.
Matty smiles. “True, but the goal is to have enough help that you two don’t have to work your asses off in training pens all day and then muck stalls.”
I relax a little, the weight on my chest easing just a fraction. “That would be nice.”
The table settles into a comfortable rhythm—clinking silverware, low conversation. I tell them all about the run-in with the contractor, my irritation bubbling back up as I talk.
“He spoke to me like I was an idiot,” I say. “Like I didn’t know what I was talking about.”
Charli nods. “Bryce talked to the owner this afternoon.”
I pause. “He did?”
“Yeah. He left him a message, and Bryce called him back after his event. Apparently, he and his foreman had crossed wires, and the crew was working off an earlier draft instead of the finalized blueprints.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The owner was extremely apologetic. Took ownership of the confusion. Promised it’ll all be corrected and that they will stay on schedule.”
I laugh softly. “Funny how Bryce gets contrite and apologetic and I get argumentative and condescending.”
Charli smirks. “Want me to have the foreman fired?”
I have to think about it for a moment.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “He probably has a family. I don’t want him to lose his job.”
I sigh and poke at my food. “I just didn’t like how he talked to me.”
Cabe shrugs. “Old cowboy way. Mean old bastards. They talk to everyone like that.”
My head snaps up. “He called me a fucking woman.”
Cabe grins. “You are a fucking woman.”
I pick up what’s left of my cornbread slice and toss it at him.
He laughs as he dodges it. “It’s just how old grumpy men talk. He probably mumbles the same thing under his breath when dealing with his wife.”
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t mean they should.”
“No, ma’am, it doesn’t,” Daddy says. “And if he does it again, Bryce won’t have to have him fired; I’ll escort him off this ranch myself.”
I smile at him, and he winks.
“Speaking of old bastards,” Caison says, setting his glass down, “Holland was on a tear tonight.”
Matty raises a brow. “Why? What happened?”
“His son came back home.”
Everything inside me goes still.
“Waylon?” I ask. “Back … back? As in for good?”
Caison shrugs. “I was in town, dealing with some zoning issues all afternoon. When I got back to the office, Holland was in a mood. He told me Waylon showed up, but didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask any questions.
Figured it was best to give him time to calm down.
I did text Waylon, and we’re going out for a beer tonight. I’ll get the scoop then.”
Charli’s eyes slide to mine, sharp and curious.
I feel the weight of her stare like a hand between my shoulder blades.
She’s been asking me questions about Waylon Ludlow since witnessing my reaction to his appearance at Matty and Caison’s engagement party last fall.
Our youngest sister, Harleigh—who just started her last year at the University of Wyoming—is the only one who knows the reason I hold such disdain in my heart for the wayward Ironhorse heir.
And I know from the look Charli’s giving me that I’ve been skirting the subject with her long enough.
There’s no more dodging it now.