Wildflowers & Whiskey (Wildbrook Hollow #1)

5. Prologue

Prologue

Wade

Every damn morning for the past twenty years, I’ve been up before the sun. And every morning, there’s the same dull ache in my joints.

But today, the stiffness in my back is nothing compared to the one pressing hard beneath the band of my boxers.

I let my hand drift, fingers wrapping around the base of my cock, preparing to stroke the stiffness away.

My eyes fall closed as I picture… Fuck, I don’t even know who anymore, it’s been so long since I took an interest in anyone or had the time to.

The longing to be inside someone's tight cunt, to hear them moan my name in my ear, is enough for my own moan to escape my lips as I start to pump myself.

I find a rhythm that feels damn good, almost too good, when the alarm shreds through my head.

Guess that’s my sign to start the workday. Typical. No time for anything like that anymore, which makes the weight of thoughts about the day ahead even more depressing. Just the same routine, pressing down like it always does, day after day after day.

I swing my legs out of bed, grab the clothes I laid out the night before, and my beat-up cowboy boots, creased and as tired of the routine as I am.

The leather creaks a familiar protest as I pull them on.

You’d think with a dad hell-bent on making me a cowboy through and through, this life would be second nature. But it ain’t.

The morning is the usual grind—horses fed, checked over, saddled up before the sun's fully awake. Then the men and I head out for the morning round-up, which wears on me more than it used to. It seems the bigger the herd gets, the more the cattle like to wander off. And honestly? Can’t say I blame ’em.

If it weren't for my son and the promise I made to Dad, I'd have been gone a long time ago.

The memory of that promise pulls me back.

Almost fourteen years ago, right before Dad passed.

His hands, frail and calloused from decades of hard work, gripped mine with the little strength he could muster.

He asked me to take care of the ranch, the one he had started from nothing but a dream and my ma’s love.

But it was never my dream, and he knew it.

I’d sworn I’d never take the ranch over, still clinging on to the hope I could resume my career as a bull rider—my dream, at least at the time.

But in his last breath, he made sure I couldn't refuse.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Leveraging my pride, my loyalty, my sense of duty. Cheeky bastard.

But the moment I'm in the saddle, peace sneaks in. I breathe deep, taking in the fresh, brisk morning air, catching the floral scent from fields of wildflowers blanketing Wildbrook Hollow’s mountains.

My thighs settle against Marcellus's sides as I pause to take it all in.

Don't know what's got me feeling so much this morning, but damn, it's moments like this that make the doubt fade away. Dad left a legacy. A livelihood for my son and me to build upon, even if it’s draining on my ageing body at times.

We’ve had a busy year. Our crops are growing strong, promising high-quality produce; the little riding school is in full swing with eager young students; our cattle are healthy and fertile. The upcoming calving season is shaping up to be our busiest yet.

The ride back to the house brings me back down from the high, reality settling in my chest like dust after a tornado.

The men head to the main house for their quick fix of coffee—I don’t join them, never do.

Never have, not even for breakfast before we head out.

I'm better off keeping myself to myself. Easier for everyone.

Instead, I take myself to one of my two favourite moments of the day.

Coffee time. I’ve made it a ritual to sit on the front porch of my secluded little cabin, a cup of black coffee warming my hands, as the sun slowly creeps over the mountain landscape, painting the sky in strokes of pink and gold.

I end the day the same way, but with a glass of local whiskey in hand, strong and aged to perfection, watching the stars the Texas Hill Country sky gives us.

A sight so breathtaking, it makes me believe some unseen artist is at work, crafting a masterpiece with the little dots of gas.

I cradle the very large cup of liquid energy in my hand as I’m left alone with my thoughts, running through the never-ending list of things that need doing.

From the last sip of morning coffee to the first taste of smooth, warm whiskey at night, I don’t stop.

No time for anything just for me. Not that I have a life outside this ranch.

Even my own son only talks to me when it’s ranch business.

As if summoned by the thought, the sound of boots crunching on gravel pulls me from my spiral.

I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Colt.

No one else usually dares to bother me at my cabin, especially not this early.

The boy moves with purpose, the kind that means whatever's coming is just another weight on the pile. Great.

“Morning, Wade.” He never says Dad. I stopped expecting it years ago.

Most days, I tell myself it's fine. That I made the right call, letting him believe I'm the villain in the story—keeping his mom's perfect image intact.

Some days that's easier to swallow than others. Today ain't one of those days.

I grunt in response. Conversation was never our strong suit. Colt has that look in his eyes. The one that means he’s about to pitch something for the ranch that I won’t like.

“What is it?” I ask, taking another sip of coffee.

He smirks. “What, can't I come by and say good morning?”

I glance over at him, catching his sarcasm. I know better than to think that's how our dynamic works.

“You could,” I say. “But you don’t. Now, just spit it out. What do you want?” My tone’s rough. Deliberate.

Colt’s smirk disappears, and he huffs with a hint of annoyance. “We need more help.”

It's my turn to huff. “We've got help.” Even as I say it, I know it's a weak argument.

“Not enough.”

He’s right, and I know it.

The old timers who stayed on as a favour to Dad have since retired.

Good men. Deserved their rest long before they got it.

And the younger generation around here wants no part of this life.

They want to chase the dream of the big city life and explore the world, which has made finding good help very difficult.

It leaves us stretched thin heading into the busiest season we've had in years.

“I assume you’ve got a plan?”

“A ranch immersion scheme.”

My eyebrows lift. “A what?”

Colt straightens his posture like this is a professional business pitch. Like I'm some investor he needs to convince, rather than his father. He lays it out calmly and measured. “People sign up, live on the ranch for a season, work in exchange for room and board.”

Room and Board. I almost laugh. The land that broke my father's back, that's slowly breaking mine, reduced to room and board.

My hand tightens around my mug, and I feel that familiar pull along my cheek. Colt clocks the reluctance before I can school my expression.

“Look. Times are changing and you can't rely on the old ranch ways to keep us afloat anymore, Wade. You know deep down this could be good for the ranch. We start small, see how it goes.”

I don’t answer right away. The idea of bringing in an outsider doesn’t sit right with me.

Ranching isn’t just some experience people can pick up like a frickin’ hobby.

It’s long hours, backbreaking work, and a damn sight tougher than whatever cowboy fantasy some city person has cooked up in their head.

But when I look at Colt, I see the excitement behind his blue eyes—the same shade as his mother, nothing like mine.

A reminder of everything I carry because she left.

I swallow it down and exhale, already regretting giving this idea the time of day.

But if it makes him happy, that's enough.

And when it fails, I'll pick up the pieces. Like I always do.

“Fine,” I announce. “One person, but you deal with ’em.”

“Deal.” Colt's smirk returns like he’s won a large cash prize, yet he keeps going. Trying to convince me further even though I’ve said yes.

“We'll get someone eager. Maybe someone who wants to connect with nature for a little while. You know the type.” His smile widens, all teeth.

I grunt in response. Yes, I know the type.

The ones who think life on a ranch is all about riding horses and feeding animals.

I’ll never understand how people can romanticise the life that is grounding me down to nothing each day.

And the idea of an outsider using my family’s land as some sort of nature retreat irritates me on a whole other level.

This isn't a place for folks to find themselves.

It's my father's legacy. My son's future.

I swipe my hand down my face, back teeth pressing together. “Let's see how it goes before getting ahead of ourselves.”

Colt's already heading off with a spring in his step. Haven't seen him like that in a while, all lit up and smiling. That's enough for me to make this work. And who knows—maybe if it all goes right, things between us will start to look different.