Page 31

31

Piper

We head out in Jake’s truck, the silence between us louder than any argument.

The drive is pure torture—my mind churns with guilt about the blog. If Davidson is messing with the ranch, it's probably my fault for giving him ammo. Congrats, Piper, you're the best saboteur a man never asked for.

We pull up to chaos. Ranch hands swarm near the fence, yelling. A handful of cows wander outside the boundary, looking confused. Jake slams the brakes. Dust flies as he jumps out, fury rolling off him in waves.

"What the hell happened?" he snaps, marching toward the nearest ranch hand. I jog to catch up, my pulse thumping like crazy.

"Gate was forced open," the guy hollers back. "Look at the footprints—definitely sabotage. We're missing at least half the herd."

Jake curses under his breath. "Dammit, Davidson." He whips out his phone, brow furrowed, then mutters, "Ice 911. Cattle breach east pasture," and taps out a group text.

I watch, mystified. He must see my confusion because he gives me a quick explanation: "Family emergency code. Ice 911 means everyone drops whatever they're doing and gets here, pronto."

A pang lodges in my chest. His family rallies without question while mine barely returns my texts. Am I envious? I guess I am.

The ranch stretches out before us—acres of lush green pasture now dotted with wandering black-and-white Angus cattle. The massive wooden fence that usually contains them gapes open, the gate hanging from one hinge like a broken arm. Hoofprints and tire tracks crisscross in the mud nearby, telling a story of deliberate sabotage. The smell of fresh earth, manure, and the sharp tang of broken wood fills the air.

Jake jumps into action, barking orders like he's running a boot camp for cow chaos. "Saddle up the horses! Open the spare corral. I want a full headcount—how many are missing, how many are in!"

"So, is this like, a regular Tuesday around here?" I ask, trying to mask my nervousness with humor. "Or do you save the cattle escapes for special occasions?"

Jake doesn't even crack a smile. "This is Davidson trying to mess with our livelihood. Get ready for chaos."

"Chaos is my middle name," I say, then immediately regret it. "Actually, it's Elizabeth, but that doesn't sound nearly as badass in this situation."

Seconds later, Emma's truck skids into the drive, dust flying. She hops out, already moving. She glances at her phone with a conflicted expression before pocketing it with a sigh. I catch her furtive look and wonder if she was pondering texting Carter. It must be killing her not to be able to reach out to him right now, especially since it seems it's his family behind this mess. Talk about star-crossed lovers—Romeo and Juliet had it easy compared to ranch warfare.

Annie's pickup isn't far behind, with Sadie riding beside her, phone clutched in one hand, squinting at the chaos like she’s trying to calculate whether it’s worth breaking a nail over. A cloud of dust trails behind them as the rest of the Ice family arrives. Blake and Blaze roar up in Blake's truck with Savannah riding shotgun, while Sean pulls in right behind them. Jack's truck skids to a stop last, the patriarch's face grim as he surveys the damage.

The air fills with the sound of truck doors slamming, boots hitting dirt, and voices calling out across the field. Nobody even asks what’s going on. They just scatter like some denim-clad superhero squad. The Ice family is a machine—fast, efficient, loyal to the bone.

Jack's weathered face scans the scene, eyes narrowed beneath his worn Stetson. His jaw clenches as he takes in the broken gate, the scattered cattle, the evidence of trespassing.

"Well, well, well," Blaze announces, jumping from his truck. "If it isn't the annual Ice Ranch Cow Rodeo! And here I thought we were just coming for dinner."

"Shut up and grab a rope," Blake tells his twin, already heading for the stables.

"Yes, sir, Captain No-Fun," Blaze salutes dramatically, then winks at me. "Don't worry, city girl. The Ice family circus is about to begin."

I hang back, feeling like a clueless extra in a very intense Western. Jake spots me and jerks his chin. "Piper, stay near the barn. If we need backup, I'll holler."

My pride flares. "I can help."

"Then grab that gate and guard it. We need every hand, even sarcastic ones."

"Gate duty it is," I say with a mock salute. "Just to be clear, my farm experience is limited to petting zoos and milk cartons."

"Just don't let anything with four legs and a tail get past you."

“Uh, have you seen me?” I ask, genuinely alarmed. “I’m five-foot-nothing and I scream when I see spiders.”

Jake bites back a smile. “They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That’s factually incorrect,” I deadpan. “Nothing on this planet is more scared than I would be if a cow came at me. Nothing.”

The stables come alive with noise and motion as the Ice siblings and ranch hands prep the horses. I hover awkwardly near the barn doors, trying not to get trampled by cowboy boots, hooves, or testosterone.

Jake approaches a massive chestnut gelding like they’re old friends. He runs a hand along its neck, and the horse nickers in recognition. With practiced ease, he checks the saddle, adjusts the stirrups, then swings himself up in one fluid motion that makes my mouth go embarrassingly dry. His thighs flex around the horse’s sides, back straight, reins gripped in those big, unfairly competent hands. Of course he’s good at this. I bet he came out of the womb wearing spurs.

Jack stands near the center of the yard, barking orders like a military general with hay in his teeth.

"This has Davidson's stink all over it," he growls, yanking his worn cowboy hat tighter over his silvering hair. "He wants this ranch? He can pry it out of my cold, dead hands."

Sean jogs up, breathless. "Dad, we've got tracks heading toward the creek."

Jack doesn't miss a beat. "Annie, check the hay barn, make sure the feed isn’t tampered with. Emma, get on the radio with animal control just in case. Sadie—water runs, now. Blake, take the north fence line. Sean, follow those tracks to the southwest corner by the creek. Blaze, you're with me on the eastern perimeter. Jake, you’re already mounted—take the center drive. Let’s move, boys!"

