Chapter Ten
I’m bone-tired in the good way by the time the sun starts to slide behind the cottonwoods. Saturdays are usually busy around here, but today was just extra.
Charli had a late session booked, so Cabe and I finished evening chores, with Uncle Boone pitching in to help.
We don’t talk much, just pass buckets, close gates, and check latches.
Matty said the farrier is coming by tomorrow to check the hoof conditions of the new boarders who came in last week.
It’s unusual to see him on a Sunday, but it was the only time he had available before his next scheduled visit to remove our stock’s shoes for the season and give them a good winter trim ahead of the snow and ice falling and the ground freezing.
Cabe slings a forkful of hay in my direction, but I sidestep it, and it hits his dad instead.
“You two, behave,” Uncle Boone says, like we’re ten instead of grown, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
I leave the barn, quiet and clean and locked down for the night. The animals seem just as exhausted as we are.
The boarded animals are still turned out, waiting to be brought in for their evening meal.
“Y’all need my help?”
“Nah, we got it. Go on in,” Cabe says.
I don’t argue. I peel off toward the house while Cabe and Uncle Boone head to the paddock, their voices fading behind me.
Inside, the kitchen is already warm and loud.
Grandma Evelyn and Aunt Irene are bustling around the stove.
Coating chicken in Grandma’s secret recipe while oil heats in a cast-iron pan.
Matty sits at the island, elbow deep in potato peels, a colander already half full.
She’s sitting stick straight, shoulders set, a little paler than usual.
She worked all day even though she felt like shit—said it was nothing and the ranch doesn’t pause for a stomach bug or a headache. But I can tell she’s running on empty.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my hat on the hook and heading to the sink to wash my hands. “I can help.”
Matty glances at me over her shoulder. “That’d be great.”
Grandma smiles. She loves having a full kitchen.
“Here you go,” Aunt Irene says, handing me a peeler. “How was your day?”
I slide onto a stool next to Matty, take a potato, and start working. The skin curls away under my fingers, and I start filling them in on my chaotic morning.
“It was … eventful,” I say.
Matty hums. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Charli comes in then, hair damp and curling around her shoulders, cheeks pink from a shower after her last training session. She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and hops up on the counter like she’s still ten years old, swinging one foot.
“Okay, give us the details,” she says. “Because you don’t say ‘eventful’ unless something weird happened.”
I glance at Grandma and Aunt Irene, who are both focused on their tasks but still listening intently.
I clear my throat. “So, this morning, early—like still pitch-black outside early—I’m in the barn, starting to feed and water the horses, tugging the hose round the corner by the haystacks, and …” I pause for effect because I can’t help myself. “There’s a body.”
Charli chokes on her water. Matty’s head whips to the side, eyes wide. Grandma and Aunt Irene stop what they’re doing and turn to me.
“A body?” Grandma gasps.
“Yep. I screamed,” I admit. “Like full-on horror-movie scream. I nearly dropped the hose and took off running.”
“And?” Matty demands.
“And it turned out, the body was Waylon Ludlow,” I say. “Passed out cold on a stack of hay.”
Charli’s eyes light up. Matty’s mouth does a funny little twitch. They share a look before either speaks.
“No,” Charli says. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” I say. “He didn’t move a muscle when I screamed, so I turned the water hose on him.”
“You didn’t?” Matty says.
“I did. He shot straight up then. Flailing and sputtering.”
Charli bursts out laughing. “Oh, I would’ve paid good money to see that.”
“He looked like hell,” I add. “Confused. Hungover. Soaking wet.”
Grandma leans a hip against the island. “That boy has been a mess since the day he was born.”
Matty turns back to the bowl of potatoes, but she’s smiling now. “What was he even doing there?”
I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. At first, he didn’t recognize me. Thought he was at Ironhorse. When he realized he was at Wildhaven Storm, he mumbled something about waiting on Caison last night.”
“Well,” Matty says thoughtfully, “that tracks. Caison called from the tavern to tell me good night, and I told him I wasn’t feeling well. He ran by the pharmacy for me before it closed. He was fussing over me and insisted on staying until I fell asleep. He never mentioned that Waylon was outside.”
“He must have gotten tired of waiting on Caison and wandered off,” I say.
Grandma nods. “Oh, yes. Waylon’s always been a wanderer. Even as a boy. Couldn’t keep him corralled if you tried.”
She smiles to herself, gaze going distant.
“Miriam used to say it was a shame,” Grandma goes on softly, “the way he carried so much guilt around with him after his sister’s accident.”
I look up. “His sister?”
“Yes,” Grandma continues. “Sweet little Crissy.”
Matty’s brows furrow. “I knew the Ludlows had a daughter who died. But … accident?”
I didn’t know.
All our eyes go to Grandma.
