11. Sorrel
SORREL
We direct our horses toward the watering trough for a quick drink. We’ve been riding for over an hour now and have only moved one herd to the south pasture. Two more to go, and these boys already look like they’re hurtin’. City slickers in cowboy boots—bless their hearts.
Denton comes trotting up on his horse besides mine, his hat pulled low and sweat trailing down his jawline. Still smiling, still trying.
“Careful,” I warn, nodding to his mare. “She’s a nasty one. Tried to take a chunk out of Duke last week. Keep her in check.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a crooked grin, tipping his hat as if he’s auditioning for a Marlboro ad. “So, on a scale of one to full-blown disaster, how’m I doin’?”
“You’re not dead. That’s a win,” I shrug. No need to boost his ego too much.
“That’s it?” he asks, mock offended. “Not even a half-smile for the guy risking heatstroke, chafing, and public humiliation for the full cowboy experience?”
I turn, finally meeting his eyes. Mistake. They’re striking, and there comes that warmth again.
“This isn’t a retreat for us, Denton,” I say, the bite slipping into my voice before I can stop it. “This is our life. It’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about not screwing up and getting someone hurt.” That one lands hard. His smile fades, and that easy charm disappears.
“Right,” he says quietly. “Got it.”
I shift in the saddle, guilt tugging at my chest. I’m being too hard on him.
But this isn’t a damn photo op. Out here, one wrong move and you aren’t just embarrassed—you’re in the ER or worse.
Still...he is trying—a lot harder than the usual guests we get out here.
I can tell he actually wants to learn this way of life.
“You’re doing fine,” I mutter, almost too low to hear. He looks over, doesn’t smile. Just gives me a little nod, respectful, like maybe he understands a little more than I thought. As we're getting ready to move the next group of cattle, a shout rings out from behind us.
“Loose calf!” Larry, one of the hands, hollers in our direction.
“I got it!” Johnny shouts, spinning his horse in a circle like that’s gonna do anything.
I whip around just in time to see a lanky black calf take off toward the thicket. It’s running full speed across the open field, tail flagged high like it’s damn proud of itself.
“Of course,” I mutter, already turning Duke to give chase.
“I’ll come with you,” Denton says, kicking his mare into motion before I can tell him not to.
We break off from the herd, the sounds of cattle and hollering fading behind us as our horses pound across the pasture. The calf zigzags like it’s being chased by the devil himself, but to my surprise Denton keeps up.
I have to admit, he rides better than I expected.
A lot of bronc riders don’t even know how to actually ride a horse—just get bucked off them.
Denton rides deep in his seat, loose and balanced, not gripping the reins like his life depends on it.
I’m sure his mare appreciates him not pulling on her face.
We manage to get ahead of the little bastard, cutting it off before it can slip into the brush. I ease Duke to the left, and Denton moves to the right, flanking the calf in a perfect little pinch move.
“Well, look at you,” I say, unable to hide the flicker of surprise in my voice. “Real cowboy in the making.” I wink at him.
“Oh, is that right? Don’t you know, I’m as real as they get,” he puffs. “I ain’t no gunsel, Sorrel. But I will admit I’m mostly just praying this horse knows what she’s doing.”
I laugh, really laugh this time. It slips out before I can stop it. And damn if it doesn’t feel good. He looks proud of himself for getting it out of me.
We slow our horses as the calf reluctantly trots back toward the herd, now trapped between us. The poor little guy knows he lost the game.
The wind kicks up a bit, ruffling Denton’s shirt, and he gives me a look that isn’t cocky or smooth, just a sweet smile that says thank you.
I look at him for a long second, then give a small nod. “Thanks for the help, cowboy.”
We ride back in silence, but it’s a comfortable one this time. The kind that settles in when two people feel comfortable enough that they don’t need to fill the silence. Damn it, if I don’t hate how easy it is to enjoy riding beside him.
As we rejoin the group, Denton peels off to help one of the hands close the gate behind the second herd. I swing down off Duke to tighten my cinch, brushing dust off my jeans and trying to ignore the wave of happiness that has settled in me.
Sutton walks over, leading her horse by the reins, and leans in close enough that no one else can hear.
“Someone’s got a crush on the pretty country music star,” she whispers with a smirk, nudging me with her elbow.
I shoot her a sharp look. “I do not.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you were grinning like a school girl after you and Denton were playing tag with that calf.”
I shake my head, ignoring her. I make myself busy with Duke’s mane, working the witches’ knots out of it with my fingers.
