BOONE
BOONE
Kenny Chesney’s spilling through the speakers, window down, sun catching the dust trailing behind my truck as I pull off the main road and onto the gravel drive leading up to the Hart Ranch.
His voice is too damn cheerful for how little sleep I’ve gotten lately, but I let it play, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel as the landscape stretches out ahead of me.
The Hart place comes into view just past the bend, nestled against a ridge that catches the light like it was made for it.
Fields spread out wide and green, grazing land scattered with black Angus and a few red heifers, tails flicking, heads down in thick spring grass.
Their barn sits tall and clean, a fresh coat of white paint still holding up against the weather, the roofline sharp against the open sky.
Fences are straight, gates hung right, no slack or sag anywhere.
The place has been well taken care of and it shows.
They’ve got less land than we do, but not by much—give or take a few acres, depending on whose side of the property line you’re standing on.
Wilding Ranch still moves more horses, better bloodlines, and we’ve consistently beat them out at auction prices for cattle the last few years, but the Harts sure give us a run for our fucking money.
They train solid quarter horses, compete in the same circuits, and their breeding program’s been gaining traction.
Their beef’s good—not Wilding good—but good enough that buyers pay attention when they show up.
They’ve got a crew that works clean, ranch hands that don’t cut corners, and every time we improve something—new equipment, upgraded fencing, better grazing rotations—somehow, they’re right behind us doing the same.
It’s not hostile, not anymore, but it’s close enough to keep things interesting. Every county fair, every auction, every season—it’s a quiet race no one’s conceding.
A pair of ranch hands are out in the lower field as I roll past, tightening fence wire. One of them waves, the other doesn’t bother. Across the pasture, a few more are working a young gelding in the round pen, its coat already slick with sweat, muscles bunching beneath it as it circles tight.
As I pull up the drive, their ranch name comes into view, carved deep into a weathered post at the entrance.
HART RANCH – EST. 1921, their brand stamped below it.
H│R , the crossbar anchored tight, almost military in its precision.
It’s simple, but it sticks. That brand’s on enough hides across this valley to mean something, to hold some weight.
Further in, the house comes into view and I have to slow down a little, taking it in.
I’ve seen it before, but it still catches me off guard every damn time.
The place is massive — easily three stories, a wraparound porch, pale stone facade with dark timber beams that give it that kind of modern ranch look people spend too much money trying to get right.
Big windows, all perfectly clean, which tells me someone’s job around here is purely aesthetic.
Has to be big, though, for all the damn kids they’ve got. Six of them, maybe seven? I can never remember. All I know is there’s always more Harts than you think, and they show up everywhere. There’s never just one Hart anywhere in this town, which is probably by design.
A few sleek cars are parked out front, too shiny to belong to ranch hands.
One of them’s a black Escalade, probably less than a year old.
Next to it, a silver Audi SUV with custom plates, and a bright red pickup that’s definitely never hauled anything.
The kind of cars that say money’s good, and they don’t mind you knowing it.
I pull up behind the lineup of spotless vehicles, Lucille grumbling a little as I shift her into park. Her paint’s chipped, dust clinging to the fenders. Parked behind cars this polished, she looks out of place. Doesn’t bother me. She’s got more miles in her than any of these pretty things.
I kill the engine and sit for a minute, my hand still resting on the keys.
I know better than to walk into this without thinking it through.
Vaughn Hart doesn’t just give things away—not information, not favors, not even a good goddamn mood unless he’s already decided it benefits him.
I can’t come in hot, pressing him on what I want to know.
That’d put his back up against a wall quick, and once he’s closed off, there’s no getting through.
I need to ease into it. Let him think I’m here for neighborly reasons, keep the conversation casual until I can steer it where I want.
Let him feel like he’s still in control, even when he’s not.
I reach over, grab my Stetson off the passenger seat, and push the door open.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I step out, heat rising from the ground already, the sky stretched wide and clean above me.
I set the hat on my head, adjust the brim, then start up the walk toward the front door.
