Chapter Seven
Maeve
The sound of clattering dishes and the team’s goodbyes flood the kitchen as I shovel the last spoonful of beef casserole into my mouth. I’ve barely finished swallowing when Colt swoops in to grab my plate and starts washing it up, like a domesticated angel.
The man practically inhaled his food. Honestly? It’s kind of endearing how keen he is to hang out.
I, on the other hand, feel like a sticky, sweaty goblin. Same jeans and tank top I've been in since sunrise, feet screaming in protest from being trapped all day in my worn-out Docs. Turns out they’re not exactly ranch-approved footwear. A lesson learned the hard way, blisters and all.
I've got to get new boots before I end up having to amputate my feet.
But the town's too far to walk and driving on the wrong side of the road petrifies me.
A problem for another day—and by another day, I mean within the next few days, because I'm also down to my last few essentials that Mrs. Mae provided.
The woman is basically a cross between Mother Teresa and Dolly Parton, and I am entirely here for it.
“I’m gonna go freshen up, alright? Meet you back down here in ten?”
Colt glances over his shoulder mid-counter wipe. “Sounds good.”
I nod and slip out, joining a few stragglers heading for the bunkhouse. Wade included—though true to form, he doesn’t say goodbye. Just stands up and walks out.
I haven’t seen him since I made my dig at him and his stupid bloody rudeness.
And yes, fine, maybe I shouldn’t have spoken to my boss like that.
But he just gets under my skin in a way I can’t make sense out of.
It’s like he wants people to hate him. To keep their distance from him.
And yet, he’s always there. Lurking in doorways, hovering by fences, a constant presence at the edges of my peripheral vision.
Which makes what I've concluded is just a fanny-flutter-inducing crush into a real, spectacular pain in the ass.
You'd think the constant rudeness, the grunting, the inability to make polite small talk would have killed that vibe by now.
Nope. Apparently, all it takes is a pair of Wranglers and thighs sculpted by the ranching Gods, and I lose all sense of logic.
Well… that’s kind of a lie. Because annoyingly, whenever he is nearby, I can’t help but watch him closely.
Not in a stalker way.
Okay, maybe mildly stalker adjacent.
But I've been invested in the Carter family since that first night—since getting caught snooping in a room full of their history—and I just can't help but observe.
And honestly, what I've observed doesn't line up with my initial read of him at all.
Because Wade Carter isn't just the moody Cowboy Batman I've labelled him to be—it's a front.
Beneath that exterior, he quietly but deeply cares about the people around him.
The way he softens for Mrs. Mae, always thanking her and complimenting her cooking; the way he quietly takes on Colt's tasks when he's in therapy without making a fuss; and the way he lets Bryan be his full, bonkers, neurospicy self without a flicker of judgment.
He's an enigma. A sexy, frustrating, thick-thighed enigma who is still, for the record, a complete twat. That part hasn't changed. It just makes ignoring him significantly harder.
But tonight is not about untangling my tragic crush.
Tonight is about Colt. The sunshine in a Stetson.
The person who treats me with respect and warmth, and not like a problem.
I'm genuinely excited. Not just to hang out, but to get to know him properly. Not just the snippets I’ve seen through my late-night snooping sessions in the house.
And maybe by figuring out Colt, I might also start to piece together the parts of his father that don’t quite add up.
I step into my room, greeted by the now-familiar scent of lavender.
I kick off my Docs without unlacing them, a task that would’ve been easier if I had just spent the extra seconds it takes to unlace them.
I groan at the relief. There’s not a chance in hell I’m putting those torture devices back on tonight.
My phone buzzes.
Iris: Still on for our vid call later?
Shit. I totally forgot.
Maeve: Raincheck? Colt asked me to hang out and I figured it’d be nice to get to know him a bit more.
Iris: Oooooooooh. Cowboy Chronicles: Chapter one??? Get it, gal!
Maeve: FFS. We’re just friends.
Iris: Oh yeah, I forgot your vagina is calling out for the Cowboy Red Flag with the “DO NOT TOUCH” sign nailed to his backside. Not the cowboy prince charming.
Maeve: That ‘do not touch’ sign applies to both Carter men, thank you very much. I won’t be going there with either of them.
Iris: You keep telling yourself that. Anyway, talk tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which isn’t much. If you do, BE SAFE. No surprise cowboy babies, please.
