Chapter 10
Colter figured there were easier ways to have a panic attack than evaluating a field full of horses with two overly enthusiastic brothers.
Triple D Ranch stretched across the hills like a place designed to make other ranchers cry—emerald pastures, gleaming barns, horses moving through the sun like living trophies.
Boone stopped at the fence line and let out a low whistle. “If heaven has a pasture, it looks exactly like this. Probably smell better, though.”
Eli snorted. “Yeah, because you wouldn’t be there stinking it up.”
Boone flipped him off without looking away from the view.
They might be cow ranchers but today they were businessmen. So they changed out their dusty jeans for dark ones, and their T-shirts for button-down ones with collars. They all had on their best cowboy hats and wore dress boots in lieu of shitkickers because this was cowboy country after all.
Three grown men who mucked stalls for a living, dressed up like they were selling timeshares. Colter had never felt more ridiculous in his entire life.
“Talk big while you can,” Boone said. “I’ll remember this when we’re picking out your Christmas gift.”
“Please don’t. Last year’s weighted blanket almost killed me.”
“That was a thoughtful gift,” Boone protested. “You look like a man who needs grounding.”
“I look like a man who needs airflow,” Eli said. “That thing could smother a grown moose.”
"A moose that also happens to be emotionally unavailable," Boone added. "Which, coincidentally—"
"Don't," Eli said.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were absolutely going to say something."
Colter stepped past them, pretending he wasn’t trying to hide a smile.
Keller, the breeder, was an old bastard with sun-creased cheeks and a nicotine-stained mustache that drooped like it had given up on life thirty years ago.
With a stoic expression, he opened the gate and waved them toward the first corral.
“Boys, meet your future,” he said.
Inside, a roan mare lifted her head, ears flicking forward with interest.
Boone slapped Colter’s shoulder. “Tell me she isn’t perfect.”
“She isn’t perfect,” Colter replied automatically, crouching to study the mare’s legs. “Her left hind fetlock’s a little looser than ideal.”
Boone blinked. “Why does he ruin everything?”
“It’s a gift,” Eli said.
"It's a curse," Boone corrected. "A gift implies someone wanted it."
They moved down the line to a tall bay stallion whose muscles looked like they’d been sculpted by a deity. His coat shimmered in shades of red, with white boots and the lines of a champion. Which made sense as he was a barrel racing legend.
Boone and Eli launched immediately into a debate about genetics, bloodlines, and potential pairings.
“We put him with that chestnut mare, I swear we’d get foals that could win at birth,” Boone said.
“That roan’s the better match. Look at her gait.” Eli countered. “She floats.”
Boone rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. Eli and his feelings about gait.”
“It matters!” Eli protested. “A horse with pretty motion sells itself.”
“A horse with power sells the ranch,” Boone shot back. “We need strength.”
“You’re strength,” Eli said. “I’m elegance. Colter’s…” He glanced at his older brother. “I don’t know. Anxiety?”
Colter gave him a flat look. “Leadership.”
Boone barked a laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Colter didn’t even crack a smile because he didn’t feel much like a leader at that moment. Leaders were supposed to be sure, decisive, the kind of men who saw the whole picture and knew when to push. All he felt was the tight pull in his gut, the warning he’d learned the hard way not to ignore.
The horses in front of him were some of the best he’d ever seen—strong, sound, worth real money—but quality didn’t mean ready when everything about this felt rushed.
It was like someone else had set the pace and expected him to keep up.
He’d led plenty of times before but right now it felt more like he was being dragged.
While his brothers bickered, Colter’s brain kept spinning on its own track—vaccination schedules, transport logistics, feed storage, breeding rotations, foaling risks, staffing shortages, night checks.
Not to mention the few hundred grand they’d drop on a chance that they produce a champion line.
Every horse they passed was another thread tightening across his chest.
Somewhere, in a version of his life he apparently didn't have anymore, he'd been the brother with room in his head for one problem at a time. That guy sounded delightful. Colter missed him.
The breeder nudged him. “What do you think, Doc?”
Colter ran a hand along the bay’s warm shoulder, its muscles rippling beneath his palm. “He’s exceptional. All of them are. You’ve done good work.”
Boone nudged Eli with a smug grin. “See? Colter said it. Exceptional.”
“He also said her fetlock’s messed up,” Eli pointed out. “Let’s not crown him the positivity king just yet.”
“You two do realize this whole operation lands on us, right? The breeding program, the training, the vet care, foaling season—”
Boone threw an arm around him. “Relax, brother. We’ve got this.”
“You say that now,” Colter muttered. “But at three a.m. when we’ve got a breech foal, suddenly everyone remembers I’m the one who went to vet school.”
Eli lifted a finger. “Incorrect. Boone remembers. I panic.”
Boone scratched his beard. “Accurate.”
"So the plan is that I do the work, Boone remembers I exist, and Eli has a nervous breakdown somewhere off to the side."
"That's the plan," Boone confirmed. "It's a good plan. We've been running it for years."
Despite himself, a raw but real laugh escaped. The worry didn’t vanish, but it eased, settling deeper instead of pressing at his throat, where it had made every breath feel like a negotiation.
Maybe that was the thing about being a Callahan. You carried the weight but at least you didn’t have to carry it alone.