He blinks slowly. “Yeah, I was standing there.”
I huff at him. “You didn’t say anything.”
“There wasn’t anything to say.”
“There’s plenty to say,” I fire back. “We didn’t agree to this. I bet he didn’t even ask Deacon. He just… decided.”
Knox shrugs, his boot scuffing lightly against the packed dirt. “He’s Dad.”
I hate how calm he is. He always does this—steps back and lets Dad steamroll over us all like it’s inevitable. Like, fighting back isn’t even worth the effort.
“Well, you could at least pretend to be on my side,” I gruff.
“I am on your side, Teag.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He studies me for a second, his expression softening. Knox is loud and obnoxious when it comes to being cocky or charming, but he always been quiet about things like this. Where I burn hot and fast, he’s calm and collected. It’s infuriating.
“It’s useless,” he exhales, finally.
I cross my arms tighter. “That’s a cop-out.”
“It’sreality.” He pushes off the stall, dust falling from the back of his shirt as he straightens. “Dad always wins when it comes to the ranch.” His tone isn’t angry or bitter, just certain, like it’s a law of nature.
I hate that he’s right.
As the fifth generation of Wilsons to run this ranch, Dad lives and breathes this place. Every fence post, acre, and head of cattle exists because he—and the men who came before him—refused to let it fail. The ranch isn’t just his livelihood; it’s his identity. And whether he says it or not, he expects it to become ours, too.I hate how trapped that makes me feel.
Beside me, Knox stretches his arms over his head, his shirt lifting just enough to show the strip of tan skin at his waist. He rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off our entire conversation. “I’m gonna go grab a quick shower before dinner,” he states casually, a coy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Make sure I’m extra pretty before we eat.”
I throw the brush at him. “God, I hate you.”
He catches it, grinning crooked and completely unapologetic. “You love me, sis.” He tosses it back with a wink before turning on his heel and heading toward the house.
After glaring at him for a moment, I resume grooming Daisy. I brush her absentmindedly, my thoughts more on the new cowboy than on the task at hand.
Once finished with Daisy, I move down the line, check hooves, refill water buckets, and adjust tack. By the time I’m done, the sun is low in the sky, bleeding orange and pink through the doors of the barn.
I grab a straw bale and carry it toward the barn door, pushing it with my hip. My gaze is immediately drawn to Easton. He’s leaning against the fence that lines the paddock, one boot braced on the lower rails and elbows propped across the top. A cowboy hat with a low-tipped brim shadows most of his face. The setting sun paints him in cold and fire, outlining his broad shoulders and the solid line of his back. He’s tall, and his frame fills out his worn flannel.
I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t seem to help myself. He hasn’t pulled his eyes away from the sunset burning over the fields, silhouetting the mountains in a blaze of color. But he isn’t watching it in awe.I don’t think.While I can’t see much of his face, there is no missing the slight downturn of his lips.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his stance, and for a moment, I think he might look over and catch me. I quickly step back into the shadow of the barn door.
Why do I care? He’s just a ranch hand.
I walk outside, drop the bale beside the door, and lean against the frame as I watch him openly. The wind kicks up slightly, tugging at his shirt and carrying strands of hair across my face. I wrap my arms around myself to fight off the chill. Easton exhales heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with the breath.
He pushes off the fence, straightening to his full height. For a split second, his gaze flicks toward the barn.Toward me.Our eyes meet across the distance. Even from here, I can see the deep, unapologetic sadness. He tips his hat slightly, acknowledging my presence, before turning and headingtoward the house. I watch him go, the fading light stretching his shadow across the dirt.
As I stand in the doorway, dust clinging to my jeans and my shoulder aching, I smell the shift in the air. There is a storm rolling in, and I don’t think it’s just bringing rain.
Change has arrived on this ranch, whether I like it or not.
I step up onto the Wilsons’ porch at 5:50 p.m. Ten minutes early. A habit Rosie beat into me over the years because I was habitually late to everything.Everything…
The screen door creaks when I pull it open, and the warmth inside hits me first. It’s not just from the heat, but the kind that comes only from a lived-in home. The aroma hits me second. Dinner smells like roasted meat, garlic, and fresh bread baking in the oven.
