Chapter 7
SEVEN
IZZY
The sun is still blazing over the paddocks as I step from the barn.
It’s late afternoon on Friday and my shirt is clinging to my back.
My muscles ache from a day that started at sunrise and hasn’t let up since.
I haven’t eaten. Haven’t showered. Haven’t done any of the things I needed to do for myself.
On top of that, I’ve just taken stock of the feed bins and it’s not good.
We have less than a week’s worth of food left.
A low rumble breaks the quiet, followed by the crunch of gravel and a cloud of dust kicking up from the road. An engine growls louder, like it’s being summoned by my rage, and when Dylan’s truck pulls into the driveway, I see red.
He climbs out of the cab slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he hasn’t spent the last week dodging every responsibility on this ranch. Judging by his bloodshot eyes and the dark beard shadowing his jaw, he’s been using his time for late nights and bourbon.
“Hey!” I shout, already marching toward him.
His boots falter, and for a second, I think he might keep walking like he can keep pretending this ranch doesn’t exist.
“Hey! Sullivan!” I snap again, closing the distance between us.
Finally, he turns. If I weren’t so goddamn furious, I might feel sorry for him.
But I’m all out of sympathy after a week running this place alone.
He’s wearing old jeans and a black tee that stretches over the muscles of his chest and shoulders.
Muscles that look tailor-made to make women everywhere swoon. Every woman except me, I correct.
“What is it?” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I laugh, the sound edged with bitterness. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I bothering you? I wasn’t sure if you even remembered there were horses on this ranch. You know, the ones you bought and have left me to take care of alone for the last week?”
“I’m working on something.” He momentarily looks like a deer caught in headlights, betraying his lie.
“What, exactly?” I reply. “Your next disappearing act?”
“If you can’t handle the ranch, Bill shouldn’t have made me take you on.”
“Excuse me?” I take a step closer, my voice low and deadly.
“My job is caring for these horses—and maybe you haven’t pulled your head out of your ass long enough to notice, but I’m doing my job.
What isn’t my job is running your finances and trying to figure out what the hell kind of ranch you think you’re running here. ”
He looks like he might argue, but I don’t give him the chance.
“We’ve got less than a week’s worth of feed. I tried calling in an order, but guess what? Oakwood Ranch doesn’t have an account with Triple Ridge Feed Supply and I don’t have the authority to open one. So come Tuesday, we’re going to have some very unhappy horses.”
“So if I set up an account with Triple Ridge…”
“And tell them I have the authority to buy whatever I need,” I add.
“Then you’ll get off my back?” he asks.
I sigh. “If that’s the only way I get anything out of you, then yeah.”
He turns to walk away as though this conversation is over, but I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the things I want to yell at him.
I shout after him, “I guess bare minimum is still asking too much from you, Sullivan.”
Dylan spins back, eyes blazing. “Don’t act like you know a damn thing about me, Brooks.” His words are fierce, but there’s something raw in his gaze that stops me short.
I hesitate, forcing the next words I speak to sound softer. “What I know is horses. These are living creatures, not footballs. They need care and attention and respect. You can’t just toss them around and hope for the best.”
He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. “You think I—”
Before he can finish, a horn blasts from the driveway.
A familiar blue pickup swings into view, and my irritation is instantly replaced with an anxiety I know all too well.
Of course they arrive right when I’m in the middle of a fight with my new boss.
But then I see the figure waving from the passenger seat, and all that tension evaporates. A wide smile breaks across my face.
“What now? This place is a circus,” Dylan mutters.
The truck has barely stopped when the passenger door flies open and a ball of energy launches toward me. I’m already laughing as she barrels into my arms, dark blonde curls bouncing, little arms squeezing tight. Emotion wells in my chest, tightening my throat, but I draw in a steadying breath.
“Dylan,” I say, lifting my chin to meet his eyes, “this is my daughter, Madison.”
She scrambles from my arms and steps toward him, her hand outstretched.
