Chapter 8
Eight
ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME WITH A COWBOY?
WYATT
Stonegate Ranch rolls out in front of me—three hundred acres of pure Halloway stubbornness made real.
The main house sits up on the rise maybe two hundred yards out, built from logs and stone like it's daring the mountain to try and knock it down. That wraparound porch faces east so you catch the sunrise every morning, and the American flag Dad hung from the corner post is snapping in the breeze.
Between me and the house, everything's laid out the way five generations of Halloway’s figured made sense—horse paddocks closest to the barn, then the equipment sheds, feed storage, and beyond that, pastures that stretch clear to the tree line.
The whole setup forms a rough square around the main yard.
The barn behind me is older than the house, my great-grandfather built the original structure from timber he cut himself, but that was just the beginning.
Over the decades, as cattle prices climbed and the ranch prospered, each generation added their own mark—more stalls than most operations could dream of, a climate-controlled feed room with automated systems, tack rooms lined with custom saddles crafted by the best leather workers in the business, and Dad's office where he runs one of the most profitable cattle and feed crop operations in Colorado.
The whole complex is built to last centuries.
It’s the round pen that draws my attention this morning.
Sixty feet of steel panels forming a perfect circle where man and horse come to an understanding, one way or another.
And right now, there's a two-year-old colt in there who's making it clear he doesn't want to understand anything except the quickest way out.
The horse is a blood bay with black points, built for speed and trouble in equal measure. He's got a wild look in his dark eyes. Every time someone moves too close to the fence, he pins his ears and kicks out with enough force to cave in a man's ribs.
Kit sits perched on the top rail of the round pen like she was born there, her legs swinging as she stares down the colt. He's steering clear of her and she's invading his space.
My baby sister's sixteen and fearless, which is a dangerous combination in any circumstances but especially around livestock that outweighs her by a thousand pounds. She’s got that stubborn set to her jaw that means she's already made up her mind about something the rest of us aren't going to like. I wonder if she had that look when Dad picked her up at the police station. She and a bunch of friends were caught spray painting the high school mascot on the town’s water tower.
My shoulder throbs as I shift, reminding me why I'm here.
"Wyatt." Grandpa's voice cuts through my brooding. He comes out of the tack room behind me. At seventy-two, he's still built like the oak fence posts he used to split by hand—weathered, scarred but standing. His attention sweeps from the horse to Kit to me.
He's carrying a lead rope in his work-callused hands, and I know from experience that when Grandpa picks up a rope, things are about to get interesting.
"Morning, Grandpa." I nod toward the colt. "Where'd that one come from?"
"Auction in Denver." His voice is gravel on gravel.
Kit spots Grandpa and the rope and hops down. "I'll do it," she announces, like she's offering to fetch the mail instead of volunteering to dance with half a ton of unbroken horseflesh.
Grandpa doesn't even look at her. "Billy!" His voice carries across the yard like a whip crack.
Billy, one of the ranch hands, steps out of a stall, all elbows and knees despite Mom feeding him like he's got a hollow leg.
Kid's nineteen but carries himself like he's seen more miles than most men twice his age.
His sandy hair's sticking out every which way from under that ratty ball cap he never takes off, and his jeans are clean but faded.
He showed up on our doorstep four years ago, hitchhiking and lying about his age.
Grandpa took one look at him and said, "Give him a meal and a job. He'll earn the rest." And he did.
"Billy's been doing pretty good with the young ones," Grandpa says, his tone brooking no argument. "I want him to try."
Kit's face flushes red as her shirt. "You think I can't handle him because I'm a girl.”
"Kit." The warning in Grandpa's voice could stop a charging bull.
Kit appears to live beyond warnings these days. She plants her hands on her hips and squares off with the old man. "I've been riding since I could walk, and I can rope better than any of you, but you want to give him the shot because he's a guy."
Billy shifts uncomfortably, clearly wishing he could disappear into the barn walls. The kid hates being the center of attention under the best circumstances. He takes the rope from Grandpa and heads toward the pen.
"It's not about being a girl," I say. Both Kit and Grandpa turn to look at me. "It's about being too keyed up."
Kit whirls on me. "You're taking his side? Mr. I can't be bothered with the ranch."
I drop the wheelbarrow—full of my last half hour's worth of work—with a clunk that echoes through the barn. "I'm taking the horse's side." I keep my voice level. "You're wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. That colt can feel your energy from here, and it's making him nervous."
As if to prove my point, the bay pins his ears and snorts, dancing sideways.
"You want to work with him? Fine." I continue, studying my sister's face. "But first you need to settle yourself down."
Kit's face cycles through anger, hurt, and pure frustration. She knows I'm right—but admitting it means backing down, and backing down isn't in her DNA any more than it's in mine.
"This is bull crap!" she yells, kicking the barn door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
The colt explodes into motion. He rears up on his hind legs, striking at the air with front hooves then comes down bucking and kicking. Billy, who had been slowly approaching with a halter, scrambles backward so fast he nearly trips over his own boots.
I'm over the fence before I consciously decide to move, my boots hitting the dirt inside the round pen as Billy retreats toward the gate.
"Hand me the rope," I tell him, keeping my voice low and calm.
Billy passes me the lead rope with obvious relief.
The colt wheels around to face me, nostrils flared and white showing around his eyes. He's a heck of a looker when he's mad—all muscle and attitude, fighting something he can't figure out.
