Chapter 21
The barn smells of sweat and hay. It’s the kind of scent that seeps into your skin and never quite washes out. It’s one of the few things I’ve always liked about my simple life.
I run my hand down the length of Daisy’s neck, combing through her mane as she huffs softly and shifts her weight. Dust floats through the late-afternoon light streaming through the open slats, turning the air golden and thick.
After reaching for the curry comb, I work it in steady circles along Daisy’s flank.
A groan rattles from me, my shoulder aching from the fall earlier.
It’s a dull throb that pulses every time I lift my arm too high.
“Maybe talk to Diesel tonight,” I mutter at Daisy as I continue to brush her, feeling the muscles beneath my palm relaxing under my touch.
“Tell him he’s a stubborn ass, and I don’t like being tossed to the dirt. ”
Footsteps crunch against the gravel near the door, and I call over my shoulder without turning, “You gonna help? Or just stand there looking pretty all night.”
Knox snorts. “Aw, shucks. Did you call just me pretty?”
I glance back at him. He’s leaning against a stall door, blond hair falling into his eyes, and the smug grin that’s been plastered across his face since he was twelve and learned girls thought he was cute.
I roll my eyes and go back to brushing Daisy, but the question that’s been sitting on my tongue pushes forward.
“Hey.” I keep my tone casual, even though I’m curious as hell. “Who was that?”
Knox tilts his head slightly. “Who?”
“Really, Knox?” I huff. It’s not like this place is crawling with new faces. “The guy you and Dad were showing around. Tall. Big guy. Broody. Looks like he just stepped out of a Kimes ad.”
He barks a laugh and cocks an eyebrow. “That’s very specific.”
“Damn it, Knox.”
“Easton.”
“Easton, what?” I ask.
“Just Easton,” Knox answers with a shrug. “I didn’t exactly ask for his life story.”
I set the brush down and cross my arms before turning fully toward him. “What’s he here for?”
“Um, let’s see.” Knox purses his lips and tilts his eyes upward with exaggerated concentration. “I put him in the bunkhouse where the ranch hands live. I wonder if he’s a ranch hand.”
I step forward and smack his arm playfully. “Shut up.”
He grins wider, then shares, “Dad hired him.”
“Hired him?” I repeat. “As in, paying him?”
“That’s generally how hiring ranch hands work. So, yeah.”
“He knows we can’t afford that.” I shake my head, irritation sparking fast and hot.
We’ve been walking a tightrope for the past two years.
Feed costs are up. Cattle prices are unpredictable.
Taxes keep rising. Equipment breaks at the worst possible times.
We make it work because we have to, because this ranch is etched into our DNA.
We’re already supplementing revenue from Knox’s and my meager rodeo winnings.
“I’ve run this ranch since before you were born, Teagan Rae.” Dad’s voice carries through the barn, low and firm, causing my spine to stiffen. “I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing.”
He steps into view at the other side of the barn, hat pulled low, and his jaw set in that familiar line, the one that means he has already made up his mind.
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” I reply quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “I just—”
“Just what?” he presses.
I swallow back the instinct to argue. “I’m sorry,” I grumble, hating the way the words taste on my tongue. “I just thought… We’ve been managing.”
Dad walks closer, stopping a few feet away. His eyes are tired, more than they used to be. The lines around them are etched deep with worry.
“Managing ain’t the same as thriving. You, Knox, and Deacon can’t handle the herd alone.”
“We’ve been doing it,” I insist.
“And the three of you have been running yourselves into the ground,” he shoots back.
Knox shifts awkwardly beside me but doesn’t say a word. Dad, on the other hand, digs in. “You and Knox got rodeo season coming up. You think I don’t see how hard you’re training? You think I can’t see how thin you’re stretching yourselves?”
He’s not entirely wrong. Our schedules this year are no joke. More events. More travel. It’s our shot at bigger circuits and equally bigger prize money, the kind that could actually make a difference for the ranch.
“We can handle it,” I huff, stubbornly.
“Maybe. But I ain’t betting the ranch on a maybe.” He steps closer and lowers his voice slightly. “We need the extra help. Not just for the work, but for the long haul.”
“Fine.” I sigh, rolling my eyes.