“Mad for short,” she says with a bright smile and a confidence that never fails to take my breath away.
“I’m eight years old, but I’m nearly nine.
I’m allergic to kiwis and I love horses.
” She squints up at him, all curiosity and confidence. “You don’t look like a rancher.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Dylan’s face and I brace myself for more of his outrage.
I should have told him about Madison sooner—for his sake and hers.
Guilt and regret wash over me, like sliding on a pair of old jeans.
The crippling fear that I’m failing my daughter.
She might love horses, but this life is hardly a stable upbringing for a child.
Living in a trailer on a fold-out bed with a mom who works every day from dawn until dusk.
The knowledge that we’d be moving on from Bill’s has hung over us for months—a dark storm cloud.
And now we’re at Oakwood for a matter of weeks.
With a musician for a dad who barely remembers his daughter from one tour to the next, I’m all too aware that any stability in her life has to come from me, which is something my parents remind me of frequently.
It’s why they want us to live with them.
They want Mad to have the same structured upbringing they gave me.
I just wish I knew what was the right thing to do for my daughter.
But then I remind myself that not having mentioned Mad to Dylan yet is on him, not me. If he’d shown up even once in the past week, I would’ve told him about her.
To my surprise, he nods a greeting, his big hand engulfing hers. “Nice to meet you, Mad. And you’re probably right.” He looks down at his sneakers and shrugs. “I guess we could use the help,” he adds, glancing at me.
We. The word throws me. I clamp my mouth shut around the caustic reply that rises up, choosing to focus on the way he gently shakes Mad’s hand.
“I’ll say goodbye to Grandpa Joe,” she says, tearing off toward the truck.
I watch her wrap her arms around Joe’s middle. He hugs her tight before handing over her weekend bag. My chest squeezes. If only her father could show her even half the love his parents do. Mad is lucky to have them.
Dylan looks from Madison to me and I meet it head-on.
“Before you say anything, Madison knows her way around a ranch, and she’s only here on weekends,” I say, voice tight.
“Her grandparents run a summer camp a few hours away near Granite Lake. In the summer, she stays at the camp during the week, but she loves ranching, so she comes back for weekends.”
He seems to think that over for a moment. “Where was she last weekend?”
“I asked her to stay at camp. It didn’t seem fair for her to come when I’d be working twenty-four-seven trying to get this place into some kind of working order.”
The dig lands and Dylan shifts on his feet as something like guilt flickers across his face.
“But if you’ve got a problem with Mad being here,” I continue, “I can take her somewhere else and leave you to ranch this place solo on weekends.”
He huffs. “My only problem is the giant stick up your ass.”
“Really? That’s your comeback?” I snap. “You haven’t lifted a finger in a week, and now you’re throwing attitude?”
He steps close, dropping his voice to a low rumble. “Are you sure you’re not the one with the problem, blondie?”
His nearness seems to buzz in my veins, tightening something low in my belly. For half a second, I forget how to breathe. Then without a word, I walk away to greet Mad’s grandpa Joe. No way am I giving Dylan the satisfaction of seeing he’s gotten under my skin.
I’m already one week into my six weeks here.
It’s all the time I’ve got doing the one job I love.
It’s not just Dylan’s complete lack of interest in ranching that’s convinced me I’m on a countdown.
It’s him. The man barely looks at me unless it’s to argue or sigh or roll his eyes.
Even if he decided not to sell, even if a miracle happened and he wanted to keep the horses and run this place as a working ranch, I’d still be the last person he’d want hanging around.
Five weeks to find another ranch, another paycheck, and another shot at stability for Mad.
Because if I don’t, it’s back to my parents’ house.
Their life. Their rules. I might as well try to enjoy my time here.
If that means biting my tongue and putting up with a man who is consumed by misery, sulking from his bruised ego, and who doesn’t give a damn who he takes with him on his way down to rock bottom, then so be it.
But something’s gotta give. Because this? This isn’t working. Not for me. Not for the horses. And sure as hell not for Dylan.