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums. “Stop trying not to feel anything. You’re allowed to be happy you know.”
Before I can fire back, she turns to mount her horse, leaving me there with the reins in one hand and my walls crumbling down just a little in the other.
Dash trots beside me as we walk through the west pasture, looking over a few broodmares with their babies.
The air has cooled, finally, and the last blush of sunlight is bleeding off the mountains like a watercolor painting.
I needed a minute to myself before dinner just to breathe.
The quiet out here has always been a comfort.
But tonight, it feels heavy. Like something is shifting.
As I walk toward the main house, I catch the sound of soft picking. The familiar rasp of guitar strings under calloused fingers. I pause.
Denton is sitting near the fence line, his long legs stretched out in front of him, hat tipped low, just picking a slow, wandering tune. He looks peaceful. It’s almost as if the ranch is claiming him and his guitar. Like maybe he belongs here.
“That sounds beautiful,” I say, stepping into view.
He looks up, not startled. Eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Didn’t take you for the type to sneak up on a man while he’s baring his soul to the mountains.”
I snort. “That wasn’t soul-baring. That was three chords and maybe a lyric, but like I said, it sounds good.”
He taps the guitar. “Gotta start somewhere.”
I hesitate, then walk over and lean on the fence beside him. For a minute, we sit there side by side. Him strumming something low and sweet—me staring off at the last light fading across the ridge.
“I’m not trying to impress you,” he mumbles, without looking at me.
I blink. “Did I say you were?”
“Nope. But I can tell I’ve been trying too hard anyway. Think I wanted to prove something.”
I pause, not knowing how to respond to that. He sets the guitar down gently beside him.
“Truth is…I’ve been so burnt out. The music, the shows—I love it don't get me wrong. But somewhere along the way I forgot what I was doing it for. Then I got here…and it’s like I remembered how to breathe again.”
That throws me off balance for a beat. I look over at him. He isn’t putting on a show. Not tonight.
“I thought this was just a vacation for you.”
He smiles, soft and a little sad. “So did I.”
I shift my weight. “You’re not the only one hiding from a life you used to love.”
He glances at me but doesn’t push.
I exhale. “This place…it’s safe…and I’ve been hiding out here most of the summer, hell, probably longer than that honestly.”
He nods. “He hurt you.”
I look down at my lap. “Yeah, he did.”
He doesn’t ask any more questions, just lets that comfortable quiet land again between us. After picking up the guitar again, he plays a few slow chords and hums something low.
“You writing a song?”
“Maybe.” He gives me a sideways look. “Kinda hard not to with you around.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “Am I gonna be your muse?” I ask, flipping my hair back and squaring up with him.
He shrugs. “I was thinkin’ ’bout it, girl as pretty as you, how could I not make you my muse.” He pauses again, then adds. “My agent called earlier. Big tour. Bigger than anything we’ve done, so I’m gonna need some new material.”
“Wow, Denton, that’s amazing. When is it?” I ask with genuine excitement for him.
“I told him I needed a few more days to think about it.”
He looks at me then, serious. “This place, it’s making me question things. And I don’t know what that means yet.”
My eyes go wide. “Denton, you’ve only been here one day and you’re ready to trade your mic and stage for a meager ranch hand salary?” I tease. “I thought furthering your career is what you wanted? You said so the other night.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s not. Maybe I want a quiet life, not always on the road with no real place to settle down. Maybe I want somewhere I can hide.”
He looks serious, and I’m at a loss for words again. This man has a habit of doing that to me.
The sound of gravel crunching under boots pulls both our heads up. I turn, squinting into the fading light. It’s one of the younger ranch hands, Crease. He’s maybe sixteen, all legs and looks like he needs a few extra meals on him.
Dad hired him last summer. Crease had been giving his mom grief and getting into trouble at school.
She lost her husband and he lost his father, so I don’t really blame the kid.
Everyone handles grief differently, and for him, it was acting out.
But his mother was now raising four boys alone on one income.
She didn’t know what to do with Crease. So, when she called up dad and asked if he could come work at the ranch, he of course said yes.
One summer and a hard winter were enough to straighten him out, though.
He chose to keep living here, but Sutton says he gives most of his wages to his mom.
Ranch life has a way of shaping young men and building character. He’s proof of that.
Crease jogs toward us, hat in hand and breathing shallow from running.
“Uh, Miss Sorrel?” he calls.
I straighten. “What’s wrong?”
He skids to a stop just past the barn, darting an uneasy glance at Denton before focusing on me.
“It’s Sutton, says she needs you to come to the main house now.”