“Drunk,” I add.
Caison grimaces. “Yeah. He’d had a bit too much. I’m sorry.”
“Well,” I say, arching a brow, “Ruby’s the one you should be apologizing to.”
“Ruby?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “The girl waiting for him at home. I bet she was relieved when he made it back. And then probably wanted to choke him afterward. At least I would.”
Caison laughs. “Ruby’s a little spitfire, but I don’t think she’d ever try to murder her daddy.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Five women turn to him in unison.
“Her daddy?” we all gasp.
Caison blinks. “You … didn’t know?”
He clears his throat. “Ruby’s Waylon’s four-year-old daughter.”
The revelation hangs in the air, and then we all start talking at once.
Caison raises his hands. “You guys know about as much as I do,” he says. He kisses the top of Matty’s head. “I’m going to go find Albert and Earl.”
He’s halfway out the door before he turns back to us. “Oh, and, Shelby, I gave Way your phone number.”
I turn to him. “What? Why would you do that?”
“He asked for it. Said something about having you train Ruby.”
“Train her? For what?”
He shrugs. “Riding, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, but didn’t you just steal a world-class trainer from us?” Charli asks.
“Never gonna let that go,” he mutters under his breath. “Giles doesn’t train riders anymore, and he made it clear he has no interest in working with a four-year-old. He’s the one who suggested Shelby.”
“I’m not interested either,” I say.
“Up to you. But I watched her on a pony today. She’s a natural. Pure joy. You should at least meet her.”
He leaves, and we all go silent.
Seems there’s a whole hell of a lot none of us knew about our old friend Waylon Ludlow.
Sunday mornings on the ranch are supposed to be slow but rarely are lately.
I take one long inhale of the crisp morning air as I follow Matty outside after breakfast. The farrier’s truck is parked near the barn, tailgate down, tools laid out in a row, like he’s setting up an operating room.
Dixon Fisher stands with one boot propped on the bumper, clipboard tucked under his arm, hat pushed back just enough to show off the sharp cut of his jaw. He’s got that easy, confident posture of a man who knows exactly where he belongs. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. A little older than me. Closer to Matty’s age.
And handsome in that laid-back, easygoing cowboy way.
“Morning, ladies,” Dixon says, glancing up at us with a half smile as we make our way down the steps and across the driveway.
Matty nods. “Good morning, Dixon. I sure appreciate you coming out on a Sunday.”
