Page 1 of Stirring Spurs (Rainbow Ranch #1)

BOONE

“Sunny side up, coming up!”

Winnie smirks at my corny joke, sliding the carton of eggs towards me. The rhythmic crack of eggshells breaking against the aged cast iron pan, a sound as familiar as Ma’s voice, signals the start of the day.

“It’s always sunny side up with you. You do realize some folks prefer over easy. Some of us like our eggs cooked.”

“Some of you are wrong,” I say, grabbing one of Ma’s old gingham dish towels so I don’t burn myself on the handle. “Sunny always brings a smile to faces. And biscuits and rolls need something to sop up.”

Winnie delivers an enormous eye roll and returns to icing the cinnamon buns.

With her sandy blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and shoved under her Oklahoma City Thunder cap, she continues to work with a practiced ease, her fingers deftly finishing the buns as if she’s done it a thousand times before.

Because she has. The sweet aroma of sugar and orange rind competes with the sizzling eggs, and I glance at the armadillo clock on the wall.

We often see armadillos 'round these parts of Oklahoma, and it adds a dose of much-needed whimsy to the kitchen’s sparse decor.

His little tail wags the seconds away, reminding me the table right outside the kitchen will be overtaken with chatter in less than five minutes.

I salt and pepper the eggs, the edges of the yolks starting to firm enough to spur me to grab the spatula.

“Almost ready.”

I shake the pan, and even though I’ve crammed an entire dozen in, Ma’s pan never lets me down. The eggs jiggle. No sticking.

“Work, Boone,” Winnie calls. “Or make that, werk !”

As she teases me, I realize my ass has joined the party, shaking along with the eggs as a new country bop plays over the small radio in the corner.

Holding a pastry bag of icing, Winnie joins me, swaying her hips to the music as I hum along.

The clomping on the stairs signals a caravan of hungry mouths are en route.

As the chatter begins, I hand Winnie the towel and spatula, grab the freshly-iced buns from the counter, and head out to the table to greet my siblings.

We don’t drive livestock on the ranch, but we still start early.

Beau expects everyone to work by seven, so breakfast must be on the table by six thirty.

At two minutes older, he’s always been the de facto older brother.

I’m two inches taller, his hair is longer, and he wears an elusive mask during rodeos to conjure up some mystery.

Otherwise, we’re identical. When strangers ask me what he looks like under the veil, I simply grin and point to my face.

We may be twins, but Beau gives off major big brother energy, and after our parents passed, he naturally took the reins of the ranch .

“I smell orange.”

Beau sits at the head of the long table.

It’s covered with a tablecloth featuring people on horses in various riding positions.

As the ranch cook, my ass doesn’t sit on a saddle, and I’m content to keep my distance from the beasts.

Fresh pots of coffee, bacon, biscuits, and now my signature orange cinnamon buns blanket the table.

Napkins and silverware are piled in the corner, and Beau passes them down.

“That would be the buns,” I say, placing them within smelling distance of Beau’s nose.

“We know you both adore buns,” Billie quips.

She takes her spot next to Beau, her sleeveless black tank showcasing the intricate tattoo sleeves on both arms.

“Yes, Ms. Abilene, we do.” I place a fat bun dripping with icing on her plate.

She shoots me her death stare, and for a split second, I see Ma in her eyes.

Sure, Billie’s hair is short, she probably weighs half what Ma did—and like her three brothers, she’s queer—but she has Ma’s nose.

There’s a tiny crinkle at the bridge when she smiles.

I know she hates it when I use her full name, which is why I do it occasionally.

We only have one sister, and Billie is tougher than all three of us together.

Not needing any protection, as her brothers, it’s our job to torment her.

“Three brothers, all homos. How did I get so…”

“Lucky,” Benny intercepts.

“I was going to say cursed.”

“You love it,” Benny replies as I serve him a bun.

As the baby of the brood, we all take a little extra care watching over him.

“Winnie got a little overly enthusiastic with the icing on these buns, so this morning, I’m dishing them out.” I hold the plate up. “Everyone gets one. Trust me, you want this cinnamon-orange sugar rush in your mouth.”

“And we all know Billie likes sugar, ain’t that right?” Beau teases.

“Don’t fuck with me this morning,” Billie says. “I’ve got to head into Johnson Springs for supplies, and I’m not looking forward to dealing with…”

“Hets?” Benny asks.

“People. But also, yes,” Billie replies.

There’s an unspoken understanding among the ranch staff that the first few minutes of breakfast are reserved for the Adams siblings.

I place a bun on my plate and join them as Winnie carries Ma’s old cast iron pan out and places it on a trivet.

She lays the spatula next to the pan, winks at me, and heads back into the kitchen.

“Take Winnie.” I nod toward her. “I can prep dinner by myself.”

Winnie’s a general hand on the ranch. And while she spends much time as my sous chef, she’s at everyone’s disposal.

“She peeled the potatoes for tonight’s dinner yesterday, so I’m good. Take her. Let her be your buffer.”

