Page 22 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

What Matters Most

Colt

T he road home rolled out before us, familiar and sun-warmed, but I barely noticed the hills or the way the afternoon light filtered through the pines.

My thoughts were still back in that grocery store parking lot, where Art’s voice came crackling over the speakerphone with that damn tempting offer.

Jet to Dallas. Full expenses covered. Quick turnaround.

It should’ve been easy to say yes.

“I could tell you were tempted,” she said, voice gentle, cutting through my thoughts. “Back there with Art.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “It wasn’t just the offer. It was the trust behind it. Guy, green as spring grass, buys a ranch and he comes to me for help. That means something.”

“I know,” she said, not judging—just… understanding.

I glanced at her, then back at the winding road ahead. “My daddy would’ve told me to get my butt on that jet. You commit, you show up. Don’t matter if it’s a branding, a handshake, or a million-dollar bull.”

“But your daddy didn’t have a pregnant girlfriend with a heartbeat check on the calendar,” she said, her lips twitching into a small smile.

I huffed a dry laugh. “No. No, he didn’t.”

She shifted slightly in her seat, angling toward me. “Colt, I heard the whole call. I know you didn’t commit yet. So, let’s figure it out together.”

I glanced over, surprised by her calm. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m practical,” she said. “Besides, you’re not just some ranch hand anymore. You’ve got options. And Art seems like the kind of guy who’d understand if you’re honest.”

“I was thinking,” I said slowly, “if he sends photos and videos of the bulls ahead of time—before the sale—I can give him a read. Build, movement, how they handle in the pen. Might even spot a bad attitude or a limp from here.”

She smiled. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

I exhaled slowly. “I want to help him. I do. But I’m not missing that ultrasound of our child.”

Her hand found mine on the console between us, warm and steady. “Good. Because I need you there, but more than that, I want you there.”

I gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “You sure about this? I mean, he offered good money.”

She snorted. “Colt, you’re already a millionaire. It’s not like it used to be for us, scraping for every dollar. You really gonna miss our baby’s first close-up for a few thousand bucks and a hotel bar in Dallas?”

That pulled a laugh from deep in my chest. “You make a strong case, darlin’.”

“Damn right I do.”

We fell quiet again. The turn signal clicked as we turned into the driveway.

“I’ll call Art back after we unload the truck.”

I cut the engine, but neither of us moved right away. We just sat there, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for filling.

Then Tessa turned toward me with a lazy smile. “You gonna carry all these groceries inside yourself, or should you let the pregnant lady pull her weight?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, throwing the door open. “You’re on light-bag duty only.”

She rolled her eyes as she climbed out. “That’s gonna get old real fast.”

We worked in sync, side by side, hauling brown paper bags up the steps and through the front door. Biscuit watched from the corral with mild interest, her tail flicking at the occasional fly like the world didn’t hinge on how many boxes of cereal we’d grabbed.

Tessa handed me a box of herbal tea and wiggled her eyebrows. “This is for you.”

I glanced down. “Chamomile?”

“Yep. To keep your blood pressure down before the baby comes. I figure we start early.”

I gave her a look. “What exactly are you expecting this kid to do to me?”

She grinned. “I heard rumors about how you were as a young boy. I’m just covering our bases.”

I barked a laugh and dropped the box onto the counter beside the bread and produce. “Damned good to know I’m already being pre-treated.”

She leaned against the fridge for a second, watching me sort apples into the bowl. “Hey, about Art…”

I paused, not quite tensing but not relaxed either. “Yeah?”

“If he gets you the right footage before the auction kicks off—videos, good photos, maybe even a walk-around—do you really think you could coach him through what to look for?”

I leaned one hip against the counter and nodded. “Sure. There are a few things you can’t fake in a picture. Hoof placement is one. A good bull’s feet ought to point straight, no splay or pigeon-toe. You want symmetry in the walk, too. Smooth, no limps, no short stepping.”

Tessa folded her arms, nodding slowly, like she was committing it all to memory. “What about their eyes? You always said animals show more in the eyes than people give credit for.”

“Exactly. Clarity, confidence, no dullness. If a bull’s eye looks glassy or shifty, that’s a red flag.

And how he responds to being haltered and led?

Huge. A breeder bull needs a steady temperament.

You don’t want him spooking at every noise or dragging handlers around like he’s king of the mountain. ”

She grinned again, softer this time. “I love when you talk cowboy.”

