More than one ranch hand perched on the fence ducks as wayward paint pellets spray the cattle pen. I’ll be scrubbing rainbow splotches off the rails for weeks, but seeing how happy Sally is, I won’t mind the extra work.
“The kid’s got good aim,” I acknowledge, ruffling her head. “She’s gonna put you boys to shame soon enough.”
“She already does,” calls West, my foreman and best friend, from his place atop the fence.
I stretch my shoulders, my lower back twinging. A reminder I don’t need. The old injury rankles, but pain is the least of it. My fingers trace the small scar at the back of my neck before I yank them away, covering a grimace with a forced smile. West catches my eye and raises an eyebrow, checking I’m okay. I nod back and then turn to watch as my newest hire dances about with my niece, offering an easy smile, playing up to her win. Billy will fit in fine if his ego can take a paintball hit dead center to the chest by a nine-year-old girl with a decent dose of humor.
An easy smile, and an easy hire. Nothing seems too hard or complicated for the young man. He reminds me of the gung ho cowboy I was back when I first bought Coyote Falls.
I designed the ranch as a refuge for any hardworking cowboy who wanted to get his hands dirty and earn a reprieve from anything outside Coyote’s community or outside our local small town. A place where anyone can work shoulder to shoulder with the next person who bears their fair share of scars.
The razored switchbacks rise behind the house, majestic in their stark beauty, though all the more deadly for it. Their granite face is harsh and matches the weather that can change out here as fast as a man’s mood, and a moment of inattention on an overcast day can spell disaster. A chill wind washes across the golden grass heads that wave gently beyond the homestead, heralding an early, brutal winter.
I make a mental note to ensure we stock up before the season sets in, maybe send the boys into town with a shopping list, though I know I’ll probably end up doing a lot of that myself. Even though I have the staff and funds to allocate the task to someone else, the billionaire control freak in me demands I don’t pass it over to anyone else.
The ranch supplements my main business, Rand Enterprises, with overseas real estate and a few other investments, but I’ve taken more opportunities closer to home in recent years and try to give back a little more. What started as a fluke real estate deal boomed into a shares portfolio, which then diversified further. Business became the first addiction I couldn’t kick, or didn’t want to, back then. Now, everything I do is in an effort. It’s all in an effort to stay in Montana, see a bit more of the family, even though some of them refuse to understand that door swings in both directions.
Coyote Falls runs on sweat, loyalty, and secrets. We don’t ask questions, and the hours put in from sunup ’til sundown end with a damn good meal and a warm bed on top of their weekly paycheck.
“Have the boys tried you on the new bull yet?” I conceal a smile as Billy’s fist clenches near his chest where Sally nailed him earlier. The bruise I know is blooming beneath his shirt must ache like hell.
“Dust Devil?” He huffs and shakes his head. “Hell, no. You’re not going to get me on that thing. A poddy calf, maybe. That’s about the perfect ride for my size.”
I glance up and down the man’s six-foot, four-inch frame that rivals my own height. “You’re not fond of riding?”
“Something that keeps all four legs on the ground, sure.” He snorts, earning himself a laugh from the peanut gallery on the fence who haven’t moved their denim-clad asses back to work yet.
I consider Billy. There’s a chance I might be able to talk him into trying for an eight-second ride with a devil, one day. Train him, maybe. Something about my new ranch hand tells me he’d draw an easy crowd.
“You’ve got a few weeks to practice with some veteran bull riders here to mentor you before the Invitational if you ever change your mind.” I’m thinking less about the quick buck most of the boys go for and more about a long-term career. Billy has grace and he’s a crowd-pleaser, just like our youngest bull rider who gets by on guts alone, even if he hasn’t made the eight-second bell yet.
“I’ll think about it.” Billy flicks his hat off the fence post, covering his mop of dark curls. His gaze fixes over my shoulder and he nods toward the main road. “Are you expecting company?”
My ruminations about training a new bull rider dissipate as I glance toward the main road. Dust devils billow along the top of the drive that leads to the homestead. Cattle loiter in the pasture adjacent to the road, some speckled in yellow and red paint from Sally’s earlier efforts gone astray.
A scarlet car approaches at a low speed, dodging a few potholes where the drive needs grading after the last summer rain. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it just yet between babysitting my best girl and the Valiant Peak Invitational coming up in a few weeks.
I frown at the car that looks nothing like my sister’s, rubbing my empty wrist where I took my watch off before the game started earlier. “Damn. She’s two hours early. Thanks for providing a decent target, Billy. Boys.” I nod to the fence crew as West calls the hands back to work, and I crouch down in front of a paint-splattered Sally. “C’mon, chicken. Let’s get you cleaned up before your mom finds you like this and I’m Bad Uncle all over again, huh?”
“You’re never a bad uncle, Uncle.” Sally frowns at the tautology and throws herself at me in a bear hug before dashing toward the homestead, dropping her paintball gun.
As it clatters across the hard-packed dirt, one of the boys on the fence shouts a warning—Tripp, maybe, he’s a regular, or Jesse, now his bull is secure—but it’s too late. Sally’s final round misfires. Men scatter back to the fence like so many frantic rodeo clowns with a bull gone rogue. The yard fills with curses as the remaining paint pellet ricochets across the yard, finally exploding on the thigh of Tripp’s jeans.
The skinny cowboy groans theatrically and I laugh as I check my own paintball gun and make a quick choice, aiming backward to fire the three remaining pellets his way.
From Tripp’s yelps, at least one of my shots hits their mark.
Kicking off my boots as my niece does her own, I follow Sally into the big house, ducking beneath the broad hand-hewn beams that West helped me cut to form the homestead’s wraparound veranda. Wings split off on either side of the floor-to-ceiling, dual frosted glass doors that frame the entrance. Apart from housing myself and Sally for the few days of the month I get to see her while the hands and West occupy the bunkhouse, the oversized homestead meant for a whole lot more stands empty. No matter how often I’ve tried to encourage West to claim a room in the homestead, his stubborn refusal has been a match for mine.
But then, there’s a lot of that goin’ ’round at Coyote Falls.
I pause at the door as the small red car drifts along the drive, its tinny engine noise out of place among the boys’ raucous chatter after our games and the farm’s trucks’ more guttural roar. It’s not Winnie’s car. I wonder if she’s borrowed it, or if hers broke down. Dammit, I wish Winnie would let me help her out with a few bills and a better car, but my sister is almost as stubborn as I am. A family trait, not that I’d know. A sense of family isn’t something we Rands are famous for.
Sally hasn’t eaten dinner yet, and Winnie isn’t supposed to pick her up until after sunset. I check my phone. Nope. I’ve got the right time, but catch a missed message dated hours ago.
WINNIE
Called into work. Bestie will collect Sally.
