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Halstead narrowed his eyes. "Seven fifty."
I let another stretch of silence settle between us. I could practically hear him grinding his teeth.
“Seven seventy-five, Halstead.”
A beat. Then—"Fine. Send me the paperwork.”
I let out a tired breath like I was doing him a favor. “On its way.”
He chuckled. “You drive a hard bargain, Elena.”
I laughed. “If I told you how much you could’ve gotten them for, Halstead, that ulcer of yours would be real.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “One day, I’ll get the better deal on you.”
“Not today,” I said sweetly.
Seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for two horses!Damn good deal.
“Okay, now back to Wilder selling the ranch. What are your plans? You going to Kincaid?”
Everyone assumed, Maverick included, that I’d want to work for him. It was no wonder. Kincaid Farms was one of the most impressive horse operations in the West.Not some rinky-dink breeding program with a couple of stallions and a handful of broodmares—this was a multimillion-dollar empire.
His barns were state-of-the-art. They had climate-controlled foaling stalls, an equine rehab facility that rivaled what most veterinarians had access to, and an on-site genetics lab that tested for everything from speed markers to coat color probability.
His stock was unmatched.
Kincaid-bred horses weren’t just winners; they were legends. His cutting horses dominated at the NCHA Futurity. His reining stallions had bloodlines traced back to Hollywood Dun It and Colonels Smoking Gun. His yearlings routinely sold for six figures before they even set foot in an arena.
The buyers came from everywhere: Texas oil tycoons, Kentucky racing elites, and European investors who thought owning a champion reiner gave them American cowboy cred.
If you wanted the best, you came to Kincaid.
And if I wanted security, I’d be all in.
But that was the problem; I wasn’t looking for security—I was looking to forget, move past Wildflower Canyon, Duke, Nash, and Mama…my whole life.
“I was thinking of going somewhere warmer,” I told him.
He grinned appreciatively. "I have a few people who’d love to hire you, Elena. I swear to God, come down here, and I’ll have you a job that pays you three times what you make at Wilder in a weekend."
"Thanks," I said, genuinely grateful for the offer. "Let me finish up here, and maybe I’ll come down for the NRCHA Snaffle Bit Futurity in the fall. See what kind of trouble I can get into. Will you be there?”
His grin widened. "Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”
The National Reined Cow Horse Association (NRCHA) Snaffle Bit Futurity was held every year in South Point Arena in Las Vegas in October, which gave me a solid five months to close down here, which would be how long it would take for me to sell the horses and for Duke to sell the place. Considering the price tag on a hundred thousand acres of prime ranch land, it could take longer.
And if Halstead couldn’t help me, the NRCHA was a huge event for high-end Western performance horses, including cutting, reining, and cow horse competitions. Wealthy buyers, breeders, and trainers all attend—it would be the perfect place to network for my next opportunity. I had enough saved up to buy a new truck, pack up my life, and get on the road until I found my new home.
"Then it’s settled. You show up, and I’ll introduce you to the right people. Maybe even find you a horse worth betting on."
I’d missed dinner again by the time the call ended. I could probably rustle up a sandwich in the kitchen, but I felt like something a bit more substantial.
I could go down to The Rusty Spur, maybe pick up a tourist, and stay the night, get lost in someone else's hands, someone who didn’t know me, didn’t expect anything, and didn’t hate me. I could let a stranger carry me for a few hours, give me respite from my thoughts and the grief of losing Nash, of never having a chance with Duke.
I’d get back early, bury Nash, and then head out to Maverick’s cabin so Gloria didn’t have to see me and be reminded of what a piece of shit human being she was.
Maverick had offered his farmhouse, a cottage on his farm, his house in Mexico (and a plane if I wanted it), but I was never for luxury. I liked the cabin. It was quiet, tucked along a creek that snaked through the foothills—far enough from the main road that no one would bother me but close enough that I could leave when I needed to. The cabin itself was small and solid, made of rough-hewn logs, with a wraparound porch that overlooked the water. There was a woodstove inside, a battered leather couch, and a bed with a quilt Maverick and Joy’s grandmother had made years ago.