BOONE #3
Witt tips his hat back, surveying Hudson like he’s appraising livestock. “You ready to earn your keep?”
Hudson straightens, trying to match their energy. “Yeah. What’re we doing?”
Duke leans against the truck bed, thermos in hand, grinning.
“Today’s about buttoning things up. Trim work in the hallway, getting that last section of drywall hung in the upstairs bath, and the cabinet bases set in the kitchen.
We’ve got hardware to install too, so no one’s standing around. That means you, Witt.”
Witt snorts. “God forbid I take a break and experience one fleeting moment of joy in this bitch.”
Ridge wipes his hands on his jeans, eyeing the stack of boxes. “Might get started on the backsplash if we’ve got time. Figured we could dry fit it, see if it needs trimming.”
“Sounds good. No paint yet,” I add, nodding toward the house. “Lark’s picking colors, so unless we need to hit a base coat in the closets, we’re holding off.”
Witt grunts, already hauling out a toolbox. “Good. Less mess for now.”
Ridge tosses a roll of contractor’s paper onto the ground with a thud, then jerks his chin toward Hudson, who’s hovering nearby, clearly itching to be assigned something real. “Think we’ve got a job with your name on it, big man.”
Hudson straightens, eyes sharp, ready. “Yeah? What is it?”
Duke finishes off whatever’s left in his thermos and caps it with a snap. “We need those boards over there sorted by length and stacked neat by the porch. Helps us work faster if we’re not tripping over a mess.”
Ridge nods, tossing him a pair of work gloves that are way too big. “Put those on so you don’t get splinters. Can’t have you crying to your mom that we broke you. She’d beat my ass.”
Hudson fumbles with the gloves, grinning. “I’m not gonna cry.”
“You say that now,” Witt mutters, already heading for the house with a handful of trim boards balanced on his shoulder.
I lean down and nudge Hudson’s shoulder. “You get that stack done right, okay? You’re helping build this place just as much as we are.”
Hudson nods seriously. “I’m on it.”
He trots off toward the pile, dragging the first board toward the porch with all the focus in the world. Ridge watches him for a second, then smirks. “You sure he’s not trying to take over as foreman?”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I say, grabbing a drill. “Kid’s got hustle. Maybe you could learn a thing or two.”
He flips me the bird.
By the time the sun’s directly overhead, sweat’s clinging to the back of my neck and the inside of my shirt like glue.
Every day feels like summer now, the sort of heat that doesn’t burn, just sticks.
It makes you want to jump in the creek and stay there until fall.
We’ve knocked out more than I expected—the upstairs bathroom’s fully drywalled, base cabinets in the kitchen are leveled and secured, trim’s up in the hallway, and every damn drawer pull is finally installed straight, no matter how many times Duke had to adjust them.
Ridge and Hudson took off just before noon and came back with sandwiches from Mom’s kitchen—turkey piled high, potato chips, and cold lemonade that’s almost worth selling your soul for in this heat. We’re spread out around the porch now, legs stretched, boards of the porch warm beneath us.
Ridge wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding toward the house. “This is gonna be a hell of a place, Boone. Never thought I’d see it like this. ”
I glance at the house, then back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He takes another bite, talking around it. “What color you gonna paint it when it’s done?”
“White,” I say without hesitation. “Lark always wanted a white farmhouse.”
There’s a pause before he nods, approving. “It’ll look good out here. Clean. Classic.”
“You’ve got one of the best spots on the ranch,” Witt adds, tipping his drink toward the stretch of land beyond the porch.
“I know,” I say, pulling a bite from my sandwich. “It’s far away from Ridge and you fuckers.”
Ridge flips me off without even looking up. “You’re hilarious.”
He’s staying over in one of the guest houses, way on the other side of the property.
Probably a good thing, considering he’s likely bringing home a different woman every night.
He’s a regular at The Lucky Devil—Summit Springs’ unofficial but official playboy.
Women throw themselves at him like he’s the last beer at the bonfire, and Ridge?
He revels in it. Twenty-six, no interest in settling down, commitment not even in his peripheral vision.
Still, it’ll be interesting when the day comes. Whoever signs up for Ridge’s shit is gonna have to be one hell of a woman.
Duke leans back on his elbows, grinning under the brim of his hat. “So, Ridge, how many girls was it this week?”
Witt doesn’t miss a beat, already shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “Last time I kept track, it was four. Barely kept their names straight.”
Ridge glares at them over his sandwich. “Both of you can fuck right off.”
Duke snorts. “I take that as confirmation.”
There’s a pause, Ridge chewing slow, and then he swallows and shrugs. “Five,” he mutters.
Witt lets out a bark of laughter, Duke choking on his drink. I shake my head, biting back a grin, but Hudson looks up from his sandwich, brows drawn tight like he’s working through a complex equation.
“Why do you always have someone over?” he asks.
Ridge glances at me, then Duke, then Witt, like someone throw me a rope , but no one’s helping him. He can dig his own way out of this one.
He clears his throat. “We just…hang out.”
