Chapter 7
Tammy
The alarm on my phone went off at four in the morning, dragging me straight out of the heaviest sleep I had known in months.
For a few disoriented seconds, I stared up into the shadows of the ceiling, my mind scrambling to catch up with my pulse until the truth clicked into place. The cattle drive had finally arrived.
I rolled out of bed into the brisk chill of the room, pulling on the stiff denim jeans that were only just beginning to give beneath my fingers.
I layered a long-sleeved work shirt under the heavy plaid flannel one of the housekeepers had lent me, then pulled on the borrowed boots.
They were still rigid around my ankles, but Thurlee had flatly refused to let me ride into the high country wearing hiking shoes.
I worked my hair into a thick braid, grabbed the battered felt cowboy hat--another loan--resting on the dresser, and stepped out into the freezing predawn darkness.
The entire ranch was already humming with purposeful energy.
Floodlights cast long, golden beams across the yard, cutting through the frost that clung to the gravel.
The heavy rumble of hundreds of cattle sounded like distant thunder from the lower pastures, underscored by the sharp clatter of hooves and the low, gravelly calls of the cowboys.
Every breath I took billowed into white fog, but beneath the chill, pure excitement buzzed through my veins.
Inside the stable, Daffodil greeted me with a soft nicker, nudging her velvety muzzle straight into my shoulder.
Two weeks earlier, the mere thought of standing beside an animal that large would have turned my knees to jelly.
Now, I saddled her easily, checking the cinch twice just the way Ripplan had taught me, adjusting the stirrups, and stroking the mare's sleek neck until she sighed in contentment.
She tossed her head lightly as though she understood every word I murmured to her.
By the time I swung up into the stirrups and settled into the saddle, the herd was already surging northward, an endless sea of dark cattle flowing toward the mountains.
I nudged Daffodil into a steady walk, guiding her toward the rear of the procession where Cookie held court from the high wooden bench of his chuck wagon.
Cookie was impossible to overlook. Standing six-foot-four and built like a linebacker, he had shoulders that stretched the seams of his faded flannel shirt to their absolute limit and hands broad enough to dwarf a dinner plate.
His real name was Theodore, though nobody on StoneSteel ever called him that, and he wore his nickname with pride.
A thick black beard flecked with silver covered most of his jaw, framing a weathered face that creased into deep laugh lines around his eyes.
He had cooked for trail crews for fifteen years and ran the main house kitchen alongside Thurlee, radiating the kind of calm, unshakeable warmth that instantly made you feel safe just being near him.
"Morning, Doc," he called out over the creak of wagon wheels, flashing an easy grin. "You ready for this?"
"I think so," I replied, pulling Daffodil alongside the bench. "Though I still cannot believe this wagon is actually real."
"It is as real as rain," Cookie said, giving the timber railing an affectionate slap. "Ranchers have been moving herds with wagons like this for well over a century. Just because I rigged up some modern juice does not mean we throw tradition out the window."
He had strapped solar panels directly across the arched canvas roof, routing power down to a bank of battery-powered coolers nestled in the bed.
It was an odd mix of nineteenth-century frontier and modern technology that made me smile every time I saw it.
I had claimed a generous portion of that space for medical gear, tucking glass vials of antibiotics and injectable pain medication securely between Cookie's cuts of beef and fresh vegetables.
Saline bags were padded in thick towels to absorb the jostling of the trail, while sutures, sterile dressings, and bandages filled a dedicated corner of the storage compartment.
Between the wagon and the packed leather saddlebags behind my cantle, I was ready for whatever the trail might bring.
The sky overhead remained an inky bowl crowded with brilliant stars, but the eastern horizon was slowly bleeding from slate gray into pale silver.
We rode in a rhythmic, companionable quiet, surrounded by the heavy scuff of thousands of hooves and the earthy perfume of crushed sage, dry dust, and animal heat.
When the sun finally breached the jagged ridge line, it took my breath away.
A blazing ribbon of pure gold ignited the highest peaks, spreading outward until the sky erupted into violent streaks of pink, orange, and crimson.
The snow-dusted crags seemed to burn from the inside out, glowing like raw embers, while the clouds overhead melted into molten copper.
