Chapter 23
The cold wakes me before my alarm does, seeping in through the old farmhouse windows. I pull the covers to my chin, lying there for a second, just staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet hum of the house.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and my bare feet brush against the cold hardwood floor. Wincing at the icy sting, I jerk my legs up for a second before replacing them and standing.
Dressing quickly, I pull on thermals, thick socks, well-worn jeans, and a flannel. I brush the tangles from my hair and braid it down my back.
By the time I step onto the porch, the sky is still a cavernous indigo, the stars barely clinging to the heavens. Frost coats the grass in a delicate icy sheen, and it crunches under my boots as I step off the porch. My breath fogs in front of me, curling into the air as it disappears.
Early spring in Montana is raw and unforgiving. I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets and trudge toward the still-dark bunkhouse, my shoulders hunched against the bite of the cold. Let’s see how the city boy handles this. The thought sparks a small, wicked smile.
After quickly traversing the bunkhouse steps, I rap my knuckles against the door. Nothing. Not a sound from the other side. “Rise and shine, city boy,” I shout, loud enough for my voice to carry. The only response I receive is silence. “Unbelievable,” I huff, rolling my eyes.
We start at five. Sharp. Dad doesn’t tolerate laziness, and neither will Deacon.
If he thinks he can stroll in here with his expensive boots and pretty hair, then sleep past sunup, he’s got another thing coming.
I step back and kick the door with the heel of my boot, and the thud echoes across the yard.
“Easton!” I shout. “You gettin’ up this morning? ”
“Teag?” a deep voice carries from the barn.
I turn toward it and freeze, my mouth dropping open slightly.
Deacon’s broad shoulders are unmistakable even in the dim light.
Puffs of fog blow from his horse as they walk.
Knox is beside him, already mounted, with the reins loose in his hands.
And behind them, Easton. The brim of his hat is tipped low, and the leather of the reins is threaded through his fingers.
He leads his horse, the three of them moving toward the pasture gate like they have been waiting on me for hours.
Deacon squints at me. “You plan on joinin’ the rest of us for work this morning? Or you gonna sit on the porch and watch the sunrise?”
Heat creeps up my neck and washes over my face despite the cold. “I…” I glance back at the bunkhouse door. “I thought—”
“The city boy has been up since four,” Knox shouts back with a cocky grin. “Unlike you.”
Of course he’s been up.
Easton’s gaze finds mine, unreadable in the half-light. “I figured I’d get acquainted with my horse,” he states simply.
I lift my chin smugly. “Well… Good for you.”
“Someone doesn’t like being last.” Knox laughs outright as Deacon shakes his head.
“We’re heading to the creek pasture,” Deacon informs me, mounting his horse. “A couple head drifted a little close to the boundary fence, and we need to bring them back in.”
They nudge their horses forward. All three of them. Without me. “Hey!” I call. “Wait up.”
Knox glances over his shoulder. “Better hurry, sis. Wouldn’t want the city boy to show you up on his first day.”
I shoot him a glare and turn on my heel, stomping toward the barn. Unbelievable. I shove through the stable doors harder than necessary, the familiar scent of hay and leather immediately surrounding me.
Daisy lifts her head as I approach, her ears pricked forward.
“I know,” I mutter, grabbing her halter. “I know.” I lead her out of the stall and hitch her to the post, moving fast to ready her. Embarrassment fuels my efficiency. I swing open the tack room door and reach for my saddle, a large hand closing over the horn before I get a chance to lift it.
Goosebumps prickle up my spine when I turn to find Easton beside me. He is close enough that I can see the faint stubble running along his jaw and how the cold has reddened the tips of his ears.
He must have doubled back.
“Let me.”
“I am more than capable of doing this myself,” I snap.
His expression doesn’t falter. “I know.”
We stand in a stalemate for a moment, both holding the saddle before he lifts it smoothly from the rack like it weighs nothing.
He carries it toward Daisy, and I follow, my arms crossed defensively across my chest. I huff my annoyance with each quick step as I struggle to keep up with his large strides.
“I said I could do that.”
“Mmhmm.”
He lifts the saddle when he reaches Daisy, and I blurt, “Make sure you—”
I cut myself off when Easton adjusts the blanket covering her. He glances over his shoulder with an arrogant cocked brow, silently telling me he knows what he’s doing, then settles the saddle gently on her back. He moves with competent familiarity as I watch closely.
“You plannin’ on saying anything, or is brooding your whole personality?”
