“They’re all headed for the meat aisle, not a spa treatment,” I deadpan.
He nods as he secures Ranger to the nearby fence post. “Right. And Petunia’s the exception, which makes her sound an awful lot like a pet.”
“Shut up,” I say, waving him off. “This is all your fault, you know.”
Walker raises a brow. “Oh yeah? How do you figure?”
“You encourage your wife to pawn off rescued animals to unsuspecting people. If she hadn’t begged me to take Petunia in the first place, I wouldn’t be dealing with this mess.” I nod to where the troublemaker is contentedly lounging in the mud with her eyes closed.
A couple of summers ago, we lost a cow during labor when Birdie was here visiting Briar. She’s already not a fan of theranch since we raise cattle for beef and begged me not to raise the orphaned calf for meat, saying it was too tragic.
Walker tips his head back and laughs. “I must’ve missed the part where you told Birdie no.”
I rub the back of my neck. “What was I supposed to do when her lip started to tremble and she hit me with those puppy-dog eyes? You know, the ones she uses when she’s begging someone to take in a rescue?”
I fully intended to say no, but I caved the second that first tear slipped down her cheek. I don’t handle crying women well, and I’ll do just about anything to make it stop—including agreeing to bottle-feed and raise a calf that was meant to end up on someone’s dinner table.
The plan was to keep Petunia only until Birdie forgot about her, but days turned into months, and months into two years. She’s still here, being a massive thorn in my side.
My first mistake was naming her. Whoever warned against naming animals to avoid getting attached was right. To my dismay, it’s not easy to picture sending a cow named Petunia to slaughter when she follows me around begging for treats and nudges my arm for head rubs.
She may have been spared the fate of the other cows, but I stand by my original statement—she’s absolutely not my pet.
“What can I say? My woman has a sixth sense for finding safe places for her rescues to land,” Walker states proudly. “Just last week, she brought home a litter of puppies she found dumped on the side of the road, a lame horse from an abandoned shed a few towns over, and a herd of sheep nobody wanted after their owner passed. She’s already found forever homes for all of them except two of the puppies.”
I shake my head. “No doubt she’ll rope some unsuspecting folks into taking them before the week’s out.”
Walker smirks. “Want one? A dog could be usef—”
“Nope.” I cut in, effectively shutting him down. “I’ve already got my hands full with a whole ranch full of animals, not to mention these rascals.” I motion toward Petunia and her friends sprawled in the mud like they’ve booked themselves a permanent stay at a five-star resort. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to ask if I want a dog, did you?”
“Nah. I had some time to kill before swinging by the Callahan property to check on a report of a missing mailbox, so I figured I’d stop by and see how things were going around here.” Walker lets a beat of silence stretch as he straightens the sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt. “Didn’t expect to find you playing hooky with the livestock.”
I tuck my thumbs into my pockets and lean against the nearest fence post. “It’s called making sure the hellions are content, so my sister-in-law doesn’t show up and accuse me of animal neglect. Maybe if you hadn’t gone chasing greener pastures, you’d see what a headache they are to deal with.” My clipped tone has no edge behind it.
Walker used to split his time between working on the ranch and volunteering as a sheriff’s deputy. But eight months ago, he took over as the full-time sheriff and now only helps out around here every other weekend. As much as I supported him taking the job, it’s been a damn difficult transition.
I have plenty of ranch hands, but not having a second set of eyes to manage the crew or someone who knows this place like the back of their hand has made the workload harder than I expected.
“Things have been busy with branding prep and calving season coming up,” I say.
“You ever going to hire a foreman?” Walker asks.
I let out a long sigh, looking out over the pasture. “Not sure.”
He lets out a quiet hum. “Why not? You were on board with the idea the last time we discussed it.”
I avert my gaze, nudging a loose pebble with my boot. “I haven’t found anyone suitable for the position.”
After interviewing over a dozen candidates, I’ve concluded that finding the right fit might be impossible. Not many people have the experience I’m looking for, and those who do aren’t eager to sign up for a life of solitude on a Montana ranch on the outskirts of a town with a population of six thousand.
The short list of people who meet those qualifications typically have suggestions on how to change things around here. I don’t need an outsider telling me how to run the place when everything is working just fine—or at least they would be if I wasn’t managing it all on my own.
“Say the word, Heath, and I’ll come back,” Walker tells me, cutting through the silence.
My head snaps toward him. “Fuck no. I’d never let you do that.” I’m annoyed he’d even suggest it. “You love being sheriff and Birdie needs your help at the sanctuary. Someone’s gotta keep her and her friends from launching any more unsupervised rescue missions that land them in another jail cell.”
Birdie especially has a habit of bending the law when it comes to saving animals. Last year, she spent the night locked up at the sheriff’s office after being accused of stealing Peaches and Daisy. Thankfully, Walker was one of the deputies on duty and “accidentally” misplaced a key piece of evidence to get her out.
