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Piper

I find her near the ATV shed, both of them climbing into an ATV. "We've got some strays near the creek," Emma tells me. "You in?"

"Sure," I say, climbing on. "If I die, tell Maddie I regret nothing."

"And delete my browser history," I add as an afterthought.

Emma laughs. "You're funny. I like you."

"Most people do until they get to know me better," I reply cheerfully.

"Jake seems to like knowing you better," she says with a sly grin.

"That's—we're not—" I stammer.

"Save it for someone who didn't see how he looks at you," Emma cuts me off, gunning the engine. "Hold on tight!"

The ATV roars to life, vibrating beneath us as Emma navigates across the uneven terrain. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy, and I grip the side handle so tight my knuckles turn white. We bounce over rocks and divots, my teeth clacking together with each jolt. The pastoral beauty of the ranch blurs past—rolling hills dotted with wildflowers, clusters of oak trees providing patches of shade, the creek glittering in the distance like a silver ribbon cutting through the landscape.

Emma drives with the confidence of someone who's been doing this since before she could walk, taking turns at speeds that make my stomach lurch and navigating around obstacles I don't even see until we're past them. The engine growls as we climb a small hill, then descends toward the creek with enough speed that I'm pretty sure my stomach is still at the top of the rise.

We race across the pasture, bumping along until we hit a grove near the creek. Cows cluster under the trees, too close to the water.

The cattle mill about in the shade, their black hides glistening in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Some drink from the creek, their massive heads lowered to the water. Others simply stand, tails swishing lazily at flies, seemingly unbothered by their unauthorized field trip. Up close, they're much larger than I expected—easily a thousand pounds of solid muscle and stubborn attitude, with horns that could skewer me without much effort.

"Holy cow," I blurt out, then immediately cringe. "No pun intended."

"There's at least fifteen head down here," Emma says, ignoring my terrible joke. "We need to get them moving before they decide to go swimming."

"Do cows swim?"

"Do you want to find out when Jack's livelihood is floating downstream?"

"Point taken."

"Piper, jump out and circle left," Emma yells. "Just wave your arms. Big energy. No pressure."

"Wave at cows. Got it," I mutter, hopping off. "Hello, cows. Please don't trample me."

I take a tentative step toward the nearest bovine. It stares at me with what I can only describe as cow contempt. Its eyes are surprisingly expressive—large, dark, and filled with what appears to be judgment of my entire existence. It chews slowly, methodically, never breaking eye contact, as if to say, "You don't belong here, and we both know it."

"Excuse me, sir or madam cow," I announce loudly. "This is a non-authorized creek party. I'm going to need you to move along."

The cow blinks slowly.

"Don't make me call cow security," I threaten, waving my arms. "I know people. Important cow people."

Emma snorts with laughter from the ATV. "Are you negotiating with them?"

"I'm establishing dominance through diplomacy," I explain, still facing down my unimpressed audience. "It's a city girl technique."

It kind of works. They start shifting away, but then I spot him—some smug guy watching from the trees. Definitely not a ranch hand. My stomach dips. Davidson's people.

He's partially hidden in the shadows, but I can make out a stocky build, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and the unmistakable outline of a camera with a long-range lens. He's not even trying to be subtle, leaning against a tree with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. Everything about his posture screams arrogance—like he's enjoying the chaos he's helped create.

He locks eyes with me, grins like a creep—then melts into the tree line before I can shout. I make a mental note: definitely tell Jake.

"Hey, Emma," I call out. "I just saw someone watching us from the trees. Looked suspicious."

"Davidson's hired help," she says grimly. "They've been playing these games for months. Taking pictures, trespassing, trying to spook the animals."

"That's... seriously messed up."

"Welcome to ranch wars," she sighs. "Where grown men act like kindergartners fighting over the good swing."

Emma and I herd the cows away from the creek, looping around as dust rises behind the ATV. We regroup, panting, and my phone buzzes—Maddie.

Gate's wrecked. Jake says all hands on deck. Where are you?

"Crisis isn't over," I mutter.

"Is it ever?" Emma asks, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Sometimes I think this ranch runs exclusively on adrenaline and curse words."

"The Ice family motto?"

"That and 'Don't mess with the herd,'" she grins. "Both cattle and human."

We head back, and I spend the next hour handing out water, redirecting cows, and trying not to get kicked in the shin. The Ice family moves like a machine—efficient, fierce, loyal. I watch them work, heart twisted with admiration and envy. I want to belong here. But instead, I wrote a stupid blog post that may've sparked all this.

Back at the main corral, the scene has evolved into organized chaos. Ranch hands on foot and horseback guide cattle through a series of gates, counting as they go. The air is thick with dust and the earthy smell of livestock. Sweat streaks through the dirt on everyone's faces, creating tribal-looking patterns. Voices call out numbers, confirming counts and locations.

