Page 4 of Stirring Spurs (Rainbow Ranch #1)

BOONE

“New guy is… interesting.”

Winnie empties the smaller compost bin we keep on the counter into the oversized bin in the corner of the kitchen. The crackle of a breakfast’s worth of eggshells cascading in accompanies the scratching sensation at the back of my throat.

“Weren’t you going into town with Billie?” I grab a rag from under the sink.

“Change of plans. She needs to help Benny reshoe Jasper, and clearly, you need my help.” She gives me a wide grin, showing all her teeth.

I roll my eyes but don’t argue, happy to have her here.

“And as for Mr. Anderson—seen his kind before.” I spray vinegar on the counters. “Coming through to make a few bucks, then moving on. We’ll do our best to make his stay pleasant.”

“Bet he could think of a few ways you could make his stay more pleasant,” Winnie teases.

“Excuse me? ”

“I saw how he was looking at you.” She flicks the brim of my hat.

I run my rag across the granite I convinced Beau to install a few years ago. “Exactly how was he looking at me?”

“Like he’d been lost in the desert for days... and you were a giant pitcher of water.”

Winnie’s eyes widen, and she bursts into a loud laugh, filling the room with her joyous cackle.

“You hush. We’re having French onion soup for dinner, and two bags of onions need peeling. That’ll quiet your sass.”

Winnie lifts the bags, one in each hand, and cocks her head.

“Boss, you know I’ve got eyes of steel. Challenge accepted.”

We spend the rest of the morning cleaning and preparing for dinner.

Since everyone’s busy sprawled out over the ranch, we don’t serve an official sit-down lunch.

I prepare a small tray of sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a few paper bags of homemade chips and put them out after breakfast. They can grab 'em before they go or anytime during the day. This allows me to focus on tidying up, cooking dinner, and baking tasks requiring early prep. I’m lucky we’re able to get most of what we need right here on the ranch.

Between the gardens and animals, I can keep us fed with minimal trips to town for groceries.

I’m still trying to get Billie to warm up to my homemade barbeque sauce, its smoky aroma battling the cloying sweetness of her preferred store-bought brand.

Winnie takes the onions out back to peel.

Unlike her, my eyes will be a watery mess if she preps them in the kitchen.

Left alone with the sweet country tunes sputtering from the radio, I make croutons with the sourdough loaf I baked yesterday morning.

It's funny how day-old bread is the secret to crisp croutons. Sometimes, you need to let things get a little stale to truly appreciate them. Once they’re in the oven, I’ll make a couple fresh loaves for dipping.

“What’s for lunch?” Billie grabs my waist from behind as I prepare the sheet pan for the bread.

“Peanut butter with peach jam or turkey with gravy.”

“Hmmm. How am I supposed to choose between my childhood fav and an ode to Thanksgiving?” Her chin pokes my back and her slim, muscular arms squeeze my waist.

“Abilene Anne.”

I turn around and pull her closer. I’m the only one allowed to call her by her full birth name and live to tell about it. When it comes to my little sister, I’m a total softy.

“Come.”

I grab one of each sandwich, slice them in half, and put them together so she can have both.

Billie pushes a stray piece of bright blonde hair behind her ear. She keeps it short but is overdue for a trim. And then, in her final plea, she bats her eyelashes at me.

She may try to come off as tough as nails to the rest of the ranch, but with me, she’ll always be the little girl I held hands with running in the fields chasing chickens.

“And these.”

I retrieve my secret tin from the top shelf of the middle cabinet and pull out two of my molasses cookies.

“One for you and one for Jasper.”

When I caught her giving my homemade cookies to her horse a few years ago, I started keeping a stash just for the two of them. Hey, big brothers are meant to spoil their little sisters—and their horses.

“Boonie. ”

She’s the only one who calls me the nickname she came up with when she was a toddler—a name that’s been with me most of my thirty-five years.

“You’re the best. One from me…” she kisses my left cheek, “And one from Jasper.”

With a peck on my right cheek, she takes the cookies and grabs a paper bag to pack her loot.

“Maybe some of your sweet charm will soften the new guy. He seems a little… cool.”

Cool. Not in a flashy, all-show kinda way, but in shooing penguins from your feet kinda way. Ma used to say it all the time. Don’t be cool with me.

