The land can keep its secrets. I've got bulls to ride.
But as I walk toward my truck, I can feel something watching me go. Something patient and hungry and willing to wait as long as it takes for me to stop running.
Something that knows I'll be back.
Seven
WE’RE SO GLAD YOU’RE NOT A WEIRDO.
KINSLEY
I’m almost to Gritstone and I've second guessed this move at least once every mile.
Not because of the job—I can handle land rights and federal bureaucrats in my sleep. It's everything else. Like the fact that my father works somewhere in this town, and that I might actually run into him.
Or that Wyatt Halloway happens to be my new client's son. I’m not even sure why I’m worried about that. Wyatt’s on the rodeo trail. Nothing to stress about.
I'm grateful my truck handles the mountain curves without complaint—one less thing to think about.
The road crests, and there it is—Gritstone, Colorado.
Holy wow.
The town sits in the valley like a painting, apicture so pretty you’d never believe it was real. I ease off the gas pedal trying to take it all in. The afternoon sun beams down on Main Street. Brick buildings boast of history and character, the streets wide enough to drive cattle down, and actual hitching posts in front of some stores. There are lampposts lining the walks with hanging pots of Petunias. It’s timeless and somehow modern at the same time.
I’m trying not to gawk like a total tourist when a hand-painted sign catches my eye: "Sweet Surrender Chocolates—Fresh Caramel Apples Daily." The storefront is painted sunshine yellow with flower boxes under the windows, and there's a little bell hanging over the door that probably rings when customers walk in. The striped awning is new, and the sign is shellacked within an inch of its life.
For about three seconds I let myself imagine walking in there and buying a caramel apple. I glance in my rearview and all I see is the horse trailer—there’s no way I’m stopping. Rebel’s been cooped up long enough.
I shake off my desire—the shop will be here next week and I'm here to work, not to have some quarter-life crisis over candy. I don't chase my latest fancy like my father did. I may have his genes, but I have ten times the smarts he ever did.
I curse at the steering wheel as I realize that my father is somewhere in this town right now. Twenty-seven years, and we've never had a real conversation. Not one.
Part of me wonders what would happen if we actually came face to face while I’m in town. Would he recognize me? Would he feel even a tiny bit of regret for missing, oh, everything?
I follow the truck’s map, trying not to think about myfather or the fact that Gritstone is Wyatt Halloway’s hometown. It’s stupid to keep thinking about the bull rider, even if he singled me out in the crowd after his ride in Cheyenne. I swear he looked at me from the arena like I was the only woman there.
Eventually I come to a gravel drive which winds through towering pines before opening up to something that makes me slow the truck to a crawl.
Hello, heaven.
Stonegate Ranch spreads out in front of me and my breath hitches—rolling pastures stretching toward the Colorado Rockies, which are way bigger and more intimidating than I expected. The Blue River cuts through the landscape, catching the afternoon sun, with cottonwoods lining the banks, cotton drifting like summer snow. But it's the gate that actually makes me stop the truck completely. Two massive stone pillars rise on either side of the entrance; built from the same blue-gray rock I can see jutting out along the riverbank. A thick timber beam connects them, weathered and solid, with "Stonegate Ranch" carved into the wood in letters. Beyond the gate, dirt roads crisscross the property, leading to a cluster of buildings that look like they've grown up from the land itself.
Driving a little further, the first house I come to, the guest cottage I’ll be staying in, looks exactly the way Sarah said it would. The white clapboard siding, blue shutters, and cozy porch make me think of sunsets and long conversations. I pull my rig to a stop next to a wooden fence and before I can turn off the engine, the front door opens, and two women step out.
The first has dark brown hair, light gray eyes, and asmile that feels genuine. She's probably late twenties like me, but there's something about her that seems more settled, more sure.
Where the first is all quiet confidence, this second one radiates warmth like a campfire. Honey-brown hair escapes from a messy braid, sun-kissed freckles dust her cheeks, and when she smiles, it lights up her whole face.
"You must be Kinsley," the first woman calls out as I climb down from the truck. "I'm Brook Halloway, and this is my friend Hailey."
Brook Halloway. She was in one of the family photos I found when I was researching Wyatt online. There's another sister around here somewhere—a caboose in the family—but it's not Hailey.
"Nice to meet you," Hailey says with a Southern drawl that makes me think of magnolias and moss-covered trees.
"Mom had to run into town for a meeting," Brook continues, "so we volunteered to get you settled. Hope that's okay."
"More than okay," I say, and I'm surprised to find I actually mean it. I'd like to get my feet under me before seeing Sarah again. We've talked and texted over the last ten days, mostly about the logistics of moving, but she's my boss and I want to have my tack stowed before getting to work.