Still, the house held dignity. Warm light spilled from the tall windows, and smoke drifted from the stone chimney, carrying the scent of burning wood and home-cooked meals. This wasn’t a showplace like Jenkins’s spread—it was a home where generations had been raised, where real work was done, where love lived in every weathered board and carefully tended detail.
At least, that was his memory.
His gaze went to the main barn. Classic red construction with white trim that had faded to cream, a peaked roof that still reached toward the stars with dignity. One of two barns—livestock in the other, newer barn away from the house. But in this one, they kept vehicles and tools and, well, Sierra’s loft, built for her by her father.
The structure showed age in weathered boards and paint that needed touching up, but so many…many good memories. The kind of memories that could carry a man through…well, a decade.
Even death, and back.
Warmth stirred inside him.
Nope. Not going there.
Floodlights mounted on power poles turned the area around it into a stage, bright enough to practice by, warm enough to forget the October chill.
And there, in that circle of light, a boy was learning to rope.
Hammer pulled to the shoulder of the county road, turned off his headlights.
“Um, what are we—” Saxon started, cut off by Hammer’s glance. “Hokay. We’ll call this recon.”
Hammer’s mouth tightened. The boy stood in the corral beside the barn, coiling rope with focused intensity.
A man stood nearby, calling out instructions that carried across the night air. Early forties, solid build, the kind of broad shoulders and easy stance that spoke of a lifetime spent working cattle. A real cowboy, from his worn boots to the hat that sat naturally on his head.
“Keep your elbow up. Trust the weight of the rope. Don’t force it.”
Good advice. The kind Hammer had heard from Elway Blackwood twenty years ago.
The boy—Huck, that was his name—nodded and reset his position. He held the rope like he understood its potential, like the coiled hemp was an extension of his arm rather than a separate tool. When he threw, the loop sailed true and settled around one horn of the practice dummy.
“Better,” the older man called. “But watch your follow-through. Keep that wrist straight.”
Hammer found himself nodding in agreement. The kid had natural ability, but he was developing a bad habit that would cost him speed in competition. Someone needed to tell him to trust the motion, to let the rope do the work instead of trying to muscle it into position.
The boy reset and threw again. This time, the loop fell short, and Hammer saw him shake his head in frustration.
“Don’t overthink it,” Hammer murmured. “Feel the rhythm. Let it flow.”
Saxon glanced at him. “Like riding a bike.”
Hammer rolled his eyes. But, as if responding to his unspoken coaching, the boy took a deep breath and tried again. This throw was perfect—a smooth release, tight loop, clean capture. Even from fifty yards away, Hammer could see the satisfaction in the kid’s posture.
The man…probably the boy’s father, probably a good man who’d given Sierra the family she deserved…clapped his hands in approval. “That’s it. You’ve got it now.”
So much for her being lonely.
They practiced for another ten minutes before heading toward the house, their voices fading as they moved out of the light. The man’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. Huck laughed at something his father said.
A fist formed in Hammer’s gut.
“You okay, Hammer?” Saxon had pulled out his phone, was scrolling.
The air carried the scent of hay and horses, of wood smoke and possibility. Stars blazed overhead in the clear mountain sky, and inside the home that he’d nearly called his, Sierra was probably putting her son to bed, reading him stories or listening to his plans for the junior rodeo competition.
And then she’d climb into bed with the man?—
Wait. The man walked out of the house and got into his truck. Drove away.
