Chapter 22BOONE #2
“Emily.” Estelle’s voice sharpens just enough, eyes cutting over with that look every kid recognizes.
Emily mutters something under her breath, then stalks toward the entryway, snatching a pair of cowboy boots off the mat with a sigh.
“Don’t be rude now,” Estelle calls out after her. “Introduce yourself first.”
Emily pauses, boots dangling from one hand, then glances back at me. “Sorry. Hi, I’m Emily,” she says, tone polite, if not a little reluctant. She offers a quick smile, one that’s more like Estelle’s than she probably realizes.
“Boone,” I say, giving her a nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.” She tugs her boots on quickly, one after the other, then heads for the door, braid swinging behind her as she disappears outside.
Estelle walks back into the room, glass in hand, condensation dripping down the sides like it’s been sitting out on a July porch for hours. She hands it to me with that same bright smile she’s had since I walked in.
“Don’t mind her,” she says, sitting across from me again, smoothing the fabric of her jeans. “She’s a little wild thing sometimes.”
I take a sip, narrowing my eyes without meaning to. Hell. It’s too good. Ice-cold, tart, just enough sweet to take the edge off. I glance at the glass.
“Still trying to figure out what you put in this,” I say, tipping it toward her.
She grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would, actually. It’s better than my mom’s.”
She gasps, hand to her chest. “Boone Wilding, that’s a dangerous thing to admit.”
I shrug, taking another sip. “I’ll deny it if she asks.”
She lets out a warm laugh, then follows my eyes to the big family photo on the wall framed in thick oak.
“You’ve got a good-looking bunch,” I say, nodding toward it.
She follows my gaze, her face softening. “Thank you.”
“There’s…a lot of them.”
A low laugh escapes her, and she crosses her legs, settling into the chair like we’ve got time. “That’s what we’ve been told.”
“You always want this many?”
“Always,” she says, like there’s no question about it. “Grew up in a loud house, knew I wanted the same. Never wanted a quiet table. Never wanted a slow day.”
“Well,” I say, “looks like you got your wish. Can’t imagine growing up in this house.”
“Loud. Messy. Expensive,” she says, ticking them off like items on a grocery list. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”
She stands and walks toward the photo, tapping the glass lightly. “You probably know Riley.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling a little. “Hard not to. He’s a riot.”
She shakes her head fondly. “That boy’s got too much energy for one person. Works nights at The Lucky Devil, keeps the bar jumpin’, as he says.”
“Sounds about right.”
She shifts to the man beside him—taller, squared up, more serious. “That’s Sawyer. Our oldest. You two just missed each other in school, I believe.”
“I’ve seen him around,” I say. “Always figured he worked full-time here.”
She glances back at me. “He’s a veterinarian. Has his own practice down in Bozeman.”
My brows pull together. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I file that away, thinking on it. I know the vet scene around here like the back of my hand.
When you’ve got livestock, there’s always something to deal with—busted hooves, colic, broken fences that end in broken bones.
Doc Gordon’s been out to our place more times than I can count, and his daughter, Maddie, has stepped in and taken on most of his caseload since he’s started slowing down.
But Sawyer Hart? Never heard his name in that rotation.
Makes sense if he’s out of Bozeman, though.
Her finger moves to the next two in the photo. “That’s Emily—you met her—and that’s her twin brother, Nathan.”
My eyebrows lift. “She’s a twin?”
“Oh yeah,” Estelle says, laughing. “Born two minutes apart and she’ll hold that over him ‘til the day she dies.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They’re twenty. A pain in my ass sometimes, but we love them.” She points to the young man holding the little girl. “That’s Crew. Twenty-five. Works the horses mostly. Quiet, doesn’t ask for much.”
Estelle’s hand shifts, moving across the photo to two more boys. “That’s Mason—twenty-two—always got his hands in something mechanical. Tractors, trucks, anything with an engine, he’ll take it apart just to see how it works.”
She taps the space beside him. “Luke’s the oldest of the younger bunch. He’s been in Missoula a while now, working logistics for a feed company.”
I nod, absorbing all of it, the way she shifts from one name to the next like she’s turning pages in a book she knows by heart.
Her hand hovers over the little girl in Crew’s arms. “That’s our Nora.”
Her eyes shift to another photo on the wall—smaller, and clearly newer.
Nora’s perched on a hay bale, boots too big for her feet, one slipping halfway off.
