Chapter 2BOONE #3
Summit Springs has a way of holding on to you.
It clings to your boots, settles in your lungs.
It remembers who you were, even when you’re trying to forget.
It’s full of ghosts—of the people who never left, and the ones who did but still haunt the place anyway.
The ones who swore they’d outrun it, only to find themselves right back where they started.
I don’t know where I fit yet.
About half an hour later, I turn onto the gravel drive that leads to the Wilding Ranch.
The entrance sign is still there, same as always.
Thick timber posts. A slab of weathered wood with our name carved deep into it—Wilding Ranch, blackened and worn by time.
The brand’s front and center—a W inside a rising sun, burned clean.
Est. 1896 stamped in the corner. That sign’s taken more than a century of Montana beatings—snow, dust, hail big enough to crack windshields—and it’s still standing.
Like this ranch. Like the people who built it.
This place isn’t just land. It’s a legacy.
Almost ten thousand acres of prime Montana ground.
Pastures that roll for miles. Dense timber.
Foothills that rise up toward the mountains like they’ve got something to prove.
Wilding Ranch is one of the biggest operations in Summit Springs—built on sweat, grit, and knowing when to dig in and when to pivot.
Our cattle? They’re the real deal. Mostly Angus and Hereford—built for quality, built to last. Closed herd.
Bloodlines tracked down to the last damn detail.
We don’t breed for show. We breed for results.
Best beef you’ll find in this part of the country.
High-end restaurants, boutique butchers, international buyers—they all know the Wilding name. It means something.
And the horses? They speak for themselves.
Quarter Horses with bloodlines that go back generations.
Ranch horses. Rodeo stock. Athletes with brains, bone, and grit.
We train ’em here, slow and right. Start ’em young, make sure they’re solid before they ever see an auction.
Our stallions carry names people recognize.
Our broodmares? Buyers fly in just for a shot at their foals.
We run two auctions a year—invite-only. One for cattle, one for horses. Big money shows up. Serious buyers. It’s not just about the sale, it’s about reputation. Exclusivity. My dad built that from the ground up. A Wilding auction tells people we don’t just run a ranch—we set the bar.
I ease the truck through the gate, taking it all in.
Pastures stretch out on both sides, cattle scattered across the fields—thick-coated and slow-moving, turning their heads toward the truck.
A couple of the foremen are out on ATVs, checking fences, watching the herd.
In the round pen, a few hands are working horses—hooves kicking up dirt, voices low, measured.
Spring air carries the sound across the open space.
It’s the same ranch I left, give or take a few new fences and a fresh coat of paint on the barn. But something about it feels different now. Heavier, maybe.
I always told Jack I’d bring him here one day. He used to laugh at the idea—city boy from Queens who thought cowboy boots were just a Halloween costume. Said he didn’t trust any place that didn’t have a subway system or a decent slice of pizza.
But still, I used to talk about this place like it was heaven on dirt.
Told him how the air smelled like sage after it rained, how the sky stretched wide enough to make a man feel small in the best kind of way.
How if he ever made it out here, I’d throw him on a horse, make a cowboy out of him whether he liked it or not.
He’d roll his eyes, call me a redneck, then ask what the hell a round bale was.
And I’d promised—more than once—that one day I’d show him. Let him see the ranch. Let him see what home looked like.
But I never did. And now I never will. The thought wedges itself deep in my chest.
Jack would’ve hated the dust, bitched about the lack of Wi-Fi, asked why every animal here looked like it wanted to kill him. But damn if I don’t wish he were here anyway.
The barn comes up ahead—big, red, built like a damn fortress.
Dad rebuilt it himself years back, made sure it’d hold through anything.
It houses our best stock. Breeding stallions.
High-dollar cutting horses. Prospects just getting started under saddle.
The training pens run along the side, right next to the arena and the hot walkers.
Everything laid out with purpose. Clean. Efficient. No wasted steps.
I pass the bunkhouses—modest, solid. Nothing fancy, but they hold heat in the winter and keep cool in the summer. Good enough for the crew that sticks around all year.