"He's reacting out of fear; pushing back because he doesn't know himself yet," I tell Billy, though my eyes never leave the horse.
"Are you talking about the horse or about me?" Kit's voice carries from the fence.
I glance over at her and can't help the smirk that tugs at my mouth. Even in the middle of a tantrum, my sister's too smart for her own good. "Maybe both," I admit.
Kit growls low in her throat. She knows she's been called out, and part of her respects the honesty.
I turn my attention back to the colt, who's dancing around the pen.
I stand still in the center; rope coiled loose in my hands and let him move. Let him run off the adrenaline and fear until he starts to wonder why I'm not chasing him, why I'm not demanding anything from him and giving him the space to figure himself out.
It takes maybe five minutes before he boils down to a trot, his breathing evening out as he realizes I'm not a threat. Another minute and he slows to a walk, finally stopping to face me from the far side of the pen.
We size each other up.
Then, like he's made a decision, the colt takes a step toward me. Then another. His head comes down slightly, ears forward, and when he reaches me, he lowers his muzzle until I can feel his breath on my hands.
I reach up real slow, giving him time to think about it, and touch his face just above the nostrils. When he doesn't jerk away, I slide my hand up to his forehead, then down his neck and feel the fight go right out of him.
"That's it," I say quiet-like, something settling in my own chest as he decides I'm all right. "Just trying to help you sort out who you are, boy."
From the fence, I hear Kit huff out a breath that might be frustration or might be grudging admiration. "Show-off," she mutters.
When I look over, she's pushing away from the fence, headed back toward the main house with her shoulders set in a line that screams wounded pride. Kit hates being wrong almost as much as she hates being told what to do, and today she got a double dose of both.
Grandpa’s headed back into the barn without a word.
Billy approaches the fence. "You good? I got chores to do."
"Yep. Thanks for your help." I slip the halter over the horse's nose and lead him toward the barn, the rope loose in my hand. He follows like we've been partners for years instead of minutes. I’m not going to ask any more of him than that today and it’s time to put him up.
I spot Grandpa standing with his hands braced on the stall door, studying something inside with the intensity of a man evaluating livestock at auction.
I move closer to see what's captured the old man's attention.
Inside the stall stands a mare that I've never seen before.
She's a barrel horse, no question about it.
Built lean and athletic, with long, straight legs made for covering ground fast and the kind of heavy muscling through her hindquarters that speaks of explosive speed and the ability to turn on a dime.
Her coat is like burnished copper, and she's got four white socks and a blaze that runs perfectly straight down her face.
"What, are we into barrel racing now?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. The colt pricks his ears and sniffs the air towards the mare. "Why'd you spend money on that thing?"
It's not that there's anything wrong with barrel racing—we just wouldn’t have much use for a horse like that. We're cattle people. This mare is built for a completely different kind of work than anything we've ever done here. Maybe Kit wants to take up barrel racing.
Grandpa doesn't look away from the mare. "Hmm," he grunts, which is about as much response as I'm going to get until he decides what he wants to say.
I lean against the stall door next to him, studying the mare despite myself. She's quality, no doubt about it.
"You work with horses better than most men I've known," Grandpa says finally, his voice carrying that gravel-and-thunder tone that's been shaping Halloway men for as long as I can remember. "Makes no sense, you riding bulls when you could be doing something that matters."
"Bulls matter," I say.
His head finally swings my way. "You've got something real here, boy. Something you could build on instead of just surviving."
Hearing it put that way—surviving instead of building—makes something twist uncomfortable in my chest.
I do have a way with horses. Always have. It's not something I learned or practiced or earned through hard work—it's just there, like breathing or the color of my eyes. But acknowledging that means acknowledging what I'm giving up every time I climb into a chute.
Grandpa straightens up from the stall door. He turns and heads out. The colt steps sideways to keep him in sight.
"You forgot your horse," I call after him, gesturing toward the mare in the stall.
"It's not mine!" he calls over his shoulder.
I turn back to the stall, studying the horse with new eyes. The mare steps closer, extending her muzzle toward me with the kind of cautious interest that horses show when they're trying to figure out if you're worth their time. Behind me, the colt shuffles his feet.
"Well, don't you have legs for miles," I murmur, running my hand down her neck. "I bet your bloodlines could turn a man's head."
"I bet you say that to all the girls."
The voice behind me sends electricity straight down my spine. It can’t be … I whip around so fast my shoulder yelps in protest.
Kinsley.
I gape as the pain ebbs, and I take in the cowgirl standing before me.
Dang, she's as hot as I remember.
I bite back a curse.
What is she doing in my barn?
Rodeo and the ranch are supposed to stay in their own lanes—two completely different worlds that don't cross paths, don't mess with each other, and sure as heck don't create the kind of trouble that's standing in front of me right now with that smile that's making my brain forget how to work.
She's got a bucket of what looks like specialty grain, which just adds to the pile of questions I can't answer.
My gaze slides down her frame before I can stop it—taking in those curves, the way her jeans fit, every inch of trouble wrapped up in denim.
When I finally get my eyes back where they belong, she's watching me with a look that's equal parts knowing and daring, and all kinds of dangerous.
"I don't care one bit about your bloodlines, sweetheart," I hear myself say, my voice coming out husky. "What I want to know is, are you looking for a good time with a cowboy?”
I catch the way her breath hitches just enough to let me know the line landed exactly where I aimed it. But there's something else there too.
I silently curse again.
She's calling my bluff without saying a word.