“Nope. The owner was extremely apologetic. Took ownership of the confusion. Promised it’ll all be corrected and that they will stay on schedule.”
I laugh softly. “Funny how Bryce gets contrite and apologetic and I get argumentative and condescending.”
Charli smirks. “Want me to have the foreman fired?”
I have to think about it for a moment.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “He probably has a family. I don’t want him to lose his job.”
I sigh and poke at my food. “I just didn’t like how he talked to me.”
Cabe shrugs. “Old cowboy way. Mean old bastards. They talk to everyone like that.”
My head snaps up. “He called me a fucking woman.”
Cabe grins. “You are a fucking woman.”
I pick up what’s left of my cornbread slice and toss it at him.
He laughs as he dodges it. “It’s just how old grumpy men talk. He probably mumbles the same thing under his breath when dealing with his wife.”
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t mean they should.”
“No, ma’am, it doesn’t,” Daddy says. “And if he does it again, Bryce won’t have to have him fired; I’ll escort him off this ranch myself.”
I smile at him, and he winks.
“Speaking of old bastards,” Caison says, setting his glass down, “Holland was on a tear tonight.”
Matty raises a brow. “Why? What happened?”
“His son came back home.”
Everything inside me goes still.
“Waylon?” I ask. “Back… back? As in for good?”
Caison shrugs. “I was in town, dealing with some zoning issues all afternoon. When I got back to the office, Holland was in a mood. He told me Waylon showed up, but didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask any questions. Figured it was best to give him time to calm down. I did text Waylon, and we’re going out for a beer tonight. I’ll get the scoop then.”
Charli’s eyes slide to mine, sharp and curious.
I feel the weight of her stare like a hand between my shoulder blades. She’s been asking me questions about Waylon Ludlow since witnessing my reaction to his appearance at Matty and Caison’s engagement party last fall. Our youngest sister, Harleigh—who just started her last year at the University of Wyoming—is the only one who knows the reason I hold such disdain in my heart for the wayward Ironhorse heir.
And I know from the look Charli’s giving me that I’ve been skirting the subject with her long enough.
There’s no more dodging it now.
The smell of roast beef settles thick and warm in the house, the kind that transports you to your childhood and tells you you’re home—whether you want to be there or not.
I sit at the long oak table I grew up eating at. Ruby’s perched beside me on a booster seat Momma must’ve dug out of storage. Her legs swing beneath the table, socked feet bumping the chair in an off rhythm that makes me smile despite the tightness in my chest.
Momma moves between the kitchen stove and the table, laying down serving dishes like she’s performed this ritual every Sunday of her life—which, as far as I recall, she has. Roast beef, sliced thin and glistening with juices. A bowl of potatoes, mashed smooth and loaded with butter. Green beans, cookedsoft, but not limp. A smaller bowl of stewed cabbage that still smells sharp and faintly of vinegar. A basket of biscuits, wrapped in a cloth napkin to keep them warm.
Pop sits at the head of the table, hands folded, posture straight as a fence post. He hasn’t said much since we sat down. He doesn’t have to. I can feel his eyes on me.
The tension is thick as molasses, but Momma is choosing to ignore it, and Ruby doesn’t seem to notice at all.
I begin to load Ruby’s plate, cutting into the roast beef, sawing carefully, making each piece small—tiny enough that she won’t choke. I line them up in neat little piles without really thinking about it, like I have the last few months of dinners eaten out of takeout containers, distracted, tired, trying to do everything right because there was no one there to tell me what to do.
