Dave rose to his feet and took the pack credit card that Matt gave him.
“We will,” he promised.
CHRISTIAN
Dave was still packing when Christian headed over to the house for breakfast. He wasn’t sure what was taking Dave so long. For someone who talked about traveling lightly through life, he sure did seem to be packing a lot of shit.
It had taken Christian maybe five minutes to throw his stuff together, and four of those had been spent on choosing his hair-care products. It came from always needing to be ready to leave. Foster homes, group homes, other people’s beds—living out of a bag meant he could leave fast, before he was thrown out.
Tristan’s two walking disasters were vandalizing the porch. One was chewing the edge of the rocking chair, the other headbutting the screen door. Neither goat looked remotely guilty as he approached.
“Off!” Christian barked, and that got them moving. They skittered down the steps, hooves clattering.
Tristan leaned out the back door, hair still damp from his morning shower and eyes too bright for the time of day. “They got out again? I swear they can pick locks.”
“Or you don’t know how to latch one,” Christian muttered. Those damn goats were the wrong species to be Houdini’s descendants, yet they were never where they were supposed to be. Tristan was the obvious explanation.
Inside, the kitchen was busy. Jason was at the stove, humming quietly as he flipped something buttery and golden while Riley leaned against the counter beside him. Christian couldn’t tell if the hunger on his face was from watching Jason or the food in the pan.
He took a chair opposite Jesse, who was slouched with a spotlessly empty plate before him.
“Mornin’,” Jesse drawled. “Thought I heard stomping.”
Christian didn’t answer. Mostly because Jesse wasn’t wrong.
“Coffee?” Jason offered, already holding out a mug.
Christian took it with a grunt of thanks. “Tristan, you’re looking after Diablo.”
Tristan blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Jesse’ll only pick a fight with him, and God knows which of them would out-stubborn the other.”
“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Tristan said in a voice that trembled on a laugh. “Good to know you appreciate my abilities, and I’m not just your fallback position.”
“You cleared the Jesse bar,” Christian said, fighting not to give in to Tristan’s easy laughter. “It’s kind of a low one, though.” Asking him to look after Diablomeantsomething, and Tristan knew it. Neither Christian nor his horse trusted easily.
“Not like I could do it anyway,” Jesse pointed out. “I got chickens to wrangle.”
Tempting though it was to point out the chickens had only turned murderous since Jesse had come along, Christian concentrated on what was important. “He gets turnout every morning, half-scoop grain mix, and check for ticks under his tail, morning and evening.”
Tristan’s excitement at being trusted with Diablo wavered a little at that. “Twicea day?”
“No excuses. His care sheet is on the fridge.” Where he’d left it last night, fastened by a magnet, with all possible eventualities covered.
Tristan scraped his chair back, went to the fridge and pulled off the piece of paper filled with Christian’s spiky handwriting. “You actually wrote all this out?” he asked, as he scanned it. “I do know how to check hay for mold, you know.”
“Well, now you got a reminder, don’t you?” Christian grabbed a croissant from the plate in the middle of the table and tore it open. He hadn’t been away from the ranch overnight since he’d first come here, and the prospect of leaving Diablo’s care to someone else made his gut tight. Hedidtrust Tristan, but this was Diablo. That kind of trust was still hard.
Matt walked in, heading straight for the coffee machine.
“You two set?” he said over his shoulder.
“Almost,” Dave said from behind Christian, where he’d just come through the back door. He always showed up at the right time, like the sun.
“We’ll be out after breakfast,” Christian said. “Assuming Dave’s finished packing by then.”
Dave glanced back from the pantry. “Just need my teabags, then we’re good.”
