The goat had been handled. The chairs were where they belonged. The announcer's booth was someone else's problem now, and if it burst into flames, I was going to pretend I didn't see it.
My inner monologue had devolved into a steady stream of profanity that would make the old ladies at church clutch their pearls if they could hear it. Fucking banner. Fucking volunteers who can't follow simple instructions. Fucking Wyatt and his fucking opinions about fucking timelines?—
Speaking of.
I spotted my eldest brother across the crowded grounds, deep in conversation with one of the cattle buyers who'd come to see what Blackwood Ranch was building. Wyatt had his serious face on—the one that meant he was talking business, probably making promises I'd have to figure out how to keep.
We'd already had two arguments today.
The man couldn't see past the end of his own nose when it came to ranch priorities. Ironic, considering he was technicallythe ranch’s manager. The cattle expansion was important, sure. And Ivy's breeding program was going to put Blackwood beef on the map. But horses had always been my domain, and every time I tried to talk about growing that side of the operation, Wyatt looked at me like I was asking for him to pull a pot of gold out of his ass.
One thing at a time, Mags.
We can't fund everything, Mags.
Let's get through this season first, Mags.
I was so fucking tired of being patient.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, I had a rodeo to run.
I made my rounds with ruthless efficiency, fixing problems before anyone else noticed they existed. Rerouted a group of wandering cattle that had somehow ended up near the food stalls. Smoothed over a dispute between two vendors about booth placement. Snapped at a volunteer who was about to set up the kids' games in the wrong location, then immediately apologized because it wasn't his fault that I was operating on four hours of sleep and a lifetime of suppressed frustration.
"You okay?" the volunteer asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"Fine," I said brightly. "Just caffeinated. Ignore me."
He did not look like he believed me, but kept his mouth shut. Smart man.
Somewhere in the chaos, I found Wyatt again—this time about to walk into a meeting with a group of potential investors my father had invited. His collar was crooked. Because of course it was.
Wordlessly, I stepped into his path, reaching for the white collar. “Hold still," I ordered when he tried to sidestep me.
"Maggie—"
I yanked on the shirt, forcing him to stay still. You’d think in his thirty-two years of life, he’d learn to listen when someone was trying to help him. “Your collar's a mess. You look like you got dressed in the dark."
"I did get dressed in the dark. Ivy was still sleeping."
"Well, you can't meet investors looking like a rumpled teenager." I finished adjusting his collar and smoothed my hands over it and down his shoulders. "There. Now you look like someone worth giving money to."
Wyatt caught my wrist as I stepped back. His expression had softened from earlier—that familiar mix of gratitude and guilt that always showed up after we fought.
"Mags. About this morning?—"
"Don't." I pulled my hand free gently. "We'll figure it out. We always do. Go charm the money people."
He hesitated like he wanted to say more, but Ivy appeared at his shoulder with her clipboard and her game face, and the moment passed.
What I didn't do was let anyone see the soft parts underneath. The exhaustion. The loneliness. The quiet ache of always being the one who held everything together and never being the one who got held.
Down that road lies self-pity, Blackwood. Get your shit together.
I drained my coffee, tossed the cup, and went to check on the crooked banner.
I was halfway up a ladder, finally fixing the damn thing myself, when I heard my father's voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
"Gather 'round, everyone! Got someone I want y’all to meet!"
