Page 37 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

Ash said, “Don’t be an asshole,” but she was grinning.

I didn’t look away. “Just here for the food and to meet everyone.”

He shrugged, found a chair at the far end, and started shoveling food onto his plate. I got the sense that if it came to a fight, he’d rather lose than back down first. I respected that, but I also wanted to slap the smirk off his face.

Buck cleared his throat. “Jennie, did I ever tell you how I hurt my leg?”

Everyone around the table had a mixed reaction to his question. Mostly eyes were rolled, but Ash leaned forward with rapt attention.

I’d noticed he had a limp but hadn’t wanted to ask. “No, you haven’t.” Duh, we’d barely spoken, but clearly he was going somewhere with this.

"It was rough. I was attacked by a taxidermied deer at a county fair.”

The table burst out laughing but I was at a bit of a loss for words. “A taxidermied deer?”

“E-yeap. Poorly secured. Hit me at a good ten miles an hour."

The table had devolved into snorts, chortles, and belly laughs. As I began to giggle with them I asked, "A stuffed deer?"

Buck grabbed a biscuit. "Mmhmm. On a cart, careening downhill." He paused, thinking. "Still the fastest I've ever run."

Noah made his entrance ten minutes later and we were still chuckling. He came through the kitchen with headphones half-on, a tablet in one hand, and a can of Coke in the other. He grabbed a plate, loaded it up, kissed Midge on the cheek without breaking stride, and was heading for the door when he stopped. He cocked his head, looked at me, and said, "Hi, I’m Noah."

I beamed at him. He looked like he was fun. “Jennie.”

He grinned back, headphones snapped in place, and he disappeared into the hall.

Sloane rolled her eyes. “That’s my son, Noah. Normally, I’d make him eat family dinner with us, but I figured tonight he could be off the hook.” She didn’t say it unkindly. She just hadn’t been sure what kind of meal it would be with me here.

After dinner, the house emptied slowly, with the shuffling inertia of people who'd eaten too much and didn’t want to do evening chores. Buck and Midge disappeared into the kitchen, arguing over who'd left the oven on. Tess and Ash vanished out the back, laughing loudly. Sloane retreated to the study, her silhouette flickering against the glass as she checked messages on three different devices.

Reid put a hand on my back, light, not pushing, but enough to let me know it was time to go. “Walk?” he said.

“Sure,” I said, and followed him outside.

The yard was cooling, the sky gone deep blue, with the last light fading behind the barn. The air was heavy with cut grass and the sharp tang of livestock, undercut by something sweeter, honeysuckle, maybe, or wild mint.

We walked the fence line first, the gravel underfoot crunching in rhythm with our steps. told me about the summer he and Calder built the tack room themselves, how Eli broke his arm falling off the hayloft, how Midge used to make them all sit on the porch at sunset and say one thing they did right that day. Most of the time, he said, they just lied and said “everything.” It was the most he’d ever spoken to me since I’d met him.

I listened, letting the stories settle. There was no performance in his voice, he didn’t sell the ranch, or himself, or the history. He told the stories. I realized, halfway through, that I liked that about him. Nothing was ever just for show.

At the main barn, he opened the big sliding door and let the night air in. The horses were bedded. Ghost watched us, ears up. I ran my hand down his nose, and he huffed a breath that said, in horse, that I would do.

Reid checked the water, topped off the grain, and closed the door behind us.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said as we crossed to the corrals. “If you’ve got questions, just ask.”

I shrugged. “I’m used to reading the room first.”

He nodded. “So am I.”

The walk ended at the edge of the property, where the floodlights from the house faded and the world turned to shadows. There, half-hidden behind a stand of post oaks, was his cabin. One window, one door, roof patched with mismatched tin. The porch was small but solid, and the only sign anyone lived there was a pair of boots lined up on the top step, caked in a different layer of dust than the ones he wore now. He took care of his home. It wasn’t fancy, but it was solid. Dependable. Just like him.

He opened the door and stepped inside, flicking on a single lamp that lit the whole place warmly.

The inside was immaculately organized. Bed in one corner, made so tight I could’ve bounced quarters on it. A table with three chairs. A stove, black and gleaming, and a shelf lined with tins of coffee, chili, and canned peaches.

I circled once, taking it in. There were no photos. No trophies. Just a single, battered mug on the windowsill and a locket on a nail above the bed.