Epilogue
DAWSON
The bronc didn't trust me yet, but she would.
I stood in the center of the round pen, arms loose at my sides, watching her circle.
She was a three-year-old bay with a white blaze and enough attitude to make her worth the trouble.
Her ears flicked back and forth, tracking my position without committing to acknowledgment.
That was fine. Trust wasn't something you could demand from a horse—or anyone else, for that matter.
The morning air bit at my face, sharp enough to sting.
February in Montana didn't mess around. The sun was barely up, painting the snow-dusted pastures in shades of gray and pale gold.
My breath came out in puffs, and somewhere behind me, one of the barn cats was complaining about the cold from its perch on the fence rail.
I took a half step to the left. The mare's stride hitched barely, her attention narrowing on me. Good. She was starting to tune in.
“That's it,” I said, voice low and even. “Just you and me, babe.”
She snorted, shaking her head, but her pace slowed. Another few minutes and she'd be ready to turn in and face me properly. I wasn't in a hurry. The best work happened the animal set the tempo, not the other way around.
My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I ignored it.
The mare's inside ear tipped toward me, a small concession. I waited, counting her strides, letting the rhythm settle between us. When she finally turned her head, I shifted my weight back and angled my shoulder away. It was an invitation, not a command.
She slowed, then stopped. Then stood there blowing hard, her sides heaving.
I waited.
My damn phone buzzed again.
The mare took a short step toward me. Then another. When she was close enough, I reached out slowly and let her sniff my glove. Her nostrils flared, taking in my scent, deciding whether I was worth the risk.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “I know the feeling.”
She didn't pull away, so I ran my hand along her neck, slow and steady, feeling the tension in her muscles start to ease. This was the part that mattered—the moment when a horse decided you weren't a threat. Everything else built from here.
My phone went off a third time. Fuck. I gave the mare one last pat and stepped back, letting her process. She stood there, watching me with those big dark eyes, and I felt the familiar satisfaction of progress. Small, quiet, earned.
I pulled out my phone as I headed for the gate to see who the hell felt the need to get ahold of me so damn early. I had two texts from Slade and one from Ruby. Didn’t anyone in this town sleep in on the weekends?
Slade: Rodeo committee approved the stock contract. Official notice coming this week.
Slade: Training timeline's tight. We need to start running numbers on which animals are ready.
I read them twice, then pocketed my phone and latched the gate behind me.
The news wasn't a surprise. Slade and I had been working toward this for months.
But seeing it in writing made it real. The rodeo was happening, and the Wilde Creek Ranch was providing stock. Broncs, bulls, the whole operation.
It was a good opportunity. The kind that could establish us as a serious outfit, not just a working ranch that happened to have some rough stock on the side. But it also meant timelines, expectations, and a hell of a lot of coordination.
I headed toward the barn, my boots crunching through the thin layer of snow.
The sun was higher now, bright enough to make me wish I’d grabbed my shades before heading out so early.
Inside, I recognized the familiar sounds of morning feeding.
Hooves shifted in stalls and my favorite bronc let out a low huff while waiting impatiently for breakfast.
I checked the bay mare's feed chart on the clipboard by the door, noted her progress, and started measuring out grain. The work was automatic and methodical. I liked it that way. There was an easy simplicity to mornings like this—me, the animals, and a list of tasks that made sense.
My phone rang. Ruby’s name and number flashed across the screen. I answered on the third ring, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear while I hauled a water bucket. “Yeah.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“It's six-thirty. Did someone die?”
“I've been up since five. If you want sympathy, call someone else.” Ruby's voice was brisk and amused, the way it always was when she was about to rope me into something. “Did you get Slade's texts?”
“Just read them.”
“Good. So you know we're on a clock.” Papers rustled in the background. Ruby had her fingers into everything and coordinated efforts efficiently and without apologies. “I'm working on logistics for the rodeo, and I need to know your stock numbers by end of week.”
We “still had plenty of time but it wouldn’t do any good to argue with Ruby. Everyone in Mustang Mountain learned that for themselves at one point. I’ll have them.”
“I know you will. That's not why I'm calling.”