Dad leaves as abruptly as he arrived. I shove Knox hard in the shoulder the second Dad disappears around the corner. He barely rocks from the impact, which only annoys me more.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snip.
Knox glances down at me, brows lifting slightly, like the big oaf genuinely has no idea what I’m talking about. He leans his hip against the stall as his arms fold loosely across his chest. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” I throw my hands up in annoyance. “You just stood there.”
He blinks slowly. “Yeah, I was standing there.”
I huff at him. “You didn’t say anything.”
“There wasn’t anything to say.”
“There’s plenty to say,” I fire back. “We didn’t agree to this. I bet he didn’t even ask Deacon. He just… decided.”
Knox shrugs, his boot scuffing lightly against the packed dirt. “He’s Dad.”
I hate how calm he is. He always does this—steps back and lets Dad steamroll over us all like it’s inevitable. Like, fighting back isn’t even worth the effort.
“Well, you could at least pretend to be on my side,” I gruff.
“I am on your side, Teag.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He studies me for a second, his expression softening. Knox is loud and obnoxious when it comes to being cocky or charming, but he always been quiet about things like this. Where I burn hot and fast, he’s calm and collected. It’s infuriating.
“It’s useless,” he exhales, finally.
I cross my arms tighter. “That’s a cop-out.”
“It’s reality.” He pushes off the stall, dust falling from the back of his shirt as he straightens. “Dad always wins when it comes to the ranch.” His tone isn’t angry or bitter, just certain, like it’s a law of nature.
I hate that he’s right.
As the fifth generation of Wilsons to run this ranch, Dad lives and breathes this place.
Every fence post, acre, and head of cattle exists because he—and the men who came before him—refused to let it fail.
The ranch isn’t just his livelihood; it’s his identity.
And whether he says it or not, he expects it to become ours, too. I hate how trapped that makes me feel.
Beside me, Knox stretches his arms over his head, his shirt lifting just enough to show the strip of tan skin at his waist. He rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off our entire conversation.
“I’m gonna go grab a quick shower before dinner,” he states casually, a coy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Make sure I’m extra pretty before we eat. ”
I throw the brush at him. “God, I hate you.”
He catches it, grinning crooked and completely unapologetic. “You love me, sis.” He tosses it back with a wink before turning on his heel and heading toward the house.
After glaring at him for a moment, I resume grooming Daisy. I brush her absentmindedly, my thoughts more on the new cowboy than on the task at hand.
Once finished with Daisy, I move down the line, check hooves, refill water buckets, and adjust tack. By the time I’m done, the sun is low in the sky, bleeding orange and pink through the doors of the barn.
I grab a straw bale and carry it toward the barn door, pushing it with my hip.
My gaze is immediately drawn to Easton. He’s leaning against the fence that lines the paddock, one boot braced on the lower rails and elbows propped across the top.
A cowboy hat with a low-tipped brim shadows most of his face.
The setting sun paints him in cold and fire, outlining his broad shoulders and the solid line of his back.
He’s tall, and his frame fills out his worn flannel.
I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t seem to help myself.
He hasn’t pulled his eyes away from the sunset burning over the fields, silhouetting the mountains in a blaze of color.
But he isn’t watching it in awe. I don’t think.
While I can’t see much of his face, there is no missing the slight downturn of his lips.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his stance, and for a moment, I think he might look over and catch me. I quickly step back into the shadow of the barn door.
Why do I care? He’s just a ranch hand.
I walk outside, drop the bale beside the door, and lean against the frame as I watch him openly.
The wind kicks up slightly, tugging at his shirt and carrying strands of hair across my face.
I wrap my arms around myself to fight off the chill.
Easton exhales heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with the breath.
He pushes off the fence, straightening to his full height.
For a split second, his gaze flicks toward the barn.
Toward me. Our eyes meet across the distance.
Even from here, I can see the deep, unapologetic sadness.
He tips his hat slightly, acknowledging my presence, before turning and heading toward the house.
I watch him go, the fading light stretching his shadow across the dirt.
As I stand in the doorway, dust clinging to my jeans and my shoulder aching, I smell the shift in the air. There is a storm rolling in, and I don’t think it’s just bringing rain.
Change has arrived on this ranch, whether I like it or not.