The Ice brothers continue their synchronized dance on horseback, their movements fluid and assured. Jake circles a group of reluctant heifers, his horse responding to invisible cues as they guide the animals toward the open corral. Blake and Blaze work the perimeter, preventing breakaways and keeping the herd moving in the right direction.

"Twenty-three through the south gate!" Blake calls out.

"Thirty-five in the main corral!" a ranch hand responds.

"Still missing at least forty head," Jack calculates, scanning the horizon from atop his dapple gray. "Sean, take two men and check the west ravine. They might have headed for water."

"On it," Sean nods, wheeling his bay around and gesturing for two mounted ranch hands to follow.

Jack trots over to where Blaze is attempting to herd a particularly stubborn steer. "Need a hand, son?"

"I've got it," Blaze insists, his palomino dancing sideways as the steer lowers its head threateningly.

"Sure you do," Jack says dryly, moving his horse into position. "Just like you 'had it' when you tried to break that wild mustang at sixteen and ended up with a broken collarbone."

"That was different," Blaze protests, flushing slightly. "That horse was possessed."

"And this steer is just stubborn," Jack says, smoothly cutting off the animal's escape route. "Like someone else I know."

"I prefer the term 'determined,'" Blaze grins, falling into the familiar rhythm with his father as they work together to move the reluctant bovine.

"You've been 'determined' since you were two years old and decided to climb out of your crib," Jack snorts. "Your mother found you halfway to the barn in nothing but a diaper."

"I was answering the call of the wild," Blaze says dramatically.

"You were answering the call of trouble," Jack corrects, but his eyes crinkle with affection. "Some things never change."

"You'd be bored without me," Blaze points out.

"I'd be less gray," Jack counters, but he's smiling now.

Their easy banter continues as they successfully guide the steer toward the corral, their movements so in sync it's like watching a carefully choreographed performance. Despite the crisis, there's an undeniable warmth in their interaction—the kind that only comes from years of working side by side, of knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, of sharing both triumphs and disasters.

"You're doing great," Jack tells me as he passes, tipping his hat. "Most city folks would've been in their car crying by now."

"The day's still young," I quip. "I'm saving my breakdown for after dinner."

He actually laughs at that. "You'll fit right in here."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Fit in? Me? The perpetual outsider who makes her living tearing people down online? The irony would be delicious if it didn't make me feel so damn guilty.

Blaze jogs by, lasso coiled at his hip. "Still standing? Proud of you."

"Barely. My soul left fifteen cows ago."

"She's out here flappin' at cows like a pro," Blaze calls to Jake with a smirk. "Gotta say, I'm proud of your big city girl." He adds with a wink, "I knew marrying mine was a smart move."

Jake guides his chestnut gelding closer, dust rising around the horse's hooves. His hat is pushed back now, revealing hair darkened with sweat and eyes that somehow manage to look both exhausted and alert. "Don't compare her to Savannah," he calls back to his brother. "Remember how your wife tried to organize the cows into 'aesthetically pleasing groupings' her first time out?"

"Hey, that color-coordinated herd looked damn good in the sunset photos," Blaze defends, adjusting his grip on the lasso.

"Until they all scattered because she tried to separate the calves from their mothers," Jake reminds him, a rare grin breaking through his serious expression.

"A minor tactical error," Blaze waves dismissively. "She's a marketing genius, not a cow psychologist."

"At least Savannah knew which end of a cow was which," Jake calls back.

"Hey!" I protest. "I've figured that out. Mostly."

"She's a natural," Blaze insists. "Look at that form!"

"I was a cheerleader for exactly two weeks in high school," I explain. "Until I realized it involved school spirit, which I'm allergic to."

"Well, those two weeks are paying off," Blaze laughs. "You've got the peppiest cow-waving technique I've ever seen."

"Aubrey's got Luke, Violet, and India corralled at home," Sean adds, passing by with rope. "We figured the cows were safer than a toddler stampede."

"Smart move," I agree. "Though I'd put my money on the toddlers in that matchup."

"You haven't met our cows," Sean grins. "They're as stubborn as Jake."

"I heard that!" Jake shouts from somewhere behind us.

"You were supposed to!" Sean yells back.

The two brothers exchange identical looks of mock annoyance that can only come from a lifetime of good-natured ribbing. There's an ease to their interaction that speaks volumes about the bond they share—competitive yet supportive, teasing yet respectful. It's the kind of relationship that's been forged through shared experiences, through standing shoulder to shoulder in both celebration and crisis.

"I swear if one of these cows ruins my boots," Sadie huffs, appearing suddenly in designer jeans and impractical footwear, "I'm blaming Davidson personally."

"Are those... Louboutins?" I ask, staring at her ridiculous footwear.

