1
Wilder
The summer heat has arrived early, baking the fields surrounding Blue River Ranch. I inhale the earthy aromas of soil and mowed grass, which hit my senses in the same way each time—dusty and familiar. The main house—my house—is up on a ridge. A high enough rise from the river that flows along the ranch and its borders, giving a full view of our land, and just about every main structure.
I swipe the sweat off my forehead and make a call Iknowwill get loud—I wouldn’t want to wake sleeping beauty.
My older brother, Dallas, and I run the ranch as equal partners—or so we’re meant to. But I’m the unofficial wrangler of every problem that crosses our gates, while he’s—hell, fuck knows what he’s doing these days. Claims to be busy researching weather and planning for the off-season. But everyone on this ranch knows he’s still hiding.
Still mourning.
We all miss Millie, but not the way he’ll miss the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with.
Before her, we lived together in this main house. Then whenhe started planning a future, he started building his own over by the riverbend. The house is finished for the most part. But not one of the Thorne men—Dallas included—thought he should be alone after Millie’s death. So he’s been back here with me since the funeral two months ago.
Truthfully, I’d rather my brother hide out under my roof than anywhere else. He’s the oldest, the firmest, hell, the scariest out of the three of us Thorne brothers. But I’ve never seen him so lost. So broken.
I don’t bother him. I let him sleep in, let him get into trouble at the local bars, let himpretendhe’s going to get his act together soon and come help me run this damn place.
But I’m no stranger to a broken heart. And I know it doesn’t heal overnight, which means I’m going to need help this summer. Lots of it.
Minutes into my phone call, I’m gripping the railing around my porch, my jaw tight as I listen to the supplier rattling excuses about why his shipment of hay is delayed—again.
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before over-booking your trucks,” I snap into my phone, running a hand through my dark hair. “I’ve got thirty-seven horses counting on that feed.”
Kruper, or Kramer, whatever his name is, mutters something about placing an order earlier, and I nearly lose my shit before I remember I don’t have time to find—nor deal with—another supplier.
Patience and a deep breath. I’m not going to yell.
Not today.
The guys are still steering clear of me after last week’s mishap with the tractor that ended up in the creek. Still think it was the new kid I hired for the season.
After a few more tense minutes of Kramer reassuring me we’ll have the hay by Friday, and me reminding myself thatmy options are limited, I hang up and toss the phone onto the wooden bench behind me.
“Not enough fucking hours in the day.”
“You talkin’ to yourself now, cowboy?” Wesley’s voice cuts through my grumbling.
I turn to my best friend—and the ranch chef—as he climbs the steps with a crooked grin and a rag slung over one shoulder. There’s the usual glint of mischief in Wes’s green eyes, but I can tell something’s off. Something’s .?.?. weighing on him. Wes always looks too carefree for his own good, except when he isn’t.
“When the alternatives are you and Dallas, I’ll take talking to myself,” I say, crossing my arms like I’ve got everything under control and taking a seat on the bench.
Wes steps up and leans against the railing. “Rough morning?”
I snort. “What gave it away? The fact that I’ve been on the phone with vendors since I woke up or the fact that half the shit Dallas is supposed to do is slipping through the cracks, and there’s not a damn thing I can say about it?”
“Neither—it’s the scowl,” Wes says with a grin. “You could curdle milk with that face.”
I shake my head with a smirk. Wes has always had a way of cutting through my frustration. That’s why we work so well together. Why we stayed friends since rooming together in college, even though we were from different worlds. Two fresh-out-of-high-school boys looking for a room off campus, him studying culinary arts while I majored in business.
It was always understood that Dallas and I would take over the ranch. Dad had a way of getting it into our blood, teaching us how to fix fences before we were tall enough to see over them. I always imagined Dallas taking the lead more—he was the oldest, the one who’d follow Dad out into the rain at late hours to check on the cattle. The natural leader of the Thorne brothers.
Our younger brother, Silas, didn’t follow any footsteps—unless they led him to the frozen lake with his skates. He’s nine years younger than Dallas and six younger than me. That kid was in no way born with hay in his hair. He’s now in his fourth year with the Denver Kings hockey team after being drafted from Denver University.
College wasn’t something Dad talked much about, probably because he never went himself. Hell, I almost didn’t either, but Dallas insisted one of us had to. If only for the business skills to keep up with today’s world.
But I didn’t go far—and certainly not on a full scholarship like Silas. I went to a small college outside of Denver for business. Which, coincidently, was also on the list of the best culinary schools in the country.