I had watched plenty of sunrises over the soft, rolling green of the Blue Ridge back home in North Carolina, but this western dawn was vast, untamed, and breathtakingly fierce.
The morning light cascaded down the granite slopes, flooding valleys I had not even known were there and revealing the true scale of the landscape.
We were nothing more than tiny specks traversing an ancient, eternal wilderness.
Tears pricked my eyes, the sheer majesty of it pressing against my ribs like a physical weight.
"Gets you, doesn't it?" Cookie murmured softly, his gaze fixed on the glowing horizon.
I managed a tight nod, too full of wonder to trust my voice.
Beneath me, Daffodil moved with a fluid, rolling gait, her ears flicking to catch sounds across the valley.
In two short weeks, the sweet Appaloosa mare had become my partner, and I loved her with an intensity that surprised me.
She tolerated my clumsy cues, forgave my hesitations, and stepped with sure-footed grace over the rough terrain.
We followed an old mining road that wound through foothills thick with scrub oak and towering pine trees.
To our left, the Rocky Mountains rose in majestic layers of green forest, sheer gray stone, and gleaming white snowfields.
To our right, the valley spilled out below us, golden in the morning light.
It was the most breathtaking sight I had ever witnessed.
"How are you holding up, Doc?" Dutton asked, trotting up on my other side to match my pace.
I turned to him with a warm smile. "Better than I expected, honestly."
At twenty-two, Dutton was practically brimming with reckless charm and bright, eager eyes.
He took every opportunity to flirt with me, and while I kept him firmly at arm's length, I couldn't deny that his lighthearted banter was pleasant.
After years of enduring Arlo's suffocating criticism and cold disapproval, being around someone who treated me like I was desirable and fun felt like a breath of fresh air.
"You are a natural," Dutton said, his grin widening. "Sitting that saddle like you have been riding your whole life."
"Hardly," I laughed. "Daffodil makes it easy."
"It is not just the horse," he countered smoothly. "It is the rider."
Carter pulled up on Dutton's other side, looking just as young, windblown, and cheerful. "Did you bring any of those cinnamon biscuits Thurlee baked? My stomach has been growling since we cleared the lower pasture."
"It is barely six in the morning, Carter," I pointed out.
"I got up at four, which means it is practically lunchtime in cowboy hours," he shot back.
I chuckled, reaching back to pat the leather pouch behind my leg. "I might have a couple stashed in my saddlebag, but if you tell the others, you will be answering to Cookie."
"I knew it!" Carter cheered. "Doc, you are the best!"
"Keep your voice down," Dutton whispered with a playful wink. "It is our secret."
A sudden prickle of heat washed over the back of my neck, and I glanced up past the flank of the herd to find Ripplan watching us from fifty yards ahead.
He sat astride Starlight, the immense Friesian stallion moving beneath him with coiled, rhythmic power.
Even from that distance, I could see the rigid tension in his broad shoulders and the hard set of his jaw.
Our eyes locked for a razor-sharp second before he pulled his mount around and looked away.
My stomach did a sudden, dizzying flip.
"The boss man is in a mood today," Carter observed, dropping his voice.
"When isn't he?" Dutton muttered, though his tone held deep respect rather than mockery.
For the next hour, as the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose, the herd moved steadily northward. The cowboys worked in seamless harmony, keeping the cattle bunched tight while their horses responded to the slightest cues.
Yet no matter how hard I tried to focus on the trail, my eyes kept drifting back to Ripplan.
He was utterly magnetic out here, completely in his element.
The mountain sunlight caught the rich green tones of his skin, accentuating the rugged planes of his face and the heavy musculature of his back and shoulders.
He rode with absolute focus, his hat pulled low, guiding the massive stallion as though the two of them shared a single mind.
There was something primal, powerful, and undeniably breathtaking about watching him command the herd.
I had pulled on my sunglasses and tugged my hat low, hoping the brim would hide where my eyes kept wandering, but Cookie was far too observant. Every time I looked over, the old cook was grinning with a sly, knowing expression that sent warmth rushing straight to my cheeks.
"You have something on your mind, Doc?" Cookie asked during a lull in the noise.
"I am just admiring how smoothly the operation is running," I said, the words tumbling out a little too fast.
"Right," Cookie drawled, his chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. "Is that what we are calling it?"