5. Bishop

"Gonna headout before the rain hits," I announce as the hands bring their horses in from grazing to get them saddled. I ignore the curious looks from Wade and Bulldog after my terse conversation with Porter. I don't want them to think there's already trouble between us.

When he called me boss, my skin tightened and my chest ached with a hollow longing. I know he hates addressing me that way, I catch it in his gruff tone, but I also like hearing it from him. Not only because it shows he understands the hierarchy 'round here, but because it appeals to this other part of me when it comes to Porter that makes me want to drag him behind the barn and have my way with him.

But no matter how much I still think about him and our time together, eleven years is a hell of a long time, and no way would I ever think we'd pick right back up.

Besides, I still don't know why the fucker left, and until I do, I don't want to be overly friendly with him. But we do need to work together, and that's why, after ignoring him for days, I figured it's time. We can't run this ranch efficiently if there's so much tension between us.

That's not to say that others haven't had problems over the years. The hands have come to blows over simple misunderstandings or stealing each other's girls, but we stick together when we have to—during natural disasters like the mudslide five years ago, and in town as employees of the ranch. People talk, and the Sullivan family rule is to be professional and not bring scandal our way. That kind of shit affects sales and our livelihood. Employees have been sacked over stuff from disorderly conduct to insubordination. I think of how Porter has gotten around, fired left and right if the rumors are true, and again, I hope hiring him was not a mistake.

But all I have to do is watch him with the horses in the paddock to know his skills will come in handy. I can tell he longs to do more, but first he needs to pay his dues like the rest of us.

I motion to our junior groom, Pixie. The only person who uses her real name, Patricia, is Randy, her father, who's a cattle hand and decided to bring his daughter to the ranch since she loves working with the horses—and also because her momma left them and there's no one to watch her. She doesn't even seem to mind mucking out the stalls, as long as she can be around them. She's only ten, but I can already see a bright future ahead of her. She's gotten accolades in the dressage events she competes in, which require a rider and their steed to be so in sync that the horse performs certain maneuvers with barely perceptible signals from the rider.

But horse shows entail commitment and money, something not all hands can afford, unfortunately. My parents agreed to let her ride one of our mares, Willow, because she's such a natural. There's nothing quite like the loyalty of a mare. If you gain their trust, as Pixie has with Willow, the bond is amazing to witness.

"Make sure there's fresh hay in the stalls so they get their fill when we return."

The horses are fed two to three times a day because they expend plenty of energy, and roughage is good for them. But they also have no off switch, and if they're overfed, it can lead to all sorts of issues. Pixie has learned how much is the perfect amount.

She smiles. "Will do, sir."

I turn to find Porter staring intently at Pixie, as if trying to figure something out. Interesting. The men are all waiting, so before I have time to reason that through, we're on our way to round up the cattle.

Porter has only been in the saddle with our newer gelding, Arrow, the past few days, but has already been able to bring him to heel.

"He's riding well for you," I say, bringing Midnight to a canter so he can catch up to us. "Was finicky with Jeb last week."

"Well, Jeb ain't me," he says with that cocky smirk, and I have to look away to get my breathing under control. "Besides, geldings are the easiest to ride."

"Because they've been emasculated?" Bulldog says with a laugh, sidling up to us.

It's true that castrating stallions reduces aggression, especially when mares are in heat. But if that stallion isn't going to be used for breeding, it's almost a kindness to perform the procedure. At least that's what Dr. Roy always told me as a kid.

"Pretty sure that's you," Jeb teases, which makes Bulldog chase after him.

"Ignore them." I roll my eyes. The guys always tease each other, sometimes mercilessly, and where there are female hands around, it's even worse. As if they need to show their bravado.

Cowboys. Sigh. Still isn't any better job in the world.

"So you were saying…why are they the best to ride?"

"I said easiest, but I suppose the best too." He looks off in the distance. "They get no respect just because they've been sterilized. Mares can be stubborn, stallions can be temperamental, but geldings…they're usually laid-back, simpler to handle. In short, they don't have anything to prove."

Porter gives me a pointed look, and I don't know if he's referring to me or himself. Maybe both.

Am I trying to prove something to him? Possibly. Though I'm not sure what. Maybe that I'm not attempting to get in his pants anymore. That wasn't all it was about back then, despite being horny teenagers. Over time it became more. Way more. At least to me.

The next few hours go smoothly as we move the cattle north to greener pastures, then perform our daily wellness check. Since the Q fever outbreak last month, we haven't had any more stillborn births, and that's a blessing.

The air turns increasingly muggy, and the horses are beginning to get skittish. That's when I notice the dark clouds rolling in over the mountain. It's not that cattle and horses can't be out in foul weather, but if it lasts too long, they do get cold and seek warm places to dry off. Too many days of that, and they can show signs of fatigue, which is never good for livestock.

It's hard to tell how long this rainstorm will last, but it definitely looks worse than anticipated. Showers tend to pass quickly around here, with the occasional exception. No way would we want muddy conditions the animals can get their hooves stuck in. That's a whole other issue.