He exhales softly through his nose. “Depends. You plannin’ on being this hostile all day?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Let me know when you do.” He reaches under Daisy’s belly to grab the girth and secure it.
When he straightens, he looks at me—really looks at me—a smile spreading across his face.
It’s nothing like the tight, polite one from last night.
While reluctant at first, this one is real and cheeky.
It transforms his face entirely, softening the lines of sadness and warming his dark brown eyes.
It disarms me for a second, throwing me off balance in a way I don’t like, and I can’t help but smile back at him. His only appears cockier in return, like he won this little battle. “Don’t read into it,” I grumble, taking Daisy’s reins from him.
“This city boy wouldn’t dream of it.”
We mount in silence and head toward the pasture that butts up to the creek running along the edge of our property. The ranch stretches wide and open around us, thousands of acres of responsibility and history. Pale golden light spills over the land as the sun begins to crest the horizon.
Easton’s posture is relaxed but controlled, and his horse, Ranger, responds to his subtle cues and barely visible shifts in weight. He rides well. Well enough to keep up with me as we head after my brothers.
When we finally catch up to them, Knox teases, “About time. You two stop for coffee?”
“Shut up,” I fire back.
He continues to give me crap for the rest of the ride, not stopping until we crest a small rise and spot a handful of stubborn steers near the tree line by the creek.
Deacon lifts a hand, silently gesturing to round them up.
“You two push them left,” Deacon instructs, pointing at Easton and me before gesturing between himself and Knox. “We’ll close the gap.”
Easton surveys the scene quickly, his eyes tracking the grazing cattle, a tinge of nervous unease creeping in as we spread out.
’Bout to see what he’s made of.
Herding isn’t about brute force. It’s about pressure and anticipation. Easton starts strong, guiding his horse to block a steer attempting to veer off. But he overcorrects and pushes too hard. One of the younger calves bolts and nearly slips past the tree line.
“Easy!” I shout.
He reins back hard, but the calf darts between him and Knox.
“You tryin’ to steer him to Idaho?” Knox teases with a whistle.
Easton mutters under his breath, and I can’t help but laugh. “You sure you’ve done this before?” I taunt over the rustling of the cattle separating us.
He shoots a glare at me, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. “I spent time on ranches as a kid. I didn’t say I was good at it.”
“Clearly!”
He makes another attempt, this time approaching slower, taking a better angle, and using less force. Still, not great.
“Think like water,” I shout. “Not like a wall. Ease them where you want them.”
He purses his lips and clenches his jaw, but heeds my advice. Adjusting his path, he eases pressure instead of trying to be brute force, and the cattle respond more predictably.
“Better,” I admit, begrudgingly.
One of the steers—a big, mean bastard—breaks hard toward the creek bank.
The dirt running along the steep slope is slippery, like wet clay.
If he goes down, we’ll have a problem. I start to angle toward it, but Easton is closer.
He doesn’t hesitate, spurring forward and cutting the steer off with surprisingly sharp precision.
His horse pivots cleanly, blocking the steer’s path just enough to redirect without spooking it further.
It snorts, tosses its head, then reluctantly turns back to the small group.
Caught up watching him, I slow and nearly lose a calf of my own as Easton guides the animal calmly into the fold like he’s done it a hundred times.
Knox whistles. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Good job,” Deacon agrees with a slight tip of his hat.
We finish the drive without further incident, guiding the cattle toward the main pasture as the sun climbs high in the sky. The frost has melted, leaving the grass damp and shining.
On the ride back, Knox and Deacon pull ahead, arguing about something that sounds a lot like fantasy football, as Easton and I fall into step a few lengths behind them. For a while, we ride in silence. It’s not awkward, but it isn’t exactly comfortable, either.
“You were right.” He speaks first.
“About what?”
“Water. Not a wall.”
I glance over to find his gaze settled firmly on the horizon again, his expression thoughtful but his eyes distant. “You learn quick.”
“Good teacher.” He smirks faintly.
I huff a quiet laugh as the ranch house comes into view in the distance, smoke rising from the chimney.
“You don’t totally suck as a cowboy,” I offer the halfhearted praise. “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Squeezing my legs tighter against Daisy, I click my tongue. “Race ya, boys.” My horse jerks forward, quickly passing Deacon and Knox, and I shout over my shoulder, “Last one back untacks the horses!”
“Cheater!” Knox yells, quick on my heel.
The four of us race the last stretch, the midday sun warming our backs, and I find myself wondering, what exactly brought Easton Callahan here?
And why do I care?