Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“I know.” Colt lightly doffed my shoulder. Too lightly, like he was scared to give me the same sort of brotherly shove he’d offer Kane. “But I’m always gonna be the big brother.”
“I know.” I swallowed back my groan. Sarcasm wouldn’t help anything. Colt was always going to see me as one more responsibility on his lengthy to-do list, and that was a fact.
Rather, as I headed out into the early morning light, I simply counted my blessings that Colt had backed down over his notion of settling me in like a damn kindergartner. Maverick’s foreman, Grayson, had stopped by the house last night and told me to check in at the bunkhouse in the morning. He hadn’t said to bring a parental figure and a permission slip. I was Sergeant First Class Jennings, a rank I’d worked a dozen years for. There was precious little I needed permission for.
Wait.
I’d been Sergeant First Class Jennings. Now I was simply Carson Jennings, the youngest Jennings boy, returned home, lucky to be hired on as a ranch hand at the largest spread in the area. I sucked in a deep breath of humility, lungs filling with dry Colorado air. Lord, I hadn’t done a Colorado summer in fourteen years. I’d forgotten the acrid taste of late July in Disappointment County.
But here I was, and I sure wasn’t marching back to the ranch house, so I knocked on the bunkhouse door.
“Carson!” A cheerful, burly middle-aged cowboy with thinning hair greeted me like he’d been waiting for my knock. He had on faded jeans, a plaid shirt stretched over an ample middle, and a dish towel over one shoulder. “You made it.”
Despite my having no clue who he was, the guy warmly ushered me into an open-plan kitchen dominated by a large wooden table and chairs in the center. The room had a homey feel, with various faded cowboy signs on the walls and the smell of biscuits in the air. Three other men sat at the table.
“Here, let me help you with your bag.” A younger guy left the table to rush over to the doorway. He was way too skinny to be a cowboy and had fancy, styled hair that was better suited to a boy band, but he certainly seemed like he belonged here as he reached for my bag.
“I got it.” I held tight to my duffel, but the younger guy was persistent and pried it out of my hand.
“Have you eaten yet?” the older cowboy asked.
“Coffee.” The single word was about as much as I could manage as my head swam with the rush of activity and new faces.
“I’ll take that as a no and a request both.” He bustled over to a counter with a coffee pot and poured coffee into a large mug.
“That’s Casey, our cook.” The younger guy, who continued to hold my duffel bag, took it upon himself to make introductions. “I’m Adler, and at the table we have Motley and Chips.”
There was no way in hell I would remember all the names, but I nodded politely. “Hey.”
“And I’m Kat.” A tall woman with a long dark braid strode into the kitchen. “Stable manager, and darn glad to see you. We’ve been shorthanded, and Colt says you’re good with horses.”
“I’m a’right.” My tongue tripped on the word all right, giving me the same accent as a Philly-born buddy I’d had in basic training.
“We’ll ease you in, though, nice and slow.” Grayson entered the bunkhouse, stepping around me to offer a hearty handshake. He was somewhere north of forty-five, with the sort of rugged features and silver hair that made him appear older than the ranch itself. He’d worked here as the foreman long enough. Despite his grizzled appearance, he’d been welcoming the night before when he’d stopped by the main house. Too welcoming. My back stiffened as he added, “And we’re not gonna quiz you on names.”
“Don’t need easy.” I had to grit out the words, which came out far harsher than I’d intended. But of all the things I hated about my new reality, people pandering to me was the worst. “Treat me…any…another…other hand.”
I made a terrible case for myself as my tongue tripped all over itself, halting and reaching for the wrong words before settling back down. I cast my gaze down at the kitchen floor, not wanting to see Grayson’s expression transform from friendly to pity.
“Will do.” Grayson clapped me on the shoulder, undoubtedly already planning to give me the easy route anyway. “Eat up. Casey made biscuits and gravy in honor of your first day. We’ve got plenty of stalls in need of mucking.”
“Good.” I nodded sharply and took a seat at the table as Casey brought over the mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits and gravy.
Flaky, buttery biscuits with a rich, white sausage gravy were a favorite indulgence of mine. I’d had plenty of bad versions in the military, but Casey’s recipe was top-notch. Much as I loved the food, though, eating took all my concentration not to spill or slosh. I’d worked hours in PT and OT on fine-motor skills, yet drippy foods remained a challenge.