Page 5 of Colt

“You wouldn’t have. They’re very private. They’re also very, very wealthy.”

I mean, I do need the money if I want to keep my apartment in Austin. I also need some time to ponder my next move. This does sound like the perfect opportunity to figure out whether I can turn the Creative Cactus into my dream job. Really, to figure out what my next steps are in general. The thought of doing that alone in my apartment while I watch my business school friends take flight in their new careers makes my stomach cramp.

“How wealthy exactly?” I ask.

“Wealthy enough to pay you a hefty sum for giving the business an updated spin. We’re talking a net worth in the millions. Many, many millions. Dale Wallace once sold a stallion for close to five hundred thousand bucks. He breeds the best of the best.”

My wheels are already turning. “Elevated Western” is very much a trend right now in fashion and design. It would be cool to channel some of that in a project.

I’d do a moody color palette, turquoise and crimson and deep, saturated greens. Would burnt orange work too? Or would that be leaning into the Wild West thing too much?

A rush of joy moves through me. I love this shit. Even now, dead tired and defeated after a long day, my heart still leaps at the prospect of opening up my laptop to create.

No two ways about it, I’m obsessed with design. And color. And the very real cowboys I’d see—maybe even meet—if I took on this project.

They’ve gotta be better than Randolph Price Edwards III, right?

“When I told Dale that you specialized in that kind of thing, he perked right up,” Dad says. “They’ve recently added a barrel racing training program to their offerings. New arena and everything. They want to really run with that aspect of their business. Pardon the terrible pun.”

“You’re pardoned. They have an arena on their property? Like a legit stadium-type thing?”

“They do.” Dad nods. “I’m telling you, the Wallace Ranch is one of the most impressive places you’ll see in Texas, full stop.”

I drink more wine. “Maybe I don’t hate the sound of this.”

“I think it’d be good for you,” Mom says. “A stopgap for sure. But maybe it’ll lead you to something better. More permanent.”

I don’t know where my career is headed, but I do know I’m the kind of woman who jumps when adventure calls.

I can still set myself up for financial freedom and take the job on that ranch, right? They’re not mutually exclusive concepts, especially considering the current state of my job hunt.

Finance bros like Randolph are the opposite of adventure. But cowboys?

Yee-freaking-haw.

CHAPTER 2

Bloodlines

COLT

I nearly groan as a head-to-toe shiver of sheer fucking pleasure darts down my spine.

“That’s the fucking stuff. God, that’s good. So, so good.”

Am I aware I make orgasm-adjacent sounds while drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning? Yes.

Do I care? Not a lick.

Gotta get your rocks off somehow. As a single dad living on a twenty-thousand-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere, I take what I can get.

Bringing the steaming mug to my lips, I take a gulp. Let my head fall back as I savor the coffee’s velvety, bitter taste. I take it with a little half-and-half, no sugar.

This time I do groan. Goddamn, that really is good.

The clock on the microwave says it’s 4:37 a.m. It’s early as all get-out, but this is still my favorite time of day.

The house is quiet. Windows are dark. It’s just me and my coffee. No fuckups to fix or literal shit to shovel. No moody six-year-old to coax into eating breakfast or brushing his teeth or putting on his shoes.