Hudson squints at him. “Doing what?”
“Talking,” Ridge says, nodding like he believes it. “And watching movies.”
“What kind of movies?”
“Uh…comedies. Romantic comedies?”
Hudson’s still eyeing him, unsatisfied, when the low purr of tires on gravel pulls everyone’s attention toward the drive. A sleek black Lexus pulls up, glossy and out of place against the dust and sweat of the ranch.
Ridge bolts up, sandwich half-eaten. “Saved by the fucking bell.”
I don’t need to see her face to know it’s Miller. That car has her written all over it. She always shows up like she’s stepping into a courtroom, not the middle of a ranch.
Sure enough, she steps out in a skirt that’s a little too short and a blazer she’ll probably regret wearing in five minutes in this heat. Her brown hair’s down, pin-straight and glossy, not a strand out of place. She tucks a file under her arm, then squints against the sun, looking for me.
Duke lets out a low whistle. “Damn. She’s a goddess.”
Witt leans over with a quiet snort. “You think she’s ever stepped in a barn in those shoes?”
Ridge, on the other hand, is already halfway to dumbstruck, watching her like she just descended from the clouds. Might as well be hearts floating around his head. He’s practically glowing.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Miller’s nothing like the women Ridge usually brings around.
His type’s the usual buckle bunnies—tight jeans, even tighter tops, mainly found at The Lucky Devil.
Always ready for a wild ride with no strings attached.
Miller? She’s polished, untouchable, and wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots or cutoffs.
Come to think of it, I’ve seen her in jeans maybe once. Twice, tops. Even then, they probably cost more than my truck. Ridge should be running in the opposite direction, but here he is, staring like he’s about to propose to her on the spot .
Miller strides across the gravel like it’s a damn runway, every click of her heels echoing louder than it should in the quiet. The closer she gets, the more I brace for whatever storm she’s about to drop in my lap.
“Boone,” she calls, clearly already irritated, “don’t you know how to work a cell phone? Or is that concept too twenty-first century for you?”
Behind me, I hear Duke letting out a low chuckle. Ridge’s grin only widens.
I narrow my eyes and walk over to her. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ve been calling you since six this morning, that’s the fucking problem,” she snaps, waving the file in her hand for emphasis. “Not once, not once did you answer.”
“That’s not possible,” I mutter, reaching for my back pocket. The second I pull out my phone, the black screen greets me like a punch to the throat.
Dead. Again.
Shit.
Miller folds her arms. “Wow, look at that. A revolutionary discovery. Batteries don’t last forever.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Bad habit.”
She arches a perfectly manicured brow. “You think?”
“Hi, Miller,” Ridge chimes in, stepping forward with all the charm he can muster.
Her green eyes flick to him, annoyed. “Ridge. Still alive, I see.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “Barely. Been real touch and go lately.”
“Maybe next time, go.”
Ridge only grins. “I would, but you’d miss me too much.”
Before Miller can snap back, Hudson runs up and gives her a hug. “Hi, Aunt Millie!”
Her whole demeanor shifts in an instant, her sharp edges softening. She smiles and hugs him back. “Hi, Hud!”
Ridge perks up, his eyes trailing over her—too slowly, if you ask me—finally landing back on her face. “Millie, huh? I like it.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah? Forget it immediately. Only Hudson can call me that, and you are very much not Hudson. ”
Hudson snickers, popping a chip into his mouth. “I used to call her that when I was little.”
Ridge smirks, his gaze shameless as it drags down the length of her very shiny, olive-toned legs. “I used to be little too. I’ve got baby pictures. You wanna see me in a cowboy hat and no diaper?”
Miller doesn’t even blink. “I’d rather staple own eyelids shut.”
She turns her gaze to me. “We need to talk. Preferably somewhere he isn’t.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just spins on her heel and starts walking.
I fall in step beside her, boots crunching on gravel as we put distance between us and the chaos.
Behind us, Duke and Witt are still giving Ridge hell, their laughter echoing like background noise.
Ridge, of course, is eating it up—cocky bastard.
“Your brother is a walking annoyance.”
“Trust me,” I say, keeping pace beside her, “you’re preaching to the choir.”
She stops further out on the property where it’s a little quieter, out of earshot. The folder she’s been clutching since she stepped out of that expensive ass car is already open in her hands, papers crisp and neatly arranged. She’s in full work mode now—precise, no bullshit.
“Alright,” she says, flipping to the page she wants. “I’ve been doing some digging into Tate’s financials. Couldn’t get into much—he’s careful—but I found something through a holding company he controls. It’s called Whetstone Holdings, based out of Bozeman.”
She hands the folder to me, and I take it, eyes landing on rows of wire transfers. Big ones. It takes me a second to process the numbers—two hundred seventy-five grand, three hundred, another for a little over one ninety.
I glance at her. “Did you figure out where the hell this money’s going?”
Her mouth tightens, just slightly. “Unfortunately.”
She steps in closer and taps a name printed neatly at the bottom of the transaction summary.
Dawn Rutherford.