“Wyatt! Emmett!” she says, cheeks flushed from the walk. “Hi!”
“Hey, Dakota,” I say. “Hey, Charlie.”
Charlie waves his horse at me as if it’s a weapon.
“Whyyyyyatt,” he says, drawing my name out, practically singing it.
“Is that a new horse?” I ask.
“No,” Reid says solemnly. “He’s been performing surgery on it all morning.”
Charlie beams. “I took out his squeaker.”
“As one does,” I deadpan. “Necessity of the medical arts.”
Sawyer chuckles. “Kid’s got talent. Scares me a little.”
Clint grunts something that might be agreement or might be him remembering he left the stove on. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him.
“How’s High Ridge holding up?” Emmett asks. “Haven’t seen you all in a couple of weeks.”
Sawyer’s the one who answers: “Better than it was. Fences are finally fixed, the new cattle feed came in, and Clint only yelled at the tractor twice this week.”
“That’s progress,” I say.
Clint shoots me a look. “I don’t yell at the tractor.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “It deserves it.”
Dakota laughs, bright and warm. “We’re just glad things have calmed down. Last month was… a lot.”
That’s the polite version of “someone from town tried to ruin our entire livelihood,” but hey, this is a potluck. We soften the edges here.
“We’re happy for you,” I tell them, and I mean it. There’s a steadiness about them now. A settledness. Something I think I’ve been quietly jealous of without admitting it.
Not their relationship dynamic; that’s their business, not mine. But the belonging. The certainty. The sense that they’ve found their people and a place where they fit without question.
I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever find that.
Emmett elbows me. Obviously, he’s reading my mind again. “Sawyer, you still baking pies?”
Sawyer nods. “Yep. Brought a blackberry one today.”
“Thank goodness,” Emmett says smilingly. “Half the reason I showed up.”
Reid smirks. “All the reason you showed up.”
“Don’t expose me like that.”
Dakota laughs again.
She’s about to say more when the wind shifts hard, sending napkins and paper cups skittering across the lawn. The sky darkens just slightly, but enough to make every rancher in the yard go still.
A herd sensing a predator.
Marshall’s across the lawn helping organize tables, and his head turns fast. His posture sharpens in an instant.
Storm’s close.