“Maybe,” I say, knowing she’s entirely correct. “But Rainbow Ranch has a way of warming things up. Animals. Teens. Cool cowboys.”

“Well, with how he looked at you, I think he might have some ideas on how you can warm him up.”

“Not you, too.”

“Excuse me.” She places a clean cloth napkin in her bag and folds the top over.

“Winnie said the same thing.” I nod toward the back door. “You two are pickled peas in a pod.”

“No, we’re just… observant. He was looking at you like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he's starving, and you're the first decent meal he's had in ages.” She hip-checks me.

“Hush it,” I say, snapping my dishtowel at her behind.

“Boonie, you haven’t been with anyone in…”

She searches the ceiling and then begins putting her fingers up.

“I don’t have enough fingers or toes. Winnie! Get in here. I need to borrow your digits.”

As if she’d been waiting for a summons, Winnie’s head pops in the back door.

“You rang?”

Winnie knows not to bring her onion-slathered hands inside my kitchen without washing at the spigot out back, but she’s perfectly content to join the conversation from the door.

“When was the last time Boone was with someone?” Billie asks.

She’s now sitting on the stool against the wall, making a triangle of the three of us.

“With someone as in…” Winnie starts.

“The biblical sense.”

Billie makes an obscene gesture with her hands, indicating precisely what she means.

“You two are incorrigible.”

“In-corra-what?” Winnie asks.

“Incorrigible. Awful.”

“But you love us,” Billie says with a smile.

“I do.” I give her a peck on the cheek, her warm, spicy scent overtaking the distant onions.

Winnie moves so she’s standing in the doorway, careful to keep her hands behind her back.

“And Billie’s right, boss. You haven’t been with anyone in a dog’s age.

” Winnie scrunches her nose, either from the onions or trying to remember the last time I got lucky.

“There was that time we spent the night in Johnson Springs, and you got your own room at the motel, but I didn’t see you until we had lumpy oatmeal at the buffet the next morning.

You seemed extra chipper. And it wasn’t the breakfast. That was… three years ago?”

It was four years ago, but I’m not telling them that.

Winnie and I drove into Johnson Springs for supplies— flour, sugar, spices, parchment paper, oils, and extracts, the sort of things you can’t easily grow or make on the ranch.

We stopped at a cute little roadside diner and gorged ourselves on waffles made from a box mix, and when the busboy came to clear our table, he winked at me.

When I went to the bathroom, he followed me and gave me his name and number.

It had been so long, and we were away from the ranch.

I splurged for Winnie to have her own room and texted Henry, who came after the diner closed.

His name escaped my lips many times that night, but we didn’t keep in touch after.

“I’ve got no time for boys.”

I slice the sourdough into one-inch cubes with a long serrated knife. When the butt of the loaf is left, I hand it to Billie, who moves to the butter dish that lives on the counter.

“I’d say the new guy is more of a man.”

She slathers the bread with the soft spread and returns to the stool.

“Whatever. I’ve got you all to keep in line.”

I catch Winnie’s eye roll in my peripheral vision.

“Boys. Men. They’re trouble. All of 'em. Unless I’m feeding them, I have no interest. And they’re typically not interested in me. Beau is the sexy one. His name literally means ‘handsome’ in French.”

“Since when do you know French?”

“Since Julia,” I say, grabbing Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the shelf where I store the cookbooks I rarely use anymore.

“You’re identical twins. If he’s sexy, you’re sexy.” Winnie tips her chin.

“He’s got the whole brooding cowboy thing. I’ve got… an apron. ”

I brush my hands over the worn leather covering the front of my body.

“Brooding. Apron. It’s all alluring.” Winnie steps back and returns to peeling the onions a good two feet from the door.

“As your sister, I have no opinion on the desirability of my brothers, but it’s fair to say you’re both… attractive. I mean, you’re my kin. You can’t be all that bad.”

Billie stands, the tattoos on her arms stretching as she flexes her muscles in an apparent show of our family appeal.

I reach for her, and she responds by wrapping her arms around me, trying to catch me in a headlock. Just as she’s about to wrangle me into submission, the sound of boots stomping in from the dining room interrupts us.

Billie and I freeze, and Winnie gives her best shit-eating grin and glides away from the door.

It’s Wylie—the new guy.