Chapter 7BOONE
BOONE
The chicken is fucking winning.
Sage and I are grown adults—fully capable, halfway intelligent human beings who know how to handle livestock—and yet here we are, tearing through the house like we’re auditioning for a slapstick comedy.
“Betty White, you little asshole! Get back here!” Sage dives for her like she’s going for a fumble recovery, nearly face-planting into the side of the couch.
The hen flaps like a bat outta hell, clears the coffee table, and lands square on the arm of Mom’s favorite chair—because of course she does.
I’m bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “We can rope a steer in under thirty seconds but a chicken’s our downfall?”
Sage glares at me like I’m the problem here. “Where the hell is Elvis?”
I throw a hand in the air. “I don’t know, but that lazy mutt better be out saving a goddamn calf or something.”
Elvis—border collie, cattle whisperer, occasional freeloader—is nowhere to be found. He’s probably sunbathing behind the barn, living his best life while we get clowned by poultry.
Sage makes another move. Misses again. Hits the rug with a grunt. “Shit.”
Betty bolts .
“Cut her off!” she yells, already scrambling up.
I make a break for the kitchen, trying to head her off, but the damn thing shoots between my legs like a feathered bullet. Nearly trips me in the process.
Something crashes behind me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, spinning around just in time to see a mixing bowl roll across the floor and a trail of mail fluttering in Betty’s wake.
We both freeze as she skids to a stop on the kitchen island—like she’s daring us to try again.
Sage and I lock eyes with the bird.
One…two…
We lunge at the same time.
And the chicken launches herself straight at my face.
“Shit!” I throw my arms up, duck too late. Something sharp digs into my shoulder as she claws her way up and over, using me like a damn springboard, and lands—no shit—on top of the fridge.
I whip around, feathers in my face, heart pounding, and there she is. Perched beside a box of Honey Nut Cheerios like she’s Queen of the Ranch. Smug as hell.
Sage lets out a long breath, hands on her hips. “Boone, if you don’t get that damn chicken down—”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” I snap, reaching for the broom leaning against the wall. “And it’s your damn chicken.”
Betty White ruffles her feathers like she owns the place. She’s eyeing me from the top of the fridge like this is all some twisted game she’s already won.
I narrow my eyes. “Betty, don’t you—”
She flaps. Hard.
Cereal boxes launch through the air like grenades. A tidal wave of Cheerios hits the floor.
Sage lets out a scream so sharp it could shatter glass. “This is bullshit! ”
I close my eyes and drag a slow breath through my nose. “I’m gonna kill that bird. ”
“No,” Sage mutters through clenched teeth. “ We’re gonna kill that bird.”
I check the time. “Lark and Hudson’ll be here any minute.”
She groans. “Perfect. Nothing says welcome back to the ranch like poultry-induced insanity.”
I glance back at the feathered menace. “Go find Elvis. He’ll chase her down and scare her out.”
Sage gives me a death glare. “You think I’ve got a GPS on him? He could be halfway to the ridge by now.”
“Then you better start walking,” I say, jerking my chin toward the door. “Or take an ATV. Either find the dog or spend the next three hours doing cardio around the kitchen.”
She grumbles under her breath, pulls her boots on like she’s marching to war, and yanks her cap off the hook.
Betty tracks her movements like she’s bored.
As Sage stomps out, I look back at the bird. “This isn’t over.”
Betty clucks once. Taunting.
I shake my head and step outside, letting the door click shut behind me.
The porch boards groan under my boots as I settle onto the top step, arms braced on my knees.
Sun’s high and steady, casting long shadows across the grass.
There’s a breeze pushing through the fields, carrying the smell of hay, dirt, and horse sweat.
The sound of the ranch stretches out around me—cattle lowing from the south pasture, the farrier hammering shoes onto a gelding near the barn, the faint whistle of wind slipping through the trees.
It’s been a full day already. Started before dawn, like always.
Checked the east fence line while the world was still dark.
Worked that young colt in the round pen until he stopped testing me.
Rode out with Witt and Duke after breakfast, went over grazing rotations, shifted the bulls out to new grass.
By noon, I was sweating through my shirt and more than ready to take the rest of the day slow. Which, of course, was right about the time Sage’s fucking psychotic chicken decided to make herself at home in the house.
