Chapter 10
ten
Maggie slammed her laptop closed with a groan. She’d spent the morning blocking all of Landry’s many emails—another forty had arrived since she’d last looked, alternating between anger and adoration.
But now there were three emails from Taryn, each more desperate than the last, all demanding the same impossible thing—her return to Tampa and the show.
As if Landry wasn’t still out there, as if the restraining order hadn’t been “misplaced” for the third time, as if she could just waltz back into her old life and pick up where she left off.
She rubbed her temples, the headache that had started with the first message now pounding behind her eyes.
The network’s patience was “wearing critically thin.” They needed to “confirm filming dates immediately.” Sponsors were “expressing concerns about her second extended hiatus this year.” The same pressure wrapped in different words, all carrying the same subtext: her trauma was inconveniencing everyone.
She reached for her coffee mug, found it empty, and sighed. Five days at Valor Ridge, and she was still trapped in limbo—unable to go back, uncertain how to move forward. The kittens gave her purpose, a reason to set an alarm, to function. But they wouldn’t need her forever.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her spiral. Bramble would have scratched, and Anson would have stood silently until she sensed his presence. This was someone else.
She opened the door to find a man with tousled russet-brown hair and a smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. A tiny Jack Russell terrier sat at attention by his feet, tail whipping back and forth like a metronome on cocaine.
“Jonah Reed,” he said, offering a hand. “Operations manager, horse whisperer, and the guy who keeps this place running while everyone else broods dramatically.”
Maggie shook his hand, returning his smile despite her lingering headache. “Maggie Rowe.”
“I know.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Anson’s been hoarding you since you got here. Five days and I’ve only caught glimpses of you running between here and the forge.”
Heat crept up her neck. “The kittens keep us busy.”
“So I’ve heard. Lila says they’re thriving.” He glanced at his watch. “Which is why I’m here. They’re due for a feeding in two hours, right? Plenty of time for me to give you the grand tour.”
“Oh, I—”
“No excuses.” He stepped back, gesturing broadly toward the ranch. “You can’t live here and only know the path between your cabin and Anson’s forge. That’s not healthy for anyone, especially him.”
She hesitated.
Reading her thoughts, Jonah added, “I already cleared it with Sutter. He said, and I quote, ‘Fine.’” He mimicked Anson’s gruff tone perfectly.
She laughed despite herself. “That does sound like him.”
“So? You coming?”
She grabbed her jacket—or River’s jacket; she really needed to get her own—and followed Jonah into the crisp morning air.
“First stop,” Jonah announced as they rounded the bunkhouse, “is our resident heartthrob and his dancing horse.”
In a fenced arena, a man rode a gleaming black horse in tight circles. As they approached, the horse executed a sideways movement that looked impossibly graceful for such a large animal.
As they approached, Maggie got her first clear look at the rider.
Dark hair, warm brown skin, and a smile that could probably be seen from space.
He wore a fitted black t-shirt despite the November chill, the sleeves straining against tattooed, muscled arms as he guided the horse through another rearing maneuver.
The horse was beautiful. Gleaming black coat with a long, flowing mane and tail. He seemed as much a performer as his rider. It pranced in tight circles, mane flying, every movement calculated for maximum drama.
“Morning, Cartier Cowboy,” Jonah called, leaning against the fence. “Making the rest of us look bad again?”
X flashed a grin that would’ve sold toothpaste by the truckload. He guided the horse to a sliding stop just feet from where they stood, sending dust billowing.
“Gotta keep my Instagram followers happy.” X patted the horse’s neck, his eyes landing on Maggie with undisguised interest. “Well, hello there. You must be Just Maggie.”
She laughed. “River’s been talking about me?”
“Oh, Jesus, he hasn’t shut up.”
“And you must be the infamous X. He’s told me about you, too.”
“All lies.” He swung his leg over and dropped to the ground with fluid grace. “Except the parts about me being devastatingly handsome and the best rider on the ranch. Those are completely true.”
The horse snorted, as if in agreement.
“This is Troubadour.” X stroked the stallion’s gleaming neck. “Drama queen extraordinaire, but worth every headache.”
Maggie stepped closer, admiring the animal’s sleek lines. “He’s beautiful.”
“Want to try?” X jerked his chin toward the saddle. “He’s showing off for you already.”
She took an involuntary step back. “I haven’t ridden in years.”
“Troub’s a gentleman.” X’s smile softened slightly. “Despite appearances.”
“Another time, maybe.”