"Christian Louboutin resort collection," she confirms, lifting her foot to show the red sole. "Limited edition."

"And you wore them to a cattle roundup?"

"I was at brunch in Kenosha when the SOS came in," she shrugs. "An Ice-Grant never ignores a family emergency."

"Even if it means sacrificing thousand-dollar shoes?"

"They're twenty-five hundred, actually," she corrects me. "And yes. Family first, fashion second."

I blink, reassessing her. Maybe there's more to Ice Princess Sadie than I thought.

"Though if any cow gets within ten feet of me, I'm using you as a human shield," she adds with a sweet smile.

Ah, there's the Sadie I expected.

I spot Jake in the distance, still riding hard. My stomach does a dumb little flutter. Why is him yelling at cows the sexiest thing I've ever seen? I need therapy.

He sits tall in the saddle, moving as one with his horse as they navigate the uneven terrain. His shoulders are set with determination, his focus unwavering as he directs both mount and cattle with confident precision. When he calls out commands, his voice carries across the field with natural authority. There's something primal about watching him work—this isn't the calculated charm of a city player or the practiced swagger of a bar regular. This is raw competence, the kind that can't be faked or learned from a book.

He leans forward suddenly, muscles tensing as he urges his horse to cut off a stray heifer. The animal pivots with surprising agility for its size, responding instantly to Jake's subtle guidance. His thighs grip the saddle, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the horse beneath him. For a moment, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, he looks like something out of a classic Western—the quintessential cowboy, rugged and capable and heart-stoppingly handsome.

"Yee-haw, cowboy," I mutter under my breath.

"Did you just 'yee-haw' my brother?" Emma appears beside me, eyebrows raised.

"What? No! I was just... practicing my ranch vocabulary."

"Uh-huh," she smirks. "And I'm just practicing my matchmaking skills."

"There's nothing to match," I insist. "We're barely friends."

"Sure," Emma nods solemnly. "And Pokey's just a three-legged dog, not the goodest boy in Wisconsin."

"That's different."

"Is it though?" She gives me a knowing look before jogging off.

The sun starts to dip, casting gold over the mess. Things are calming—sort of. I head toward the barn, sweaty and dust-coated. My phone won't stop buzzing with unread sponsor emails. I ignore them. Right now, this feels more important.

The landscape transforms in the late afternoon light. The pasture glows amber, the dust hanging in the air turning to floating gold particles. Long shadows stretch across the ground, and the chaos takes on an almost magical quality in this golden hour. The cattle, now mostly contained, move like dark silhouettes against the setting sun. Their lowing has quieted to occasional mournful calls that echo across the land.

The Ice family continues to work, their movements more measured now as the crisis ebbs. Jack directs the final count from atop his dapple gray, his weathered face serious but satisfied. Blake and Blaze ride the perimeter one last time, checking fences and gates. Sean returns from the ravine with a small group of recovered cattle, guiding them skillfully toward the main corral.

I've never felt more out of place—covered in dirt, smelling like cow, surrounded by people who actually know what they're doing—and yet, strangely, I don't want to leave. There's something about this chaotic, loyal family that makes me want to stay in their orbit, even if I'm just the awkward city girl waving her arms at livestock.

My boots (definitely not Louboutins) are caked with mud. My jeans are filthy, my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat, and I'm pretty sure I have cow saliva on my elbow from a curious heifer that got too close. My hair has abandoned all pretense of style, instead forming what feels like a bird's nest of tangles and dust. I must look like a disaster, and yet I feel strangely alive—more present in this moment than I've felt in months of city living.

"You survived," Jake says, appearing beside me. He's dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. His hat is tipped back, revealing sweat-dampened hair and those intense eyes that see too much.

"Barely," I reply. "I think I've met my lifetime quota of cow interaction."

"Day's not over yet," he warns, but there's a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"There's more? What's next? Cow square dancing? Bovine ballet?"

"Counting and securing," he says. "Then figuring out how Davidson's men got past our security."

"About that," I start, ready to tell him about the creep I spotted in the woods.

Then I hear it.

"Piper, look out!" Sean shouts.

I turn and freeze. A wild-eyed heifer barrels straight at me, hooves pounding the dirt like a freight train. I stumble, panic choking my lungs. There's no time to run.

The animal is massive up close—a wall of muscle and momentum headed straight for me. Its eyes roll white with panic, nostrils flared, head lowered in a way that promises nothing good for anything in its path. The ground vibrates beneath my feet with each pounding hoof strike. I can smell the dust and sweat and fear rolling off the creature, can hear its labored breathing as it charges. My muscles lock, my brain screaming at my body to move, but I'm frozen in place like a deer in headlights—or more accurately, a city girl in cow-lights.

Then I hear it—Jake's voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos.

"MOVE!"