I huff out a laugh under my breath, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
I’ve never had much patience for chickens, but Sage and Wren talked Dad into letting them get a handful a few years back, apparently—as long as they promised they’d do all the work.
Named each one after old Hollywood stars like they were royalty.
Betty White’s the worst of the lot—mouthy, fast, impossible to catch.
Second only to Clark Gable, the rooster, who’s been gunning for me since I moved back.
Little bastard’s got a personal vendetta and zero sense of fear.
I roll my shoulders, already feeling the weight of the day in my muscles. But the work’s done for now. I made sure of it—handed off the rest of my responsibilities to the ranch hands so I could spend the whole day with Hudson and Lark.
I rub my hands over my jeans, then press my palms to my thighs, like that’ll stop the restless energy buzzing through me. It doesn’t.
I don’t know why I’m so damn nervous.
Maybe it’s because this is the first time Hudson will see the ranch—the place that’s been in my family for generations, the place that made me who I am. Maybe it’s because I want him to love it here, want him to feel at home, want him to see a piece of himself in all of this.
Or maybe it’s because Lark is coming, too.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees.
That’s probably a bigger part of it than I’d like to admit.
This isn’t just Hudson meeting the ranch—this is Lark stepping back into my world after twelve years of absence, like no time has passed, like we didn’t tear each other apart when we were kids.
Like this land doesn’t carry every memory I’ve got of her tucked somewhere beneath the soil.
I don’t know what today is supposed to fucking look like. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.
All I know is I don’t want to mess it up.
Mom, on the other hand, couldn’t be more excited.
She’s been talking about this since the moment I told her Lark and Hudson were coming by.
She cried when I showed her the picture of Hudson in his baseball uniform, the one Lark gave me.
Stared at it for a long time, running her fingers over it like she could somehow make up for all the years she’s missed in the space of a single moment.
And now she’s over at Loretta’s, cooking up God knows what.
Probably enough food to feed the whole damn county.
Loretta’s house sits on the ranch, not far from the main house, close enough that Mom can walk over whenever she pleases—which she does, often, usually with some new recipe idea or a fresh batch of something she insists the ranch hands need to try.
Since Loretta cooks for all the ranch hands and staff, her kitchen is better equipped for a feast—which is exactly what Mom had in mind.
A celebration, she called it.
I called it an ambush.
Then she smacked me with a wooden spoon.
I smirk at the memory. Mom’s waited her whole life to be a grandma. She’s not about to waste another second of it. I just hope Hudson’s ready for all of this—once my family sinks their teeth in, there’s no going back.
Lark pulls up in a dark blue 4Runner. It’s clean, no frills—practical but tough. Says a lot without trying too hard. Kind of like her. I stand from the porch, slide my Dodgers cap on backward. It’s partly for Hudson. Mostly for Lark.
She always did like it that way.
Engine cuts off, and I step forward like I’m going to meet them halfway. But the second she steps out, I stop short.
Shit.
Low-rise jeans, worn in all the right places, cling to her hips like they were made for them.
White long-sleeved tee stretched across her chest, sleeves shoved to her elbows.
Her braid’s pulled tight down her back, blonde catching in the sunlight like she walked straight out of one of my goddamn memories.
There’s a strip of skin showing between her waistband and her shirt—just a sliver. Just enough.
Then I clock the boots.
Those are the same dusty, scuffed-up cowboy boots she wore when we were kids. The ones I remember her kicking up on the dash of my truck, bare legs stretched across the seat like she owned the world.
I rake a hand over my jaw. I’m pretty sure I need to get laid. That’s the only reason my brain flatlines at the sight of her. Has to be. There’s no way I’m still this far gone over a girl I haven’t touched in over a decade.
She shuts the door, and the way her hips move when she walks—it’s not helping one bit.
Then Hudson barrels toward me, snapping me out of it.
“Boone! Your ranch is massive! ” He’s practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes everywhere at once. “I saw, like, a hundred cows on the way in. And horses. And maybe a goat? Or a really furry dog?”
I chuckle, crouching to his level. “That’s Velma. She’s a goat, but don’t feel bad. She confuses the hell out of everyone.”
Hudson grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This place is awesome.”
Behind him, Lark’s watching. There’s this quiet look on her face—somewhere between proud and wistful. She catches me looking, but doesn’t look away.
“Want to see the barn?” I ask Hudson, straightening up.