Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“I hired him.” I nod, pushing my hat off my forehead. “And I hired the two from yesterday.”
“We won’t know what to do with a fully staffed team.” He grins. “But I’m damn happy about it. You need some time off.”
“We all need fucking time off,” I reply. “And I’m grateful you guys have put in extra hours and all your hard-ass work through the winter.”
“You gave us bonuses,” Brad points out, “and you didn’t have to. Hopefully, the load lightens up as we get closer to summer.”
I nod, but I’m not hopeful. The new guest ranch side of things is going to send me to an early grave.
Someone should have beat me with a bullwhip when I came up with the idea of building guest cabins. I’ve had enough on my plate with dairy operations that run pretty much twenty-four seven. I didn’t need the added work of tourists.
I was naive and didn’t expect they’d be so … needy.
“I have the afternoon milking.” Brad shoos me off. “And the cleanup.”
“I’ll go check on the calves. Jack and Ham will work on the evening feeding.”
Brad nods, and we’re off to handle our chores.
Before I head to the house for the night, I check on the cottage cheese and other projects in the processing barn, and when I’m satisfied, I pull out my phone and send a group text to my brothers.
Me: I’m actually done at a decent time this evening, and I need a beer. Let’s go to the Wolf Den. Dinner’s on me.
I walk into the farmhouse I grew up in, shed my dirty boots and jacket in the mudroom, then snag a banana on my way through the kitchen to the stairs leading up to my bedroom.
I inherited the ranch from my parents when they retired to Florida a few years ago. I’m not the eldest brother, that’s Brooks’s job, but I’m the one who’s worked the farm and loved this place since I was a kid.
My phone vibrates with incoming messages.
Brooks: One hour?
Blake: I’m in.
Bridger: I’ll be there.
I grin and hit reply.
Me: See you in one hour.
The parking lot isn’t even half full, filling me with satisfaction. Even though my new business thrives off the busy winter and summer tourist seasons, my favorite time is always the shoulder season. Bitterroot Valley is less crowded now before the hustle and bustle of summer, with the gorgeous weather and a plethora of outdoor activities to keep people busy.
Right now, the ground is muddy, the trees are just budding, and although the sun does peek out once in a while, it’s still on the chilly side.
Perfect.
I pull in next to Blake, who gets out of his SUV and meets me at the rear of his vehicle.
“No ER tonight?” I ask my brother.
He shakes his head. “I was in the clinic today. I’m off duty and ready for a beer. Or three.”
Bridger, the fire chief, pulls in and parks across from us, and Brooks joins us, walking from the direction of his auto repair shop a couple of blocks down.
“Holy shit, you left the ranch,” Bridger says, pulling me in for a hug. “We haven’t seen much of you since the holidays.”
“Work’s been insane,” I reply. “There’s no time to leave the ranch.”
“Call us to help,” Brooks says. “We all grew up there. We know what we’re doing. I can guarantee you that not one of us has forgotten how to milk a cow or feed the chickens.”
“Yeah, and you all have jobs,” I remind him as we walk toward the pub entrance. “I just hired some more guys, so we’re covered for the summer. I shouldn’t have added the additional two cows. More cows mean more work.”
“Come on.” Blake pats me on the shoulder. “Let’s get some beer in you. Maybe a burger.”
“I’ll take it.”
The Wolf Den is one of my favorite places in town. The pub has some of the best food, with local beers on tap, pool tables at one end, and a generally fun atmosphere.
Walking through the door, I allow my eyes time to adjust to the darker room and scan the faces. I know half of them.
Brooks leads us to a table along the wall, and when I sit, I realize we lost Blake.
I spot Blake talking to a big black hulk of a dog while scanning the room as if he’s searching for someone. He’s always been a sucker for animals. If he wasn’t a human doctor, he would have been a veterinarian.
“What’s he doing?” Brooks asks.
“Flirting,” I reply with a laugh as the server approaches and takes our drink orders. I order Blake the same beer as mine.
If he doesn’t like it, he shouldn’t have gone over to flirt with the dog. A dog that’s currently following Blake back to our table and jumps onto the bench next to us.