Emmett stretches his arms overhead with a groan. “We’re gonna need you tomorrow at Dusty Spur. Got a few horses acting strange. Might be the heat, might be this weird pressure in the air.”
Yeah. The pressure.
Even the dirt feels it today. That restless, heavy something that you can’t name but everyone senses. The samesomethingthat had Marshall staring at the tree line earlier, waiting for it to blink first.
I roll my shoulders, which have been tense since sunrise. “What symptoms?”
Emmett shrugs. “Skittish, not eatin’ much. Spooked by shadows. Red thinks it’s atmospheric.”
“Red also thinks Bigfoot lives behind the rodeo grounds,” I remind him.
“Yeah, and? Bigfoot’s real particular ’bout storms.”
I turn and stare at him. He grins wider.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
He claps me on the shoulder gratefully. “Knew I could count on you. You’re a good man, Wyatt Tucker.”
“That’s what they tell me,” I say dryly.
“Who’s ‘they’?” he asks.
“Oh, you know. My fans.”
“Name one.”
I deadpan, “You.”
He barks out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
We’re still chuckling when Emmett’s gaze shifts past my shoulder, and he nudges me with a grin that says trouble’s coming.
“Look who it is,” he murmurs.
I turn, and sure enough, here comes the entire High Ridge Ranch polycule, strolling onto the church lawn, practically representing the cover of a Small Town Cowboys Calendar.
Clint leads the pack, all brooding intensity and protective energy that seems to radiate off him like heat. Sawyer’s with him, smiling politely at whatever Dakota says.
Reid’s trailing behind, wearing sunglasses even though we’re standing under a tree and he’s inside a churchyard, because he’s Reid and subtlety is dead.
Dakota’s holding little Charlie’s hand, laughing at Reid. Charlie’s holding a toy horse, happily oblivious to everything except figuring out how the tail comes off.
I feel myself smiling a little. You don’t have to be the town vet to see they’re all good. Happy. Settled.
Emmett whistles low. “They lookgood.”
“Healthy,” I say automatically.
“That’s your diagnosis for everything.”
“Mmm,” I hum into my tea. “Better than dying.”
“Is that the bar?”
“Some days, yes.”
Dakota spots us and waves so enthusiastically that it nearly yanks her shoulder out of the socket. She steers the men over, Charlie trotting alongside her.
