Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
The ranch began as a place to train and board horses. Eventually, Dad expanded the barn and pasture so that we could house twenty horses at a time. He broadened the scope of the ranch into giving riding lessons to tourists. We’re not far from a popular tourist destination and people seem to flock to our town to get a taste of authentic cowboy life. Once the ranch was big enough that we were running out of acreage, Dad purchased more, and we began growing corn and hay. That led to raising cattle. Now, the cattle alone keep the ranch in the black. My father knows ranching, and good ranching is good business. Over time, this place has become one of the biggest family-run ranches in Wyoming.
Dust swirls into my open window as I get closer to the main house, making me cough. Just another sign that I don't belong here. I always forget how dusty everything is. I may not enjoy being on the ranch, but I had to come. Last year, the team and I were gone for a week overseas in Japan, and I missed my mom's birthday. I hated not being able to see her in person. Facetime calls just aren’t the same.
Pulling into the driveway behind my father's beat-up old pickup we all nicknamed Betsy. I let out a sigh. I might dread being here, but I do love the feeling of home when I look at the old farmhouse. I get out slowly. I feel guilty for the dread I felt coming here and even more guilt that it has been so long. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t remember anything good ever coming from a visit.
I don't even have time to close my door before Tucker, Dakota, and Cane come out onto the porch. It figures I would get here just in time for dinner, meaning everyone is here and waiting. I love my brothers, but that doesn't mean we see eye to eye. Usually, they take my father's side and rag on me about quitting baseball and working on the ranch. The worst of the three is probably Tucker. He’s the oldest and takes it on himself to play a second father—not that we need one.
Cane gives me a lazy smile. “Would you look at what the cat drug in?” Of course, he would be the first to speak. He’s the middle child and the easiest to get along with. He will avoid conflict at all costs.
“I like your ride, little brother,” Dakota responds with a smirk. I roll my eyes. Dakota is the second oldest and just as much of a hard ass as Tucker. At least the two of us can meet on middle ground. That’s something that Tucker and I never manage.
Jase comes out, looking me up and down. “You're looking a little rough there, Ryder.” Jase is right above me in the line of brothers. He's the jokester, but he will be the first to knock someone out if they disrespect someone he loves.
I'm the baby of the family. That's part of the problem. They all want to act like I need my hand held, life advice, and coddling. I yank my old duffle out of the bed of my truck, slinging it over my shoulder. I get a slap on the back and a bear hug from each brother. They welcome me home as I make my way up the steps on the old wrap-around porch.
My father built the old farmhouse for my mother when they got engaged with the white wooden panels and black shutters on the windows. He even bricked the three chimneys to heat the house through the winter. Everything looks the same down to the old porch swing, except it looks like everything else, and got a facelift recently with new boards, a coat of lacquer, and fresh paint. It looks damn good.
“Saw that strike out on your last game,” Cane says, elbowing me in the side.
I can't hide my surprise. “You caught the game?”
“We watch them here and there, you know when we're not working,” Jase says with a shit-eating grin.
I stall as my father walks out of the house. “Of course, we watch it, but with it only being the minors, it doesn't always broadcast here,” he adds.
I tip my hat to him. “Daddy.” The tension rises. Even my brothers feel it enough to quiet down.
“Ryder,” he says, staring right back at me.
My mom rushes out, drying her hands on her apron, interrupting the stare-off. “Is that my baby?” she asks.
“Hey, momma,” I respond, pulling her into a hug.
Her chestnut brown hair has grayed near her temples. My mother was never one to hide from her aging nor one to cover up with makeup. She never needed it. She is naturally beautiful and has been from the time she met my dad. I’ve seen all her pictures through the years. I think she only gets prettier with age. The small lines by her eyes and lips only add to her beauty.