Chapter 2 Maggie
Maggie
COPPER CREEK | BLACKWOOD FALL RODEO
The banner was crooked.
I'd hung the damn thing myself at six this morning, and somehow in the past four hours it had developed a tilt to the left that was going to drive me insane if I looked at it one more time.
"Don't even think about it," Ivy said, appearing at my elbow with two cups of coffee. "You've already re-hung that banner twice."
I frowned at my sister-in-law. “But it's crooked."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's tilted. Banners don't tilt. Banners hang straight, or they mock everything I stand for.” Just looking at it made my skin crawl.
Ivy pressed a coffee cup into my hands with the patient expression of a woman who had learned to pick her battles. "Drink this. Step away from the banner. Go terrorize someone else for a while."
I took the coffee because I wasn't an idiot, but I also made a mental note to fix the banner the second Ivy's back was turned.
The Blackwood Fall Rodeo was in full swing, and I was in my element—which meant I was running on caffeine, grit, and the kind of sheer willpower that had been holding this family together since I was old enough to realize someone other than my parents had to.
I'd been up since four. Checked the livestock pens by flashlight.
Walked the grounds twice, looking for anything that could go wrong, so I could fix it before it did.
Coordinated with the food vendors, the sound guy, the portable toilet company (glamorous work, truly), and approximately forty-seven volunteers who all had questions that somehow only I could answer.
Clay, naturally, was zero help with any of this.
My older brother had waltzed in around nine looking like he'd gotten a full eight hours and a hot breakfast—which he probably had, possibly served to him by whatever woman he'd charmed into his bed last night.
He'd spent the morning "warming up" for the bronc riding competition, which apparently involved a lot of stretching, a lot of flirting with the barrel racers, and absolutely no assistance with the actual logistics of running this event.
He didn’t even need to practice, considering he was ranked number six in the world, and this was just a small town rodeo. It wasn’t like this was going on his Pbr record.
"You look stressed, Mags," he'd said when I passed him near the chutes, grinning that golden-boy grin that had been getting him out of trouble since he was old enough to weaponize it.
"And you look useless. Go make yourself helpful."
He had the nerve to look offended and straightened off the railing. “I am helpful. I'm providing morale."
I rolled my eyes. "You're providing a headache."
He'd laughed and wandered off to sign autographs for a group of starry-eyed teenagers, because Clay Blackwood had never met a moment he couldn't turn into a performance. Rodeo champion, family charmer, and professional flirt—my brother had elevated not taking anything seriously into an art form.
I loved him. I also wanted to strangle him. Sensing a theme here. Funny how my two older brothers were the bigger nuisances, not the younger two.
Being the only girl sandwiched between four boys meant that I was basically mother number two when our own mother wasn’t around.
It was holding down the fort and nursing egos and managing expectations.
And apparently, everyone working the rodeo saw me that way, because I was constantly getting bombarded with questions.
Where do the extra chairs go, Maggie?
Is the announcer's booth supposed to be making that sound, Maggie?
One of the goats got loose, Maggie.
The goat had been handled. The chairs were where they belonged. The announcer's booth was someone else's problem now, and if it burst into flames, I was going to pretend I didn't see it.
My inner monologue had devolved into a steady stream of profanity that would make the old ladies at church clutch their pearls if they could hear it. Fucking banner. Fucking volunteers who can't follow simple instructions. Fucking Wyatt and his fucking opinions about fucking timelines—
Speaking of.
I spotted my eldest brother across the crowded grounds, deep in conversation with one of the cattle buyers who'd come to see what Blackwood Ranch was building. Wyatt had his serious face on—the one that meant he was talking business, probably making promises I'd have to figure out how to keep.
We'd already had two arguments today.
The man couldn't see past the end of his own nose when it came to ranch priorities. Ironic, considering he was technically the ranch’s manager.
The cattle expansion was important, sure.
And Ivy's breeding program was going to put Blackwood beef on the map.
But horses had always been my domain, and every time I tried to talk about growing that side of the operation, Wyatt looked at me like I was asking for him to pull a pot of gold out of his ass.
One thing at a time, Mags.