When a handful of cows begin lying down, I know they sense a strong storm coming. Most will bolt for the fence line or seek shelter under trees, but these are our pregnant heifers, and the tension is evident.

"That always fascinates me," Porter says, watching the cattle's behavior.

"Same. There's gotta be something to it."

Some say the atmospheric pressure bothers them, and others say they stake their claim by lying down on dry grass before a heavy rain.

"What should we do, boss?" Wade asks at the first rumble of thunder.

We'd normally wait out the storm, but since we're only running about half of our herd today, and most are pregnant, better safe than sorry.

"I think we can outrun the storm clouds, and even if we can't, we can still get them safe and under cover."

"Sounds good," he says, then yells to his men, "Round 'em up. We're headed back."

No one questions the decision. These men have been through enough inclement weather to last a lifetime. They know exactly what to do as they surround the cattle and begin moving them in the direction of the cattle barn. It's not large enough to hold seven hundred cattle, but we use it in times like these, and especially for the two hundred or so pregnant cows. The dogs join in, barking and herding any that get out of line. We're like a well-oiled machine, and with the addition of Porter, it feels even more gratifying. Even though it shouldn't.

By the time we get in viewing distance of the cowshed, we're drenched. Given that the storm seems to be sticking around, it was the right decision. The lightning is making all the animals jittery, and they'll be more comfortable in their enclosures.

Wade and Porter lead the cattle into the stalls, while the others take the back end of the herd. My parents would've made sure the cattle have plenty of water, hay, and alfalfa as soon as they caught wind of the impending storm.

I leave the barn and head toward the stables to make sure Pixie is ready for us. She'd had help from the other grooms, whose sole job is to care for and train our horses, but I like giving her the responsibility. She always rises to the occasion. I think her dad appreciates it too, though he doesn't always show it. Besides, once school starts in the fall, she won't be around that much anymore.

"You okay?" Dad yells to me as I pass by them. He and Mom are on the porch of the ranch house, watching the storm.

"All good." I lift my hand in a wave. "Got the pregnant cattle in the barn and about to take care of the horses."

Dad smiles, and his forehead softens. I feel relieved that I can give them that. The satisfaction of knowing I've got it covered and they can retire in peace whenever they're ready.

I dismount Midnight and lead him inside his stall.

"How you coming along?" I ask Pixie, and wink at one of the grooms holding a pitchfork.

"All set," she says. "Working on my last stall."

"Good job, young lady."

I clap the groom on the shoulder, and he smiles.

There's fresh hay for my horse to munch on, but first I make sure to dry and brush him. It's a routine Midnight appreciates. Any horse would after a long and tiring day of work.

I remove my wet hat and set it on a hook as the rest of the men enter one by one to take care of their horses. Midnight whinnies in appreciation as I brush his hindquarters, patting him as I go. I'll return later with an apple or two as a special treat.

Across the way, I can hear Porter cooing to his gelding and smile at the sound. It reminds me of when we were younger and he'd spend extra time in the stables before leaving for the day with his mom. "See you tomorrow," he'd say to the horses.

By the time the horses are taken care of, the men are spent. It's no fun working in wet clothes, and everyone is sure to be famished.

"What's on the menu?" I ask the men as I follow behind them to the stable door. The rain is still coming down, so we'll wait out the storm to get our evening chores done.

"Whatever Big Jimmy makes," Wade replies, and the other men chuckle.

"Sounds about right." We finally hired a family cook named Lloyd, but the men have taken to Big Jimmy's food, and he enjoys making it most days. "Could use a cold one too."

"Amen to that," Jeb replies as I pause at the door and watch them trek back to the bunkhouse.

Porter is the last out of his stall, which is probably coincidental rather than anything having to do with me. I hear him chattering away with Pixie. Or rather, Pixie talking his ear off, which she's known to do when she gets going, just like her daddy—though for him it's normally after a few beers.

I smile, watching them interacting in the middle of the barn.

"You should go grab some dinner," I tell them.

"Yes, sir," Pixie says and runs off to no doubt find her father.

The barn grows silent as we look at each other across the space, both of us damp and muddy. But he's fucking gorgeous regardless. He blinks the raindrops from his lashes as he rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. I try not to focus on those pouty lips and how they used to taste.

Emotions are churning in his eyes, and I note the pain there when he says, "Your daughter seems great."

"My…daughter?" I stiffen, confused by the sentiment. I glance over my shoulder, putting two and two together. "You mean Pixie?"

"Who else would I mean?" he lobs back.

I take a step toward him. "She's not mine. I don't have any children."

"Oh, I… I…" he sputters. "I didn't know… You and Aimee never had kids?"

I huff out a laugh because the idea is absurd. But I can see he's bewildered by my reaction. Did Porter really think…

"No, never. Thank God, not that I wouldn't want them."

"So you…" He still looks confused. "You might still try for some?"

I hitch a shoulder. "No clue. Maybe someday and certainly not with Aimee. She and I have been divorced for eight years. In fact, she's remarried and moved to a different part of the state."