Her cheeks are smudged with dirt, and she’s holding a handful of flowers like a trophy, grin wide enough to knock you back a step.
Whole picture feels alive somehow, like she might step right out of it and start bossing you around.
Estelle walks over to it, her expression softening in that way that only happens when someone talks about a kid they love with every piece of them.
“She’s three—Crew’s girl. Sharp as a tack.
Already runnin’ this whole place, or at least she thinks she is.
Talks nonstop, always asking questions. Wants to help with everything, from feedin’ the horses to foldin’ laundry.
Has her Grandpa wrapped around her little finger, which he swears isn’t true, but we all know better. ”
She touches the edge of the frame, light and careful. “She’s pure joy, that one. There’s not a soul in this house she hasn’t got in her pocket.”
I glance at the photo again—Nora still grinning like she’s just won something big and wants you to know it. “She’s cute,” I say.
Estelle doesn’t miss a beat. “Cutest thing on two legs.”
There’s no argument to that, not with the way she’s looking at the kid, like the whole world shrinks down to about three feet tall.
I set the empty glass down on the coffee table. “Any of your boys looking to take the reins here someday?”
Her eyes go back to the photo, settling on Crew. “That one,” she says, nodding toward him. “Crew’s always known this was his path. Never had to wonder.”
I nod, watching her face as she shifts focus to Sawyer’s part of the photo.
“Sawyer helps too,” she says. “When he’s not working. Got a house here on the property, back past the west ridge.”
“Didn’t know he lived out here.”
“He likes the space,” she says, nodding. “Comes out after shifts at the clinic and on the weekends, helps where he can. Always been drawn to the animals.”
Her voice dips, just slightly. In a way that’s almost…sad. “He’s been…through some things these last couple years. Stayin’ busy helps.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Not my place.
Just then, the front door swings open, the sound of boots hitting hardwood behind it. Vaughn comes through first, voice already raised like someone dragged him inside against his will.
“Estelle, who the hell needed me back here—”
His eyes land on me, and the rest of the sentence dies in his throat.
Vaughn Hart’s not a man you forget. Early sixties, maybe, but built the way men used to be—broad, solid, hands that’ve seen a lifetime of work.
His dark hair hasn’t gone gray yet, not a strand of it.
Deep lines mark the corners of his mouth and eyes, carved there from squinting into sunrises and working long days.
He doesn’t need to tell you he runs the place—it’s obvious.
From the way he walks to the way he looks at you, always assessing, always ten steps ahead.
Sawyer steps in behind him—way taller than I expected.
Taller than me, and I’m no small guy, sitting at six-two.
The motherfucker looks like a cross between Chris Hemsworth and the Hulk in a pair of cowboy boots—broad chest, thick arms, shoulders made to fill a doorway.
Blondish-brown hair trimmed short, jaw sharp enough to cut that’s dusted in stubble, and that easy tan you only get from working outside for hours.
I don’t get intimidated often. Don’t need to. But Sawyer? He’s intimidating as fuck. Not that I’d let it show.
I push up from the chair, tugging off my hat as I step forward. Got to play this right.
“Vaughn,” I say, offering my hand. “Good to see you.”
His eyes narrow, wary. He takes my hand—firm grip, no surprise there—but says nothing.
Behind him, Sawyer shifts, still watching. His arms stay crossed.
I nod his way. “You must be Sawyer.”
He gives one short nod. “You are?”
“Boone Wilding.”
Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe tension—but it’s quick, gone before it settles.
“Right,” he says, the word clipped.
He stiffens, just slightly, but it’s enough. I expected some resistance. History between our families runs long, and most of it isn’t pretty.
I’ve been in tighter spots than this—different stakes, sure, but the same rules apply.
You learn real fast in the military how to read a room, how to take the measure of people without them knowing.
You learn how to ask the right questions, get the answers you need, and if things start to go sideways—how to diffuse.
Stay calm, stay sharp, stay two steps ahead.
I glance back at Vaughn, then at Sawyer, whose blue eyes are still locked on me, narrowed and unblinking.
I keep my voice easy. “Vaughn, you mind if we have a word?”
He nods slowly, eyes cautious but not closed off. “Let’s step into my office.”
I barely get a breath before Sawyer’s deep voice cuts in—cool, curious. “Color me intrigued. Mind if I come along?”
Shit.
I school my face, keep it even. “Fine by me.”
Vaughn watches the exchange for a beat, then nods again. “Alright then. ”