Page 7 of Colt

Luckily Mom helps with pickup more often than not, which is a godsend. She recently had a knee replacement, so she’s slowed down a bit, and I hate to add to her to-do list any more than I already am.

Then there’s the task list for my paid job as foreman of our family’s twenty-thousand-acre ranch. A buyer’s coming in from Kansas City to check out a pair of our palominos. The new rig we ordered has arrived at the dealership up in Austin, and I told Dad I’d go with him to pick it up this week. There’s hay to cut, which means the baler’s inevitably been acting up. I’m a decent mechanic, but it might be time to call in the pros because I’m so short on time.

I gotta call the Brody brothers back. They pinged me last week about a Friesian they’re interested in. He’s a big boy, pure hell to break. But his bloodline is impeccable. I know he’ll be an excellent competitor. The negotiations over price and delivery will be a huge pain in the ass, but it’ll be worth it.

Long story short: Being a parent and a foreman is hard.

Being a single parent and the guy slated to take over his family’s ranch that’s been passed down from generation to generation for over a hundred years is fucking impossible.

But I don’t have a choice about whether I raise my son, just like I don’t have a choice when it comes to being a steward of my family’s legacy. So I make it work as best as I can.

The most important thing for my work is that I protect our family’s business and our reputation. When it’s my turn to pass the ranch on to the next generation, I want to make sure Dean and his loved ones inherit an operation they’re proud of.

For decades, Dad’s worked his fingers to the bone to honor the toil of the generations that came before him. His daddy, my grandfather, made some questionable business decisions. Dad fixed all that, rebuilding our stellar reputation as the Hill Country’s top producer of pedigreed horses and Hereford cattle.

I have every intention of continuing Dad’s work when he retires. This legacy is a heavy burden to carry sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pouring myself a second cup of God’s elixir, I grab my laptop, roll up my sleeves, and get busy at the kitchen table. My back is tight from haying an especially hilly field yesterday.

My neck hurts too from sleeping on it wrong. I swear that since I turned thirty-one earlier this year, my body just started to randomly hurt or stop working for no damn reason.

Dad chuckles whenever I complain. “Just wait until you hit sixty. Then shit really hits the fan.”

Can’t wait.

But really, sixty doesn’t seem half bad if you get to finally rest. I don’t have any plans to get married again—hell, I’m not sure I ever want to date again—so chances are I’ll be on my own.

I wouldn’t mind sex being a more regular thing, though. I’m not opposed to casual hookups. Had some a while back that were pretty fun. I never take girls back to my place—feels too risky with Dean at home—but I make do.

I don’t look up from my screen until I hear the pad of familiar footsteps. I smile when I see a little boy in blue pajamas standing in the doorway.

Well, not so little anymore. Like me, he’s tall for his age—ninety-eighth percentile, no joke—with long legs and knobby knees. He’s six, but he looks like he’s eight or nine.

His hair sticks up at the back of his head. The pajamas I just bought must’ve shrunk in the dryer because they’re already too small, revealing a sliver of his tummy.

I smile. “Good morning, buddy.”

He closes the distance between us and climbs into my lap. “Mornin’, Daddy.”

I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his rumpled dark blond hair. He may be in “big kid school,” but he still smells like baby shampoo.

I fucking love it.

“How’d you sleep? Have any dreams?” I ask.

I know without looking that it’s six o’clock on the dot. Like me, he thrives on routine, waking up at almost exactly the same time every day.

He curls up even tighter against me, his elephant lovie tucked between his ear and my chest. “I slept good. I had dreams, but I don’t remember them.”

My chest clenches. Just like your mama.

“Is today the weekend?” he asks.

“It’s not, buddy. Today is Wednesday.”

“That means I get to go to school, right?”

“Right.”