"That's what I get for teaching you everything you know," I yell to her.
Kit laughs—really laughs—and we're okay again. For now.
We ride onto Cornerstone Ranch—three hundred acres of prime grassland and working corrals that'd make any cowboy's mouth water. The McCrearys, Hank’s mother’s side, have been raising and training cutters here since before I was born. Some of the best cutting horses in the world have come from this place.
Across the main spread, we ride through pastures carved up neat with pipe and cable. Broodmares are cropping grass in one section while their babies kick up their heels in another—bloodlines that go as far back as registering horses. Ranch hands move through the paddocks or lope horses in one of the three round pens.
The barns loom up ahead—big as aircraft hangars and twice as organized. I can make out the indoor arena from here, built tall enough for serious cutting work no matter what the weather's throwing at you.
"Dang," Kit says as we approach the hitching rail in front of the main barn. "No wonder they win everything."
She's not wrong.
We tie off Ace and Bandit at the rail and head for the indoor arena. If I know Hank, and I think I do, he'll be on a horse this time of day.
The arena's impressive even by cutting standards. Highceilings with bright LED lighting that makes everything look crisp and clear, deep sand that's been worked to the perfect consistency. A judging platform sits at one end with spectator seating; the whole setup designed for both training and competition. They host several events here throughout the year—always bringing in a good-sized crowd of trailers and trainers.
Kit smacks my arm and points to the pen where Hank Ouray sits a bay gelding. Two turnback riders hold position at the corners, keeping the herd contained while Hank cuts out a single cow with movements so smooth they look effortless.
I catch Hank's eye and raise my hand to let him know we can wait. No point interrupting a cutting run for conversation. He nods once, his attention already back on the cow that's trying to slip past his horse's left shoulder.
Kit climbs up to perch on the top rail as I lean against the arena fence. She tracks the cattle with the kind of attention that comes from growing up around livestock. "Those are nice heifers for a practice pen," she says after a moment.
I glance at the cattle she's studying—maybe eight head, all black but with a few baldies. They seem quiet but with just enough kick to let the horse work.
Kit nudges my shoulder and whispers. "Hey, what happened to Hank's younger brother? What's his name..." She snaps her fingers as she thinks. "Zeke? No one ever talks about him."
I grunt. "For good reason."
Kit rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair only a sixteen-year-old can manage. "Not you too. When I asked Mom, she told me to mind my own business, Dad just walkedaway, and Brook grit her teeth so hard she had to replace a filling."
I'll bet Brook did, but it's not my story to tell. "He's serving our country," I say. "That's an honorable thing."
“Ran away to the military then?” Kit chews her lip as she looks around the arena.
“I guess you could say that.”
"More honorable than riding bulls." she fires back without missing a beat. "Running is running no matter which way you go."
The words sting because there's truth in them.
I ignore the frustration at my little sister that’s knotted in my gut as Hank lifts the reins in his hands, signaling the horse to stop working the cow. The cow bolts off, nearly slamming into the fence, before rejoining the herd. Hank keeps his hand on the horse's neck, offering praise and gentle reassurance. His horse settles immediately, ears forward, waiting for the next command.
Hank urges the horse in our direction.
"Time's up, smart mouth," I say, and shove Kit off the fence.
She lands on her feet, spins around, and glares at me. "Jerk."
I laugh, because the look on her face reminds me of a ruffled barn cat. "Someone's got to keep you humble."
Hank rides over and dismounts, loosens the cinch on the saddle as the horse airs up, nostrils flaring.
"Wyatt. Kit." Hank extends his hand, his grip firm and calloused from years of ranch work. Up close, his father's Ute features, and his mother's McCreary blue eyes are striking. "Been a while."
"Too long," I agree, running my hand down his gelding's neck. "This horse is something else. What's his breeding?"
"Dual Pep on the sire side, Smart Little Lena on the dam." Hank's voice carries quiet pride. "He's only three, but he's cowy to a fault."