I set the bucket down and straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans. “What do you need?”
“I've got someone passing through town. A trick rider who’s looking for temporary stock access while prepping for her next circuit.”
I frowned. “Ruby—”
“Before you say no, hear me out. She's professional, she's got her own rig, and she's not going to get in your way. She just needs a safe place to work and a few reliable horses.”
“I'm running a training schedule. I don't have time to babysit a performer.”
“I'm not asking you to babysit. I'm asking you to let her use your arena and maybe lend her a horse or two if she needs it. She'll work around your schedule.”
I leaned against the stall door, considering. It wasn't that I minded helping someone out. Ruby wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. But I didn’t like taking on more than I could handle and I was already pushing myself past my limit.
“How long?” I asked.
“A few weeks. Maybe a month, depending on how her training goes.”
“Ruby.”
“Dawson.” Her tone shifted, losing the teasing edge. “I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it'd be fine. She's good. Really good. And honestly, having her around might not be the worst thing. You could use the reminder that other people exist.”
“I see people.”
“Slade and your horses don't count.”
I exhaled through my nose, a slow, controlled breath. Ruby had a way of making reasonable points that were also deeply annoying. “When's she coming?”
“Today. This morning, actually. I told her you'd be around.”
“You told her—” I bit back the rest of the sentence. There was no point. Ruby had already decided, and I'd already lost. “Fine. But if she disrupts my schedule, she's out.”
“She won't. Thanks, Dawson. I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She hung up before I could say anything else.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and finished the feeding, my mind already running through the adjustments I'd need to make. Another person on the property meant another set of variables—equipment, timing, space. It wasn't insurmountable, but it was one more thing to manage.
I told myself that was why I was irritated. That it had nothing to do with the thought of having a woman around.
By mid-morning, I'd worked two more broncs and repaired a section of fence that had come loose during the last storm. The sky was clear now, bright and cold, and the ranch had settled into its usual rhythm. I was checking the hinge on the arena gate when I heard the sound of tires on gravel.
I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans, and turned toward the drive.
A white pickup truck rolled into view, pulling a modest two-horse trailer behind. It wasn't flashy or full of sponsorship decals. Just the kind of rig someone used for work, not show.
The truck slowed, then stopped near the barn. I waited, my attention narrowing to the driver's side door.
When it finally opened, a woman stepped out. I took one look at her, and the all the air got sucked out my lungs.
She had the kind of curves that made a man forget what he’d been doing two seconds earlier.
Dark hair spilled loosely down her back, catching the light, and she wore jeans that looked like they’d been broken in the hard way.
Her boots were scuffed, her jacket zipped halfway, and she moved like she was comfortable in her body instead of trying to manage it.
She shut the truck door and leaned back against it for a second, scanning the ranch like she was taking inventory. Her gaze landed on me and stuck.
Something in my chest tightened.
She pushed off the truck and started toward me. Gravel crunched under her boots, and her stride ate up the distance between us. She walked like she knew where she was going, even if she didn’t.
By the time she stopped a few feet from me, I’d forgotten my own damn name.
“Dawson Griffith?” she asked. Her voice had a warmth to it that didn’t match the cold air. Easy. Smooth. Like she was used to being listened to.
“That’s me,” I said, stopping myself before I thanked her for reminding me.
She smiled then, and her whole face lit up, including dark brown eyes that were almost hidden underneath her cowboy hat. “Good. I was hoping I had the right place.”
I wiped my hands on my jeans again even though they were already clean. “You need something?”
“Depends,” she said, tipping her head slightly. “Are you the one training broncs for the Mustang Mountain rodeo?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Perfect. I’m Lilah Martinez, and Ruby sent me over. She said you’d be able to help me with some stock.”
“What kind of stock?” I asked.
She hooked her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans. “The kind that can keep up with a trick rider who doesn’t like being told no.”
“You ride?” I asked.
Her smile turned wicked. “I fly.”
Something in my gut shifted. Because if Lilah Martinez was about to become part of my life, the quiet, controlled world I’d built for myself was about to get a whole lot louder.