She sighs. “You girls were very young. And back then, grown-ups didn’t do all this oversharing. We didn’t talk to children like they were adults. We protected you all from things.”
“From what?” I ask gently.
“From pain,” she says. “From knowing too much, too soon.”
She pauses, collecting herself, then continues, “Priscilla tried. She really did. She tried to shield Waylon from it. But you can’t shield a child from something they witnessed.”
My chest tightens.
“He was there,” Grandma says. “The day it happened. He saw it all. His sister … she died in his arms.”
“Oh, Grandma,” I whisper. “That’s awful.”
“It was,” Grandma says, voice steady but eyes shining. “No little boy should have to carry that kind of trauma.”
“What happened?” Charli asks.
“I don’t know all the specifics. Just that it was a car accident out at one of the ski resorts. Waylon and Crissy were outside, playing in the snow, and a vehicle lost control and hit her. And the saddest part—” She swallows. “The saddest part was that Holland was angry with him.”
“Angry?” Matty echoes. “Why?”
“Because grief makes people cruel,” Grandma says soberly. “And blind. Holland was drowning in it. Full of his own guilt because he hadn’t been there when it happened. He didn’t know how to process it, so he thrust it onto Waylon’s tiny shoulders instead.”
Aunt Irene nods. “He said things he didn’t mean.”
“Grief has a way of doing that,” Grandma continues. “You’re so caught up in your own pain that you can’t see the pain others are enduring. You simply can’t recognize it.”
The oil pops softly at the stove, a reminder that there are hungry people to feed.
“And Holland refused help,” Grandma says as she turns back to the stove. “Wouldn’t talk to anyone. Cowboys always think they’re so strong. Think they don’t need support.”
Matty exhales. “Daddy was kind of that way after Mom passed.”
Grandma’s tone softens. “Yes. He withdrew. Drowned in his grief for a while. But he had support Holland didn’t. He had me. And your grandfather. And four strong young daughters who pulled him back from the edge.”
I nod slowly. “But Holland had Waylon.”
“Yes,” Grandma says quietly. “But poor Waylon blamed himself too. He couldn’t pull his father out of anything. He was seated right beside him in it. And he was just a little boy.”
Matty shakes her head. “I can’t imagine witnessing any of my sisters dying. Much less holding them while they took their last breaths.”
My heart aches in a way that surprises me. I think back to high school—to Waylon Ludlow with his big personality and easy grin, more myth than man. The way he kept everyone just a little at arm’s length. I always thought it was arrogance. Superiority.
Now I’m not so sure.
Maybe it was armor.
I shake the thought away because empathy can be dangerous. It can get a girl in trouble, like it did that night, if she’s not careful.
The door opens as the first piece of chicken hits the pan with a sizzle. Caison steps in, hat in hand, eyes immediately finding Matty like a compass needle.
“You okay?” he asks her softly.
She nods. “Fine.”
He looks unconvinced but lets it go. His gaze slides to me, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.
“So,” he says, “I hear you had a run-in with Way. And a water hose.”
I groan, “Word travels fast.”
“My fault,” he says. “If he scared you, I’m sorry. I was worried about Matty and kind of forgot he was waiting in my truck. By the time I came back out, he’d taken off.”
“Drunk,” I add.
Caison grimaces. “Yeah. He’d had a bit too much. I’m sorry.”
“Well,” I say, arching a brow, “Ruby’s the one you should be apologizing to.”
“Ruby?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “The girl waiting for him at home. I bet she was relieved when he made it back. And then probably wanted to choke him afterward. At least I would.”
Caison laughs. “Ruby’s a little spitfire, but I don’t think she’d ever try to murder her daddy.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Five women turn to him in unison.
“Her daddy?” we all gasp.
Caison blinks. “You … didn’t know?”
He clears his throat. “Ruby’s Waylon’s four-year-old daughter.”
The revelation hangs in the air, and then we all start talking at once.
Caison raises his hands. “You guys know about as much as I do,” he says. He kisses the top of Matty’s head. “I’m going to go find Albert and Earl.”
He’s halfway out the door before he turns back to us. “Oh, and, Shelby, I gave Way your phone number.”
I turn to him. “What? Why would you do that?”
“He asked for it. Said something about having you train Ruby.”
“Train her? For what?”
He shrugs. “Riding, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, but didn’t you just steal a world-class trainer from us?” Charli asks.
“Never gonna let that go,” he mutters under his breath. “Giles doesn’t train riders anymore, and he made it clear he has no interest in working with a four-year-old. He’s the one who suggested Shelby.”
“I’m not interested either,” I say.
“Up to you. But I watched her on a pony today. She’s a natural. Pure joy. You should at least meet her.”
He leaves, and we all go silent.
Seems there’s a whole hell of a lot none of us knew about our old friend Waylon Ludlow.