Page 47 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Annie’s sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop open in front of her, camera beside her, hair down now in a electric spill over one shoulder.

The room is dim except for the bedside lamp and the blue wash of the screen. She looks up fast, surprise crossing her face before she smooths it, becoming more neutral.

“Silas? Is everything alright?”

“You’re not in your office.”

“I finished for the day.” She glances at the camera, then back at me. “Is that allowed, or do I need a written request in triplicate?”

Despite myself, my mouth nearly shifts.

Nearly.

“I didn’t realize you were funny.”

“I’m not. I’m defensive.”

Her honesty is abrupt enough to feel challenging. I step into the room and close the door halfway behind me, enough to give the conversation shape without turning it into secrecy.

“What are you working on?”

She hesitates, then turns the laptop. “Photos.”

I move closer.

The image on the screen is one of the paddocks at dusk, fence line cutting dark across a sky bruised blue and gold, the last light catching the curve of a horse’s neck near the far post. It’s simple.

I shouldn’t feel anything.

Instead it stops me cold.

Because it’s Ironwood, yes. But not the version of Ironwood I see when I’m measuring liabilities, feed counts, and staffing gaps.

Not the version people use in brochures or at fundraisers or in town when they say our name as a title instead of a place.

This is something else.

“You took this here?”

Annie gives me a look. “No, I faked the whole ranch for artistic credibility.”

I glance at her.

She sighs. “Yes. Here.”

I look back at the screen. “Show me.”

Her expression changes at that. Surprise again, but this time smaller. Less guarded. She expected disinterest and got curiosity instead.

She clicks to the next image.

The north barn in early morning, shadows striped across the packed dirt, one loose strand of hay caught on a latch so clearly it feels intentional.

Then another: Duke in the kitchen doorway without knowing he’s being photographed, all lazy posture and warmth, one hand braced on the frame, face turned half away in a rare second of stillness.

Then Cody outside the office window, head bent over a ledger, profile severe enough to look carved from the same hard logic he’s built his entire life around.

Then one of me. I know it before my brain fully catches up to the image.