“But I don’t know the first thing about running my own ranch,” I mutter. “I don’tcareabout ranching.”
“Clearly.”
I shove past him, stumbling down the steps barefoot, squinting as the bright sun hits the back of my eyes. My jeans feel heavy, my shirt clinging to the sweat building on my back as I wave my arms toward one of the men unloading horses.
“Stop!” I shout. “There’s been a mistake.”
The man turns to me with a patient smile, his hands gripping the lead rope of a dapple-gray mare. He’s wearing a battered cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. “Bill said you might say that. Told me to tell you a deal’s a deal.”
“But… you can’t hold someone to a deal they made when they were drunk!” Even as the words fly out, I have a sudden memory of calling the bank and transferring the funds to Bill.
Shit!
The man adjusts his hat and shrugs. “All I know is Bill’s on a plane to the Bahamas. He said to tell you he’ll check in when he’s back in a few months.”
“A few months?” My voice cracks embarrassingly high.
Jake, of course, doubles over laughing behind me.
The man keeps going, unfazed. “He also said to remind you that you have the equipment and supplies to get you set up, and you’ve hired his best ranch hand for a minimum of six weeks. Brooks’ll be here soon. Believe me, you’ll want to keep this one.”
I rub at my head, trying to keep up with the whirlwind of information, but the man has already turned back to unloading horses, whistling to the next worker to bring the tack boxes. Help from Bill’s best ranch hand can’t come soon enough.
“How many horses are there?” I ask.
“Eighteen,” he calls over his shoulder. “Mares in those paddocks. You’ve got one pregnant mare with a late foaling. She’s due next month.” He points. “Foals with their mothers over there. Couple of seasoned rodeo geldings, and the stallions are in the far paddock. Ranch is in OK shape considering,” he continues, and I think of the hours I’ve spent repairing fences, tending the paddock grass, keeping it looking like a real ranch, even if it was an empty one. I did it for Mama. Not for this. “But you’ve still got some repairs to do.”
I turn, taking it all in. Eighteen horses. Eighteen living, breathing responsibilities I never wanted outside of a bourbon-fueled moment of insanity.
Jake appears beside me, clapping a hand on my back. “Looks like you’re a rancher now, Dyl.”
The words crash into me as I stare at the equipment being hauled into a barn I haven’t set foot in for months. Last I checked, it was where we stored old football equipment and the boxes of Stormhawks merch we get sent every year. It’s all too much. Too loud. Too real. This place—my home—has been my refuge during my recovery. And now it’s crawling with people and noise and a future I want no part of.
My jaw tightens. My mood curdles.
I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.
Hell, Iwon’tdo this.
A couple of hours later, the ranch is quiet again as the last truck kicks up a cloud of dust on the road out from the ranch and it’s just me, Jake, and Harper… and eighteen rodeo horses I don’t have the first clue how to look after.
I nurse my second coffee in the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s a large open space with a long bench table on one side and modern kitchen units on the other. Every few seconds, I stare out the open back door. Jake’s yellow Labrador retriever, Buck, is lying half in, half out, tail wagging tentatively as he watches the horses graze beyond the fences, like he isn’t sure what to make of the new arrivals.You and me both, Buck!
Harper slides a sandwich in front of me and I nod my thanks, making quick work of the food. Between the sandwich, the second coffee, and the two Tylenols I downed earlier, the brutal edge to my hangover has dulled. But nothing touches the tightness in my chest, like a weight pressing down. All I want to do is go back to bed and wallow in my failure.
I can’t give you the fullback position or any other space on the team.
Across the kitchen, Jake leans against the counter, an arm slung around Harper. Seven months into their relationship and they’re still obsessed with each other. Their happy faces are the last thing I want to see right now.
“Don’t you need to be heading back to the city now?” I ask, shooting Jake a glare.
Jake’s smile widens and he shakes his head. “Actually, we thought we’d spend the weekend here.”
I usually like that Jake divides his time between the city and the ranch. I like that we get to hang out more, throw a ball around, talk through plays, and continue to repair our relationship after I stupidly spent too many months blaming him for not being on the field the day I got my ACL tear. But right now, I could really use some space. “Could you try and look less happy about this at least?”
It’s Harper who replies. “Maybe this could be a good thing.” Her voice is soft, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal. It’s the closest either of them has come to mentioning the giant fucking elephant in the room. The fact that the only reason I was drinking alone in The Hay Barn last night—the only reason I was drunk enough to buy Bill’s horses, the reason my life’s currently spiraling out of control—is because my time playing for the Stormhawks is over.
I heave in a deep breath and catch the comforting scent of fresh bread. Mama must’ve put a loaf in to bake this morning before leaving for Chase’s press event. I can just imagine the joy on his face as he holds up his new number 10 jersey for the cameras.