I roll my eyes and send her the emoji to match, smiling despite myself.
God, I miss her. I just want to be curled up on her sofa with takeaway and a bottle of wine, chatting absolute rubbish until one in the morning.
But I need to remember why I'm here.
I'm here because I'm tired of dipping in and out of places. Tired of spending a little time somewhere, seeing all the nice bits, taking the photos, and then hopping on a plane back to London still feeling lost and empty.
That's been my story for years now. Going from city to city, country to country, hoping somewhere would click.
Not that I even know exactly what I'm looking for. I'm not sure it's a place, necessarily. Or at least, I don't think it is.
It's more of a sense of knowing where you fit. Waking up in the morning and having somewhere to be. Having people who notice when you're there and when you're not. Being part of something instead of just passing through it.
I think that's what I'm chasing.
I don't know if this is it. It's only been three weeks. But in those three weeks, I've felt more hopeful than I have in a long time.
Part of that hope is currently waiting for me downstairs.
With full gremlin-mode activated—old oversized tee, comfiest sweats, and fluffy slippers that have absolutely no grip left—I shuffle-slide my way to the kitchen where Colt is waiting, two beers in hand.
“Thought you bailed,” he teases.
“Got distracted texting Iris,” I admit. “I wouldn’t dare bail on you.”
He grins and gestures outside. “Come on.”
I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve stepped out in the back garden.
It stretches wide, framed by the weathered wooden fencing that is apparently a Meadow Bell Ranch staple.
There’s a giant oak in the distance with a faded treehouse and a makeshift rope swing.
It feels… strangely homely. Like someone love this place once.
To the left of the patio doors, a soft orange glow flickers from a fire pit made of mismatched brick. It crackles gently, giving the space a kind of intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.
Colt sinks into one of the cushioned deck chairs by the flames and hands me a bottle. We sit. Silent and slightly awkward, neither of us quite sure how to start the whole hanging out as friends thing.
Naturally, me being me, I word vomit.
“So… where’s your mum?”
Colt stiffens slightly; his eyes locked on the fire.
“Shit, I guess that wasn’t the best icebreaker,” I wince. “You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in, voice quieter than usual.
His thumb starts tracing the rim of his beer bottle. “I just don’t talk about her much. At least, not outside of paid sessions.”
A dry laugh escapes him. I recognise it immediately. Humour as armour. It’s what I do a lot too.
The silence stretches between us before Colt finally exhales.
“She left when I was nine.”
“Why?” My curiosity is in full swing. Classic Maeve.
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the flames. “No one ever really told me, to be honest. I’ve just pieced together what I can.”
I stay quiet, letting him fill the space at his own pace.
“Things were good before she left. She was an artist. A really good one, Maeve.” He emphasised.
Ruby Carter.
“The paintings in the hallway,” I say. “They’re hers?”
Colt nods, and for the first time since we've started talking about her, something softens in his expression.
His voice is full of admiration as he continues, “Yeah.
She'd paint for hours, and I'd just sit there watching her.
She'd get completely lost in it. Like nothing else existed.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That's when she was happiest.”
The smile doesn't last.
“She started going away on weekends. Told me she was going to galleries to sell her work. Trying to chase her dream. I think she got tired of being Wade’s Wife,” he makes air quotes with his beer-free hand. “Gramps ended up looking after me more and more.”
The flames reflect in his wide glassy eyes. Breathing in through his nose and swallowing hard. He’s struggling, but I know from experience that letting it out, despite how hard it is in the moment, can feel like a weight has been lifted. I just listen.
“I didn't mind much. When she came back, she was always buzzing. Full of energy. Like she'd remembered who she was for a minute.” His grip tightens around the bottle. “But it never lasted. Day or two later she'd go quiet again. Almost zombie-like.”
He swallows again.
“Still, she always made time for me. Always let me sit with her while she painted. Sometimes she'd even let me help.”
The firelight dances across his face. Whatever softness had been there moments ago is gone, replaced by a tension that pulls tight at his jaw.
“Then Wade came back. He’d been gone for months, on tour, yet again.”
The bitterness catches me off guard, though maybe it shouldn't. I've noticed the strange distance between them. They talk to each other like colleagues forced to share an office. Not like father and son.