Quinnie the Pooh
Quinn
Ihave no apartment, no man, and now no job. My thirties are going great.
None of this had been part of my meticulously thought-out life plan.Weren't people in their thirties supposed to have it all together? Especially the ones who spent their twenties grinding to hit every goal they set?
Evidently not.
My heels wobble precariously on the uneven gravel of Dawson Ranch as the sun settles low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and purple. I inhale, taking in the scent of damp earth and manure.
When my brother Wes and I came down in the summers, I'd always complained about the smell the second we stepped out of the car.
Pops would just chuckle and say, “Smells like money to me.”
The thought that I might never hear that chuckle again makes my eyes burn. He’s still in a hospital bed two towns over, fresh out of emergency heart surgery after a second heart attack. Mom and Dad rushed to his side, and Wes called me, his voice frayed around the edges. He pulled through the surgery but still has a long recovery ahead.
My boss' protests hadn't stopped me from packing my bags and hauling ass here as soon as I could. I suppose he’s myformerboss now—kind of like he’s my former boyfriend. The job didn’t matter anymore and neither didhe. Wes needed me, and I needed to be here—doing something, being useful—instead of pacing my apartment, waiting to hear how things turned out.
Spring is the busiest time on the ranch—calves hitting the ground, the feeder herd needing to put weight on after winter. Snow might still sneak in over the next month or two, but the work won’t wait.
My exhale is shaky as my gaze flicks to two figures riding toward the white farmhouse—a couple of cowboys who might be surprised to find me here. I didn’t tell Wes I was coming; he’d have told me he didn’t need my help. But I’d heard the tremor in his voice over the phone, the exhaustion.
I had every right to be here. Pops is my grandfather too.
“Quinn?” Wes calls from the horse. “What are you doing here?”
Wes has been pulling himself in too many directions between the new house build, helping his fiancée Sawyer with horse training when needed, and keeping the ranch running. He was spreading himself too thin. Pops has been in the hospital for three days and from the look of Wes, he hasn’t slept at all.
He swings down from his striking black gelding, the horse nudging against his hand as he strokes its neck.
“I came to help,” I say.
“Quinnie the Pooh!” Tripp hollers as he dismounts. His face splits into a grin that has his dimples denting his cheeks. He wastes no time, dragging me into a hug that knocks that breath out of me.
Whenever I saw him, it was like no time had passed at all. We always picked up right where we’d left off. I hadn’t been called that childhood nickname in ages—one that Tripp had coined when I was five years old because of the stuffed bear I used to carry with me everywhere.
My smile widens, and I melt into the steady strength that has always beenTripp. God, I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed a hug like this one—solid and comfortable.
He feels like home.
I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to soak up every ounce of his warmth.
“Pretty sure I’ve outgrown that nickname,” I say, inhaling the scent of sweat and leather and cattle. My nose wrinkles. The cow smell will take some getting used to, but if Wes could do it, then so could I.
“Never. You’ll always be Quinnie to me,” he says as he breaks into a boyish grin.
At fifteen, that smile never failed to make my heart race. Most girls in Cottonwood Creek had a crush on Tripp Matthews, but mine had been hopeless—he was my brother’s best friend. And I could never quite hold his attention.
His blond hair still falls past his ears, perfectly mussed under his Stetson after a full day in the saddle, five o’clock shadow throwing his jawline into relief. His shoulders are broad, his stomach flat under his tightly-fitted T-shirt, and those kind brown eyes crinkle in the corners with that damn dangerous smile.
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I can’t help smiling back. “Stubborn ass.”
“Alright, alright,” Wes grumbles, staring daggers where Tripp’s fingers are wrapped around my waist. “Hands off my sister. I haven't even gotten to hug her yet.”
Tripp laughs and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. He squeezes me once more before stepping away, taking all his warmth with him. I shiver, and Wes pulls me into a bone-crushing hug.
“Thanks for coming,” he says tearily. “Christ, I’m glad you’re here. Rushing Pops to the hospital was—” he cuts himself off and I rest my head on his shoulder, holding him tightly. His shoulders finally sag, and he squeezes me once more before letting me go.I give him a sad smile as he rubs the tears from his cheeks with his work gloves.