Billie’s eyes sparkle. It’s the same look she gave me when we were little, and I’d take her to pick wildflowers while everyone else worked. I don’t care how old we get; she’ll always be my baby sister.

“Are you sure?”

I nod and shout toward the kitchen, “Winnie, you’re going into town with Billie.”

“Awesome. Gets me away from your cheery ass for the day,” she yells back.

“Why is everything about asses around here?” Beau asks. “We’re trying to run a professional establishment. ”

“Because we’re Rainbow Ranch.” Benny smiles wide, showing his pearly whites.

“And we love ass,” Billie adds with a smirk.

“Yeah, we do.” Pris tightens the bow in the bandana around her neck as she joins the table.

As the head gardener, chicken wrangler, and manager of all things produce, Pris ensures the farm portion of our farm-to-table meals is intact.

“Speaking of butts…” I hand Pris a coffee. “How are those peaches looking?”

“Should be ready for your cobbler by the weekend.” Pris takes the coffee and gives it a whiff.

“Well, now we have something to look forward to.” Benny grabs a biscuit.

“If I have enough peaches, I’m making extra,” I say. “Y’all seem to have a special fondness for it.”

“You’ll have more than enough.” Pris serves herself two of the eggs, and I hear Winnie frying up more in the kitchen. “The trees are exploding with fruit this year.”

“At least something’s exploding,” Billie glances at me, then Benny who proceeds to giggle.

“Excuse me.”

“Just saying, glad something is… coming with gusto.”

“Leave him be.” Beau furrows his brows at Billie. “Not everything is about Boone’s love life.”

“Or lack of,” Benny adds.

“Who has time for love when I’ve got this crew to feed? And speaking of, give me your plate, Pris. You need one of these buns.”

“The only buns he’s serving up.” A smirk dots Billie’s sentence.

Benny covers his presumably full mouth and laughs again at Billie’s sass .

Pris hands me her plate, and I use a large fork to pry a bun loose and serve it.

“Hey, don’t knock my buns.” I place another fat bun on Billie’s plate.

“Enough with the buns,” Beau says. “We’ve got the new cowboy arriving this morning. He’s going to take most of my attention today.”

When our parents passed away almost seven years ago, Beau naturally became the head of the ranch.

We quickly replaced the ‘Adams’ in our ranch name with ‘Rainbow’ and never looked back.

It allows us to broadcast who we are and our priorities to the entire ranching community.

Rainbow Ranch is a sanctuary that celebrates diversity, creativity, and community, combining the rustic charm of traditional ranch life with a progressive ethos.

We welcome all orientations and identities here.

We’ve added some color to the ranch in the last few years.

As you enter, a colorful array of flags flutter in the breeze, each representing the spectrum of queer identities.

The main house, a cozy wooden structure our parents built before we were born, serves as our living quarters, but also a gathering place where we share stories and enjoy communal meals.

From time to time, some ranch staff offer workshops that range from sustainable farming practices to artistic expression.

Last year, Billie did a tattoo demonstration that brought folks from as far as Tulsa.

“I can help.” Benny wipes at his mouth with a napkin. “Happy to take him on.”

“I’m going to introduce him to Noodles,” Beau says.

Silence takes over the table. Everyone turns their stares toward Beau, who continues to eat.

“Noodles?” Billie asks. “I thought we agreed he was a lost cause. ”

Our ranch is home to various animals—chickens, goats, even a few rescue dogs.

For us, farming isn’t just about crops. It’s about cultivating a sense of belonging and nurturing relationships.

We work to engage with the land and foster a deeper connection to the earth.

Part of that is our livestock rehabilitation program.

We take animals from challenging situations and put energy into helping them become active community members.

It takes time, patience, and a lot of love. Sometimes it takes some fresh blood.

“No horse is ever a lost cause.” Beau takes the last swig from his mug. “Some just take… more time.”

“More time?” Billie asks. “It’s been two years. He still won’t let anyone saddle him.”

“I’m not giving up on him.” Beau places his napkin on his plate, and I take one last bite of my eggs, stand, and prepare to clear as everyone finishes. “Folks rode him before he came here, so he’s got it in him. Somewhere.”

Benny folds his napkin on his empty plate. “Let’s see what this new guy’s got.”

As if on cue, the front door swings open with a sharp gust of air. A man wearing an oversized, wide-brimmed hat strides in. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and heavy boots thud as he enters. He keeps his head down, and the shadow of his hat obscures his face completely.

“Well, speak of the devil.” Beau stands to greet him.

The stranger lifts his head, and his deep brown eyes find mine.

He’s wearing a red and blue plaid shirt, unbuttoned to his sternum.

Dark brown hair peeks out from his hat, and he stares at me with soulful eyes.

There’s a story there, waiting to be told.

I grab onto the back of Beau’s chair as my legs wobble under me.

His rough exterior—a leather jacket and at least a few days of stubble—speaks of a man who’s seen hard days and doesn’t suffer fools.

The sunlight streaming in from the bay window catches the fat round buckle on his belt.

His face appears flat, mouth in a straight line, as Beau steps toward him.

“You must be Mr. Anderson. Come, sit. My brother will feed you.”