Back past the barns is Loretta’s place. Small house. White siding. Always smells like fresh bread. She’s been feeding the hands longer than I’ve been alive. Keeps this place running in her own way—quiet, dependable. No one goes hungry on her watch.
Then there’s the main house.
Looks the same as it always has—sturdy, wide-shouldered, built to last. Classic farmhouse with wood shutters and a porch that wraps around like it’s got arms wide open.
Rocking chairs lined up neat, the old porch swing still creaking on its chain at the far end.
I can see my mom sitting there in my head, mug of coffee in her hands, watching the storm clouds roll in over the mountains like she was waiting on something only she could see coming.
They’ve made some changes since I left. New windows. Fresh paint. Landscaping cleaned up a bit. But the bones are the same.
The heart’s still here.
I cut the engine and just sit there for a minute, hands resting on the wheel.
Home.
I did just about every job there is on this ranch growing up.
Fed horses before sunrise. Drove cattle, fixed busted fences, hauled hay, started colts.
By eighteen, I could eyeball a steer and guess its weight within five pounds.
Watch a horse move and know exactly what kind of ride it’d give you.
I knew every trail, every dry creek bed, every stubborn-ass fence post that never stayed straight.
Knew this house just as well.
I knew which floorboards creaked, which step on the stairs would give you away if you were trying to sneak out.
Which spot on the wall made Mom sigh every time the paint peeled just a little more.
I figured out how to slip through the laundry room window without waking anyone, how to hug the shadows past the old oak tree out back.
That tree’s been here longer than we have.
I remember the sound of the screen door slamming if you didn’t catch it just right. The smell of coffee and bacon creeping up the stairs before the sun even showed up. Mom’s old hallway clock that never chimed on time—always a minute behind, but we all knew to go by it anyway.
Me and my siblings—hell, we slept outside more than we did in our beds most summers.
Rolled our bedrolls out in the back pasture and claimed we were “watching the herd,” even though we weren’t doing a damn thing but lying under the stars.
Sky was so big out here, it made everything else feel small.
We’d stay up till our eyes quit on us, listening to the cattle shift in the dark, coyotes calling somewhere in the distance, the wind moving low across the hills.
And Dad…he was everywhere and nowhere at once.
He taught me how to work cattle. How to rope. How to pull a calf when time was running out. How to make a clean cut when a steer needed doctoring. He was the one shaking me awake before the sky even turned gray, telling me if I wanted to be a man, I had to earn it.
But he wasn’t the kind of man who gave out praise. He didn’t pat you on the back or say he was proud. He expected you to get it right the first time. Expected a lot. And if you couldn’t keep up, you sure as hell heard about it.
I let out a breath, rub the back of my neck. This house, this land, this life—it built me, from the ground up.
I step out of the truck and barely get both boots on solid ground before I hear her.
“Boone Jameson Wilding, if you’re tracking mud on my porch, I swear to God—”
I turn toward the garden, already smirking.
Molly Wilding is a one-woman army. The kind of woman who could calm a colicky baby with one arm while roping a runaway yearling with the other.
She didn’t just run this ranch—she kept it upright when it should’ve fallen.
I’ve got more memories than I can count of her with Ridge or Sage strapped to her back in a carrier while she stacked hay or hauled fence posts or rode out to check on a sick cow without blinking.
I’ve seen her break colts with nothing but grit and patience. Then come inside, wash the dirt off her hands, and balance the books like the whole ranch depended on it.
She’s standing in the garden now, hands on her hips, staring me down.
The garden’s her thing. Always has been.
Runs along the whole side of the house, fenced in with timber Dad built back in the day.
She grows damn near everything—beans, squash, tomatoes the size of softballs, carrots that always come out crooked but taste better than anything you’ll buy at a store.
There’s a grapevine twisting up the trellis like it knows where it’s going.
And just beneath it, a patch of wildflowers that Mom refuses to pull.
They’re scrappy and mismatched—purple thistle, yellow daisies, the occasional pop of crimson.
She says they remind her that not everything has to be neat to be beautiful.
That some things earn their place by showing up, season after season, without anyone asking them to.