Page 12 of Stick Around,
I sighed, scratching him between the eyes. “What kind of person shows up to a ranch in flip-flops?”
Ranger huffed, completely uninterested in my human problems.
La Cuesta wasn’t just a ranch to me; it was responsibility and legacy. When my uncle sold it to the three of us, it came with one condition: keep the horse side alive.
Reid and Kellan cared, but sometimes it felt like I was the only one who understood what was at stake. Kellan was too busy chasing viral moments, and Reid spent more time bonding with the animals or worrying about cabin bookings.
Meanwhile, I was the one keeping us from losing boarding and training clients while they treated the place like a playground. And now we had a hobby horse champion on-site, ready to turn the ranch into a circus and create a whole new list of complications.
I patted Ranger’s neck and led him back to his stall, my mind already shifting to the day’s obligations: vet stop, boot shopping, pasture inspection, hay delivery, training.
“Too much to do, not enough time,” I told Ranger as I locked his stall. His dark eyes watched me knowingly.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the cabin parking area in front of the lodge. Quinn was sitting on the porch, two travel mugs balanced in her hands.
She spotted me and stood, making her way down the steps with a tentative smile. Today, she wore shorts and tennis shoes, which were a definite improvement from flip-flops.
I got out and jogged around to open the passenger door. “Morning.”
“Good morning!” She slid into the seat.
I shut the door and returned to the driver’s side. “How was your first night?”
“Peaceful. I slept like a baby.” She held up the two mugs. “I made coffee. One has cream and sugar, and this one’s black. I wasn’t sure how you take it, but I drink it both ways.”
I accepted the black coffee with a nod of thanks, surprised by the gesture. Most guests expected to be waited on, not the other way around. “Ready for boots?”
“Beyond ready.” She buckled her seatbelt and settled in. “I’ve never owned real cowboy boots before. Do they hurt as bad to break in as everyone says?”
“Depends on the boots and your feet.” I backed out of the parking area, heading toward the main road. “But basically, yes.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “I appreciate the honesty. Kellan told me they’d feel like slippers crafted by angels.”
“Kellan would tell you anything to make a sale.”
“And you wouldn’t?” There was playfulness in her voice, not a challenge.
I shrugged. “Not my style.”
The road stretched ahead, and although I’d driven it too many times to count, it somehow felt different with Quinn beside me.
“I saw five goats this morning,” she said after a comfortable silence. “They seem to have the run of the place.”
“One of them does. Butters is the ringleader, and the oldest and dumbest of the five, but somehow the most successful at breaking out.”
“What are the others’ names?”
“Maple, Chip, Jack, and the baby is Pancake.”
She nearly choked on her coffee. “Pancake? Please tell me there’s a story there.”
“Butters has always been at the ranch, but when we got the other three, Kellan named them in relation to pancakes. He wanted to name the baby Flap, but that just sounds wrong, and we don’t know if the father is Jack or Chip.”
“So, there’s baby daddy drama with the goats?”
“They fight over Maple’s attention constantly.” I shook my head, knowing how absurd the whole thing sounded.
Quinn’s eyes widened with delight. “It’s like a goat soap opera! Does Butters get involved? Couldn’t he be the father?”