There’s a polished brass knocker in the shape of a horseshoe on the light wood door, gleaming in the sun like someone polishes it daily. Probably do. Everything here feels maintained to within an inch of its life. I knock twice, sharp, and step back, tucking my hands into my pockets while I wait.
A few beats pass, then footsteps sound on the other side—quick, light, confident—and the door swings open.
“Boone Wilding,” Estelle Hart says, her smile wide and warm, her accent thick with Texas in the vowels. “Well, look at you.”
She doesn’t look much older than when I left town, though I know she’s somewhere in her late fifties, early sixties now.
Chestnut hair pulled back neat, makeup just enough to look effortless, bright blue eyes with more sparkle than most women half her age.
Always looks like she knows something you don’t, but in a way that doesn’t put you off.
I’ve always liked Estelle. She’s good people.
Makes me wonder sometimes how the hell she ended up married to Vaughn.
“Afternoon, Estelle,” I say, tipping my hat as she opens the door wider.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, stepping back, still smiling.
“I was hoping to speak with Vaughn,” I say. “Wanted to see if he was around.”
She waves me inside without hesitation. “He’s here somewhere. I’ll send one of the kids to go find him.”
I step into the house, boots landing soft on the hardwood floors.
The place is big and clean, open concept with high ceilings and exposed beams. Everything’s sleek—leather, metal, glass—but with touches of country still clinging on.
A horseshoe over the archway, a painting of a rodeo scene hanging over the fireplace, that unmistakable scent of saddle soap and wood polish that has a habit of settling into old ranch houses.
It’s a hell of a place. Too perfect, maybe, but you can’t deny it’s put together well.
Estelle walks over to the stairwell, plants a hand on the banister, and hollers up with zero hesitation. “Nathan! Emily! Go find your daddy, tell him he’s got someone here to see him.”
Her voice carries like she does this all the time, and from the sound of feet thudding somewhere above, I can tell she’s got a pretty solid system.
She turns back to me, smile still fixed in place, not in a fake way—just practiced, warm in that effortless Southern way that makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.
“You want a glass of lemonade, honey?” she asks, already heading toward the kitchen. “I know it’s heating up out there in the middle of the day.”
I nod once, smiling back at her. “That sounds great, actually.” Truth is, I wasn’t about to turn down Estelle’s lemonade. It’s the best in Summit Springs, better than my mom’s even—not that I’d ever say that out loud in front of Molly Wilding unless I wanted to lose an eye.
“I’ll pour you a glass. Go on and sit, make yourself comfortable.”
Estelle disappears into the kitchen, her sandals slapping softly against the hardwood, and I drop into one of the leather chairs near the entryway. Across from me, a wall of family photos, most in matching black frames, stretches above the stone fireplace.
One of them’s blown up bigger than the rest — a formal shot, clearly planned, everyone dressed in coordinated blues and whites, standing out in a field with the mountains directly behind them.
Vaughn’s in the center, looking like he’s running for office, Estelle on his arm, and surrounding them? Seven kids. Fucking seven.
Unbelievable.
I thought I was going crazy growing up with three siblings, always tripping over someone or fighting for space. Couldn’t have imagined growing up in this house with this many kids. I don’t know all their names, but I’ve seen them all around town before.
One of the boys in the photo’s holding a little girl, maybe three or four, balanced on his hip.
She’s grinning wide, blond hair caught in pigtails, face scrunched from laughing.
I lean in a little, squinting. Had no idea any of the Harts had a kid.
Must be one of the older boys’—fuck if I know which one.
They’re all grown now, scattered around town, some still working the ranch, others doing God knows what.
Before I can get a closer look, footsteps thud down the stairs behind me, fast and careless, and then a voice calls out.
“Dad’s out on the ranch somewhere,” a girl says. “Probably in the barn.”
I turn as she steps into the room, long brown hair pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, bright blue eyes nearly identical to Estelle’s.
She’s maybe a couple years younger than Sage, tall and lean, sun-kissed like she spends more time outside than in.
She doesn’t look too pleased about being the one delivering news.
Estelle breezes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Go get him for me.”
The girl groans, already turning toward the door. “Why me? Why can’t Nathan—”