Jake nods, clicking his horse into motion with a quiet command. The gelding surges forward, powerful and smooth.

"Um, excuse me," I call out, raising a hand. "Seriously, what exactly does a gate person do? Is there a quick-start guide or…?"

"You stand there and look pretty!" Blaze replies with a grin. "And if something tries to escape, scream like hell and wave your arms!"

"So basically, I’m a human scarecrow with better hair," I mutter. "Got it."

The Ice squad mounts up fast—Blake swings onto a sleek black horse built like a race car, Sean grabs one that looks solid and steady, and Jack climbs onto a big gray beast that honestly looks like it could eat fences for breakfast. Blaze gives his wife, Savannah, a boost onto a smaller reddish-brown horse, steadying her with one hand on the reins and the other on her hip like it’s the most casual, cowboy-coded thing in the world. Then he mounts a jittery tan one that practically vibrates with energy.

The Ice siblings fan out like they've done this a hundred times. Blake disappears toward the far fence. Blaze throws me a wink before riding off solo. Savannah stays behind, trotting her horse in a lazy circle like she’s waiting for the valet. Annie's got the ranch hands on a leash—literally, one of them’s holding a rope and nodding dutifully.

Dust swirls. Cows bellow. People shout. As the "gate person," I stand awkwardly while ranchers on horseback herd cattle toward me. One guy yells, "Keep waving, city girl!" So I do, flapping my arms like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man.

The sun beats down mercilessly, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back. The air is thick with dust kicked up by hooves and tires, coating my throat and making my eyes water. The smell? Eau de cow flop. Not hitting Sephora anytime soon. Flies buzz persistently around my head, and I swat at them half-heartedly, wondering how the Ice family manages to look so at home in this chaos.

Across the field, Jake and his brothers work in perfect harmony. They communicate with whistles, hand signals, and occasional shouts that seem to form a language all their own. Their horses respond to the slightest touch, cutting left and right to block escaping cattle, circling behind stragglers to nudge them back toward the herd.

"Blaze, cut right!" Jake calls out, his voice carrying over the lowing of cattle. "You've got three breaking away!"

"On it, little brother!" Blaze responds, wheeling his horse around in a tight circle. The animal seems to read his mind, darting between two massive Angus steers and forcing them back toward the main group.

"Show-off!" Blake shouts from the opposite side of the field, where he's methodically guiding a group of cows through a narrow passage.

"You're just jealous of my superior cow-wrangling skills!" Blaze hollers back, standing dramatically in his stirrups as his horse prances sideways.

Jack shakes his head, a reluctant smile breaking through his stern expression. "If you two spent half as much energy moving cattle as you do running your mouths, we'd be done by now!"

"Multi-tasking, Dad!" Blaze grins, tipping his hat. "It's called efficiency!"

"I call it being a pain in my—" Jack's words are cut off as his horse suddenly leaps forward to block a determined heifer. The seamless movement between horse and rider is something to behold—Jack barely seems to move, yet the massive gray beast responds as if they share one mind.

"Less talking, more herding!" Sean calls out, guiding three calves back toward the main group with patient, steady movements.

"Yes, Mother Hen!" Blaze and Blake chorus in perfect twin synchronization.

"I swear I'm putting you both on manure duty for a month," Jack threatens, but there's a warmth in his voice that belies the stern words.

"Again?" Blaze groans dramatically. "That's what you said last time!"

"And you're still talking instead of working," Jack points out, skillfully maneuvering his horse around a particularly stubborn cow.

The family banter continues across the field, punctuated by serious instructions and the occasional curse when a particularly determined bovine decides to make a break for it. It's like watching a chaotic, dusty, cow-filled dance where everyone knows the steps except me.

Savannah rides her horse over and pulls up beside me with a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is that how you wave at all the animals?” Despite the chaos, her makeup remains flawless. "Because you look like you're trying to land a 747."

"I'm innovating," I defend myself. "Cows appreciate creativity."

"Sure they do," she smirks. "And I'm secretly a rodeo clown."

"That would explain the shoes," I nod at her impeccably clean boots.

"Touché," she laughs. "At least your sense of humor is intact."

Every few minutes, I catch a glimpse of Jake on horseback—tall, commanding, yelling instructions like a ranch god. I hate how hot I find it. Seriously, is there a support group for women turned on by cowboy efficiency?

He leans forward in the saddle, muscles tense as he guides the horse with subtle movements, and something in my stomach does a slow, dangerous flip. The man looks like he was born on that horse, all confident control and raw power. His Stetson shades his eyes, but I can see the intense focus in his expression, the way his jaw tightens when a cow veers off course. His thighs grip the saddle, powerful and sure, as he shifts his weight to direct his mount. One hand holds the reins loosely, the other occasionally reaching down to pat the horse's neck in silent communication.

A drop of sweat trails down his temple, catching the sunlight as it disappears into the stubble along his jaw. His shirt clings to his shoulders, damp with exertion, outlining muscles that have clearly been earned through years of physical labor rather than fancy gym equipment. When he calls out instructions, his voice carries across the field with natural authority that makes everyone—human and animal alike—snap to attention.

"Your tongue's dragging on the ground," Savannah whispers, nudging me.

"What? No, I was just—"

"Mentally undressing Cowboy Ken? Yeah, we noticed." She pats my shoulder. "Don't worry, it happens to the best of us. Something about men who can handle large animals."

"That's—that's not what I was thinking," I sputter.

“Honey, your face is redder than a tomato, and it's not from the sun.”

Savannah grins and nudges her horse away, leaving me flustered and sweating.

Annie rushes over a second later, brushing dust off her jeans. “Piper, don’t just stand there swooning—go help Emma!”