I chuckled, then gave her a quick side-eye. “You’re mocking me?”

“Only a little. But mostly I’m just glad we can still help him. And,” she said, brushing her fingers along the hem of my shirt, “I don’t have to be the only one crying in that doctor’s office if they say something ridiculously sappy.”

I reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I hope they have Kleenex in the office.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen like sunlight.

We went back to unpacking, but something had settled between us—something sure and simple. We weren’t just figuring out how to balance work and parenthood and grocery budgets.

We had learned how to do this together.

I finished loading the last of the eggs into the fridge and wiped my hands on a dish towel.

Tessa had perched barefoot on the arm of the couch, sipping a glass of ice water, and flipping through a brochure for that memory care place in town.

Her brow was furrowed, but not in that way that meant something was wrong. Just thinking. Planning.

Hell, didn’t that feel like a gift?

I grabbed my phone and gave her a little nod toward the couch. “Sit with me for this?”

She looked up, surprised, but nodded. “You calling Art back?”

“Yep.” I sat down and patted the cushion beside me. She settled in close, shoulder brushing mine, and I could feel her watching me as I thumbed through my recent calls and hit redial.

Art picked up on the first ring. “Whitson here.”

“Hey Art, it’s Colt. I wanted to talk to you about the auction trip.”

“Yeah? Something up?”

I shifted back, one arm draped across the top of the couch. “Yeah. I won’t be able to make the flight. Tuesday’s a big day for me—and my fiancée. She’s expecting our first child.”

There was a pause, then a low whistle. “Fiancée, huh? Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “By my book, we’ve been engaged about five years, give or take.”

Tessa looked up and nudged my arm with her elbow. “Is that your version of proposing?”

I didn’t even skip a beat. “If it works, sure.”

She laughed, that soft, familiar laugh that hit me low in the gut. “Then I guess I say yes.”

Art chuckled in my ear. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Yeah, but it’s the good kind.” I cleared my throat, getting back to business. “Here’s the thing—I still want to help. If you can get me photos and a few videos of those bulls before bidding starts, I’ll text you what to look for. I’ll send notes. Real-time if need be.”

“That could work,” Art said thoughtfully. “Won’t be the same without you there, but I trust your eye. I’ll have Gavin take some footage, make sure we get everything you need.”

“Appreciate it,” I said. “I want you to get the right stock. But I can’t miss this. We’ve got our second ultrasound that day.”

“Say no more,” Art said, sounding like a man who knew exactly how important that was. “Tell your fiancée congrats for me.”

“I will.” I ended the call and turned to Tessa, who was biting her lip in that way she did when she was holding back a grin.

“So,” I said, sliding my phone onto the coffee table, “how do you feel about being engaged? It always seemed to me we already were… then you left.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “Well, you never actually asked me before. Maybe if…”

I leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Maybe I should have...”

“I don’t know, Colt. I think fate knew we had some growing up to do.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, I want you to know I will get around to proposing with a ring and all. It’s just that we have been kind of busy.”

“You better,” she said, nestling into my side. “Because I’m holding out for fireworks.”

I held her tighter, both of us quiet for a beat.

Tessa had curled into the corner of the couch beside me, flipping through the memory care brochure again, legs tucked under her. My hand rested on the curve of her belly, and for a breath or two, I let myself believe that maybe the hardest parts were behind us.

Then her phone rang.

She blinked down at the screen, mouth pulling into a tight line. “It’s Helen.”

I sat up straighter as she answered, her voice calm but clipped. “Hello?”

A pause. Then her expression shifted—shoulders going stiff, the brochure slipping from her lap onto the floor. “I see. So… that’s final?” Another pause. “Okay… yes. We’ll be there.”

She ended the call with a soft sigh and looked over at me. Her eyes were clear, but her voice carried a weight that hadn’t been there five minutes ago.

“They’re releasing her. The insurance denied continued care. She’s being discharged tonight.”

The smile I’d been wearing slipped, just a little. Not out of frustration. Out of empathy.

“That soon?” I asked gently.

She nodded, already rising to her feet. “They gave her a sedative for the ride, but they said we need to be there by six.”

I stood too, catching her wrist before she could head for the bedroom. “Hey. You okay?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I will be. I have to be.”

There it was—Tessa shifting into fix-it mode. The woman who never flinched when life turned sideways. And just like always… I’d follow her there.

Every damn time.