My stomach knots as I look at the picture of Wyatt and the blonde woman I’ll nickname: Velcro, pressed against every part of him she can reach. They’re standing in the sponsorship tent in Cheyenne. “Oh my gosh, I was there. I saw that girl.”
“You were there?” Brook asks as I read the caption below the picture: @RodeoBrittney#MyFavoriteBullrider
“Yeah. My friend Jess wanted to enter the date with a cowboy contest.” I double check the name, “Brittney was fangirling hard.”
Brook drops her head to the table. “I swear.”
“What’s the big deal?” Hailey scoffs, “He has tons of women following him.”
Brook lifts her head and swipes to the next photo. “This is the big deal.”
Hailey and I lean in to get a good look. I jerk back, wishing I could erase the image from my mind of Brittneylaying on Wyatt’s bare chest, his shoulder’s taped and he’s sleeping.
Sometimes I don’t love being right about people.
“I swear, I don’t know how such a good guy can make so many stupid choices.” Brook huffs as she puts the phone on the counter. “We are so going to have words over this.”
Good guy? I’m not sure which one of us is the more naive—me or his sister. Although she’s his sister and I’m…well…I’m certainly not a fan of his. I haven’t spent any time on his socials this week—any time worth mentioning that is.
Hailey stands up. “There’s always two sides to a story. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this.”
Brook sips her tea. “There’d better be.”
I don’t comment. I’m not the type who badmouths a guy to his family and Brook seems to think Wyatt’s actually a good guy. I wish I could believe her, but the evidence suggests he’s every bit the player I thought he was.
Although, my brain argues, a sister’s word should weigh heavier than a buckle bunnie’s social media post.
I give myself a good, hard, shake. I’m not here to figure out Wyatt and as long as he stays far away from Gritstone, I’ll be fine.
Just fine.
Eight
ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME WITH A COWBOY?
WYATT
Stonegate Ranch rolls out in front of me—three hundred acres of pure Halloway stubbornness made real.
The main house sits up on the rise maybe two hundred yards out, built from logs and stone like it's daring the mountain to try and knock it down. That wraparound porch faces east so you catch the sunrise every morning, and the American flag Dad hung from the corner post is snapping in the breeze.
Between me and the house, everything's laid out the way five generations of Halloway’s figured made sense—horse paddocks closest to the barn, then the equipment sheds, feed storage, and beyond that, pastures that stretch clear to the tree line. The whole setup forms a rough square around the main yard.
The barn behind me is older than the house, my great-grandfather built the original structure from timber he cut himself, but that was just the beginning. Over the decades, as cattle prices climbed and the ranch prospered, each generation added their own mark—more stalls than most operations could dream of, a climate-controlled feed room with automated systems, tack rooms lined with custom saddles crafted by the best leather workers in the business, and Dad's office where he runs one of the most profitable cattle and feed crop operations in Colorado. The whole complex is built to last centuries.
It’s the round pen that draws my attention this morning. Sixty feet of steel panels forming a perfect circle where man and horse come to an understanding, one way or another. And right now, there's a two-year-old colt in there who's making it clear he doesn't want to understand anything except the quickest way out.
The horse is a blood bay with black points, built for speed and trouble in equal measure. He's got a wild look in his dark eyes. Every time someone moves too close to the fence, he pins his ears and kicks out with enough force to cave in a man's ribs.
Kit sits perched on the top rail of the round pen like she was born there, her legs swinging as she stares down the colt. He's steering clear of her and she's invading his space.
My baby sister's sixteen and fearless, which is a dangerous combination in any circumstances but especially around livestock that outweighs her by a thousand pounds. She’s got that stubborn set to her jaw that means she's already made up her mind about something the rest of us aren't going to like. I wonder if she had that look when Dadpicked her up at the police station. She and a bunch of friends were caught spray painting the high school mascot on the town’s water tower.
My shoulder throbs as I shift, reminding me why I'm here.
"Wyatt." Grandpa's voice cuts through my brooding. He comes out of the tack room behind me. At seventy-two, he's still built like the oak fence posts he used to split by hand—weathered, scarred but standing. His attention sweeps from the horse to Kit to me.
He's carrying a lead rope in his work-callused hands, and I know from experience that when Grandpa picks up a rope, things are about to get interesting.
