Page 4 of Call Me Yours (Lodestar Ranch #4)

Terry smacked the lead rope against his thigh. “You gonna be a nitpicky SOB about it?”

I considered the mare. She had that quiet, wilted look about her of an animal who had given up.

I knew that look well, having seen it on my mom’s face for most of my life.

Like she had spent so many years disappointed that now she couldn’t feel anything at all.

Most horses would take the opportunity to share their weight with the farrier while they were being worked on, but not Oreo.

She hadn’t leaned on me even a little. Not on the first visit, and not even now on the second visit.

On the outside, she had improved a hundred times over between the two visits.

Her overgrown, split hooves were now healthy enough that she could walk with minimal pain.

But on the inside? There was no spark of life in those big, brown eyes.

Would she even notice if I went the extra mile on a hoof that was already an adequate job? Probably not.

Probably not.

That didn’t much change how I felt about it, though.

I lifted the hem of my t-shirt and dragged it down my sweaty face. “Yeah, I reckon I will.”

Terry grinned. “That’s what I figured you’d say. Let’s get her back on the stand.”

“Light day tomorrow.” Terry consulted his phone as I steered into his driveway. “Just the Taylor farm.”

“That’s on purpose,” I reminded him. Terry’s mind was a steel trap when it came to anything equine related, but dates and scheduling slipped from his brain like water through a sieve.

His wife, Angie, controlled his calendar and handled the day-to-day paperwork.

“My sister, Amy, is starting at the University of Colorado this fall. I promised her I’d drive her out there and get the lay of it all. ”

Terry squinted at his phone. “Right, right. Angie made a note right here.” He tapped the screen with a blackened thumbnail.

“You know, my daughter got her degree there. Did I tell you she has a master’s?

Smart cookie, that one. Anyway, I’m sure she’d be happy to answer any questions your sister has.

I’ll give her your phone number to pass on to Amy. I’ll tell her to expect her call.”

He slid one of his business cards from its holder on the back of his phone, jotted the number down, and handed it to me. I pushed it into my pocket without looking at it. “She won’t mind you handing out her number?”

Terry gave me a surprised look. “Nah, she likes being helpful. Did I tell you…”

And he was off and running again, telling me all the wonderful things about his daughter.

It never failed to make my chest tight. God, he was so proud of her.

Big things, small things, it didn’t even matter.

He was proud that she was the first in her family to go to college at all, much less graduate.

Proud that she came home every Monday, no matter how busy she was, just to help out with whatever needed to be done.

Proud that she made the best damn cup of coffee on either side of the Rocky Mountains.

Yeah. That last one would have had my dad hooting about participation trophies.

Praise had to be earned in the McAllister house.

I agreed with that, in theory. In practice, we had never actually earned it, not once that I could recall.

Nothing we did was ever more than adequate, and adequate wasn’t rewarded.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and waited for Terry to take a breath and give me an opening to cut him off because I knew from experience that he would segue into stories about her four younger brothers, who he was every bit as proud of, and then we might be here for another hour because goddamn, that man could talk.

There was no denying I felt some kind of way about it.

Gratitude could usually pull me out of a spiral because I wasn’t such a shithead that I couldn’t look around and recognize that I had it pretty damn good, actually.

And when that failed, good, old-fashioned self-loathing did the trick.

Because what did it say about me, that I got mad like a fucking toddler when a man showed pride in his sons, just because I knew I would never get that?

You’re the guy who always comes in second and gets mad about it, because no one deserves first place more than you. The world never gives you everything you’re owed, and your list of grievances is long.

Fucking Chloe Adams. It was hard to say whose voice in my head I hated more, hers or my dad’s. At least Chloe made me want to prove her wrong.

My dad? I only ever wanted to prove him right.

“And then—” Terry sucked in air. This was my chance.

“I should get going,” I said apologetically and a little desperately.

“Right. Of course. You got time for a snack first? Angie had a good day yesterday. She baked a few loaves of sourdough.” His wife had been diagnosed with lupus fifteen years ago, shortly after the birth of her fifth child.

She loved baking, but when she had a flare up, her joints ached too much to handle the dough.

“I always have time to eat,” I said, unbuckling.

I followed him inside and into the kitchen. We both washed up at the sink. Terry pulled together thick slices of sourdough topped with a generous slab of cream cheese and vine-ripened tomatoes from their garden.

I looked around. It was a typical farmhouse kitchen, with the homey feel of a space well-used.

Oak cabinets, green-tiled backsplash, a display of mismatched coffee mugs with hokey sayings like but first, coffee and I’m not arguing, I’m explaining why I’m right .

A collection of moose items. Moose-patterned hand towels.

A moose mug. A stained-glass moose hanging in the sunny window over the sink.

“Have you ever seen a moose?” I asked, remembering what Amy said about them being worse than bears.

“Oh, sure. One charged our car when we were visiting Yellowstone National Park. Angie was delighted.” He pointed his knife at the refrigerator and chuckled. “That’s her photo there.”

I paced closer to get a better look. There was a blurred reflection of a hand holding a phone in the window, and then beyond that an angry moose, his lowered nose an inch from the glass.

“Wow, that’s—” The words died in my throat as another photo caught my attention.

Four teen boys hoisting a woman in their arms like they were a human throne. All of them were grinning and laughing, dressed in suits, with the beaming woman wearing the cap and gown of a college graduate. Her dark hair hung in long waves and her green eyes sparkled.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

“These are your kids?” I asked. Please say no .

“They’re mine, all right.” The pride in his voice. Goddamn. “Although I’m really a bonus dad to my girl. Her dad died when she was only four. Bad tractor accident. But I’ve always considered her to be my daughter.”

That was why her last name wasn’t Quinn, like Terry’s, I realized.

I fished Terry’s card out of my pocket and flipped it over. There, over the phone number, was her name.

Chloe.

Chloe, who thought I was human garbage, was my boss’s beloved daughter.

Oh, fuck me .