We can't fund everything, Mags.
Let's get through this season first, Mags.
I was so fucking tired of being patient.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, I had a rodeo to run.
I made my rounds with ruthless efficiency, fixing problems before anyone else noticed they existed.
Rerouted a group of wandering cattle that had somehow ended up near the food stalls.
Smoothed over a dispute between two vendors about booth placement.
Snapped at a volunteer who was about to set up the kids' games in the wrong location, then immediately apologized because it wasn't his fault that I was operating on four hours of sleep and a lifetime of suppressed frustration.
"You okay?" the volunteer asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"Fine," I said brightly. "Just caffeinated. Ignore me."
He did not look like he believed me, but kept his mouth shut. Smart man.
Somewhere in the chaos, I found Wyatt again—this time about to walk into a meeting with a group of potential investors my father had invited. His collar was crooked. Because of course it was.
Wordlessly, I stepped into his path, reaching for the white collar. “Hold still," I ordered when he tried to sidestep me.
"Maggie—"
I yanked on the shirt, forcing him to stay still. You’d think in his thirty-two years of life, he’d learn to listen when someone was trying to help him. “Your collar's a mess. You look like you got dressed in the dark."
"I did get dressed in the dark. Ivy was still sleeping."
"Well, you can't meet investors looking like a rumpled teenager." I finished adjusting his collar and smoothed my hands over it and down his shoulders. "There. Now you look like someone worth giving money to."
Wyatt caught my wrist as I stepped back. His expression had softened from earlier—that familiar mix of gratitude and guilt that always showed up after we fought.
"Mags. About this morning—"
"Don't." I pulled my hand free gently. "We'll figure it out. We always do. Go charm the money people."
He hesitated like he wanted to say more, but Ivy appeared at his shoulder with her clipboard and her game face, and the moment passed.
What I didn't do was let anyone see the soft parts underneath. The exhaustion. The loneliness. The quiet ache of always being the one who held everything together and never being the one who got held.
Down that road lies self-pity, Blackwood. Get your shit together.
I drained my coffee, tossed the cup, and went to check on the crooked banner.
I was halfway up a ladder, finally fixing the damn thing myself, when I heard my father's voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
"Gather 'round, everyone! Got someone I want y’all to meet!"
I climbed down reluctantly, wiping my hands on my jeans. Daddy's "gather 'round" voice meant family business, which meant I needed to be present and accounted for even though I had approximately eight hundred other things to do.
The Blackwoods assembled with the ease of long practice.
Wyatt and Ivy, still in business mode. Liam, with Stephanie tucked under his arm, both of them looking more relaxed than I'd seen them in months.
Clay, leaning against the fence next to Hunter, still wearing his competition number from the bronc riding he'd dominated earlier—because of course he had.
Clay Blackwood didn't compete in anything he didn't plan to win. Hunter had his usual beer.
Sophia stood a little apart from the chaos, watching it all with that quiet steadiness of hers—close enough to belong, far enough not to get trampled. When she caught my eye, she smiled, soft and familiar, the kind that said, this is good, we're good, and for a moment I let myself believe it.
Momma hovered near Daddy with that quiet, watchful expression she got when she knew something the rest of us didn't.
I joined the group, positioning myself near Ivy, where I could make a quick escape if needed.
"Alright," Daddy said, his voice carrying that easy authority that had been running this ranch for forty years. "As you all know, we've been looking to bring on some help. Someone with real horse experience, especially as we think about growing that side of the operation."
My ears perked up. Horse experience?
This was the first time I was hearing about any new hire. Usually, I was involved in staffing decisions—especially anything to do with horses. The fact that Daddy had apparently made this call without consulting me was... interesting. And by interesting, I meant irritating as hell.
"Found a man who comes highly recommended by Golden Circle in Wild Creek," Daddy continued. "Grew up on a ranch in Montana, knows his way around livestock, and has the kind of steady temperament you want working with green horses."
I was already running through questions in my head. Who exactly recommended him? What's his background? Has anyone checked his references? Why wasn't I—
"Come on over and meet the family,” he called out, turning toward the barn.