“Your loss.” X swung back into the saddle with effortless grace. “But you should come to my next rodeo performance. X’s VIP guest list. Very exclusive.”
“He invites everyone,” Jonah stage-whispered.
X ignored him, guiding Troubadour into another spinning maneuver that sent dirt flying. “Watch this!”
What followed was a display of horsemanship that bordered on showmanship – Troubadour rearing, spinning, and performing moves that looked more like dance than riding.
X stood up on the saddle, and her breath caught. “Is he—”
“It’s okay. He hasn’t broken his neck. Yet.”
X balanced on the saddle, arms spread wide like a tightrope walker. The horse continued its controlled movements beneath him as if this were perfectly normal behavior.
A blur of gray and black streaked across the paddock, and Maggie startled as a dog – no, more wolf than dog – joined the performance. It raced circles around horse and rider, occasionally leaping to impressive heights as if demanding equal attention.
“That’s Kavik,” Jonah explained. “X’s personal demon. Those two went viral on TikTok last month.”
X gave a low whistle, and both horse and dog immediately changed direction, performing a synchronized spin that could only have come from hours of practice.
“They’re showoffs, all three of them,” Jonah laughed. “Match made in heaven.”
When the impromptu performance ended, X trotted back to the fence, Kavik panting at Troubadour’s heels. “What’d you think? Worth a subscription to my channel, right?”
“Absolutely,” Maggie admitted. “You’re very good.”
X’s smile turned genuine for a moment, less showman and more man. “Thanks. Not a lot of chances for fancy riding in Atlanta, where I grew up. Making up for lost time.”
Something shifted in Maggie’s understanding of him – the performer’s mask slipping to reveal the boy who’d dreamed of horses he couldn’t afford to ride.
“We should keep moving,” Jonah said, checking his watch. “Lots to see.”
They waved goodbye to X, who was already setting up his phone to record another trick, Kavik barking encouragement while Troubadour preened.
“That’s our resident heartbreaker,” Jonah explained as they walked toward a small outbuilding at the edge of the property. “Though these days, he’s got eyes for only one woman. Local florist named Mariah. She’s immune to his charm, which is driving him crazy.”
“Sounds like a classic rom-com setup.”
“Oh, it is. Complete with grand gestures that backfire spectacularly.”
Their next stop was a small cabin with blackout curtains covering the windows. Jonah knocked with the rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut,” and the door swung open to reveal a lean, wiry man with ice-gray eyes that seemed to register everything in an instant.
“Ghost,” Jonah said. “This is Maggie. Maggie, this is Owen Booker, but we call him Ghost for reasons that become obvious if you ever try to find him when he doesn’t want to be found.”
Ghost nodded once. “The letter writer.”
A woman appeared in the doorway behind him—striking, with long black hair and dark eyes. “Don’t mind him. Social skills aren’t part of his CIA training. Naomi Lefthand,” she said, extending her hand. “Tribal police and future sheriff of this county.”
Maggie shook the offered hand. “Future sheriff?”
“Running against the incumbent,” Jonah explained. “Hank Goodwin.”
“The same Goodwin who arrested half the men at this ranch on bullshit charges,” Naomi added, gesturing to a stack of campaign materials on a desk behind her. “Man’s been running this county like his personal kingdom for too long.”
“Anson mentioned you both in his letters.” Maggie looked at Ghost. “You have the blue mug.”
Ghost’s expression shifted slightly—surprise, maybe. “He told you about that?”
“About fixing your mug with kintsugi? Yes.” She smiled. “He was really proud of how it turned out.”
Ghost’s eyes shifted to the mug sitting beside his laptop. The blue ceramic shone with gold-filled cracks that caught the light, making the damage beautiful rather than broken. “It’s...” He paused, seeming to search for words. “Important.”
“That’s high praise coming from him,” Naomi said with a small smile. “Most things barely register as ‘adequate.’”
“We’re in the middle of something,” Ghost said abruptly.
Jonah held up his hands and took a step back. “Far be it from me to keep you from your super-secret operations.”
As they walked away, Maggie glanced back. Ghost had already returned to whatever he was doing, but Naomi watched them go, her dark eyes lingering on Maggie with an intensity that felt like assessment.
“Are they always that... intense?” Maggie asked once they were out of earshot.
Jonah laughed. “Ghost? Yes. He’s basically a human security system with PTSD. Naomi’s usually more approachable, but they’re working on her campaign strategy. Election is next year, and Hank Goodwin fights dirty.”
“Anson mentioned him in his letters. Said he has a personal vendetta against Walker and the ranch?”