Page 2 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

My eyebrows lift. “A what?”

Colt straightens his posture like this is a professional business pitch. Like I'm some investor he needs to convince, rather than his father. He lays it out calmly and measured. “People sign up, live on the ranch for a season, work in exchange for room and board.”

Room and Board. I almost laugh. The land that broke my father's back, that's slowly breaking mine, reduced to room and board.

My hand tightens around my mug, and I feel that familiar pull along my cheek. Colt clocks the reluctance before I can school my expression.

“Look. Times are changing and you can't rely on the old ranch ways to keep us afloat anymore, Wade. You know deep down this could be good for the ranch. We start small, see how it goes.”

I don’t answer right away. The idea of bringing in an outsider doesn’t sit right with me. Ranching isn’t just some experience people can pick up like a frickin’ hobby. It’s long hours, backbreaking work, and a damn sight tougher than whatever cowboy fantasy some city person has cooked up in their head.

But when I look at Colt, I see the excitement behind his blue eyes—the same shade as his mother, nothing like mine. A reminder of everything I carry because she left. I swallow it down and exhale, already regretting giving this idea the time of day. But if it makes him happy, that's enough. And when it fails, I'll pick up the pieces. Like I always do.

“Fine,” I announce. “One person, but you deal with ’em.”

“Deal.” Colt's smirk returns like he’s won a large cash prize, yet he keeps going. Trying to convince me further even though I’ve said yes.

“We'll get someone eager. Maybe someone who wants to connect with nature for a little while. You know the type.” His smile widens, all teeth.

I grunt in response. Yes, I know the type. The ones who think life on a ranch is all about riding horses and feeding animals. I’ll never understand how people can romanticise the life that is grounding me down to nothing each day. And the idea of an outsider using my family’s land as some sort of nature retreat irritates me on a whole other level. This isn't a place for folks to find themselves. It's my father's legacy. My son's future.

I swipe my hand down my face, back teeth pressing together. “Let's see how it goes before getting ahead of ourselves.”

Colt's already heading off with a spring in his step. Haven't seen him like that in a while, all lit up and smiling. That's enough for me to make this work. And who knows—maybe if it all goes right, things between us will start to look different.

Chapter One

Maeve

Why is this my life?

I think to myself as I stare blankly at the dark-haired woman in front of me, her finger swinging in the air. Her words are going in one ear and out the other. My brain’s hit the emergency shut-off switch again. Classic dissociation. The adult version of hiding under the bed.

It's something that's been happening more frequently anytime I return to this dull, suffocating life in London. My therapist claims it's my mind's way of protecting itself from further harm. At least my body seems to be right about something: this life, this job, they are nothing but a source of constant trauma. Problem is, flipping it back on is getting harder each time. Like each time, it takes a little more of me with it.

I’ve barely unpacked my suitcase from my last trip, and I am already googling cheap flights to anywhere that isn’t London. I keep falling into this endless loop—months of exploring, searching for a place I can call home and feel like I belong to, only to be greeted by the hollow “welcome home” when I return to London. But it’s never home. Not really. More like the place where I am constantly reminded of my childhood trauma. Growing up in a decaying flat, mostly on my own, always waiting for a mother who never really showed up. Telling myself it’s normal. And now, standing here, it feels like I’ve only traded one nightmare for another. A low-paying, soul-crushing job in hospitality—rude customers, endless hours, and I’m barely scraping by. It’s soul-sucking, but hey, it funds my travels, and that’s what keeps me going.

For the past eight years, I’ve wandered through corners of the world. From the sun-drenched streets of Spain to the bustling markets of Thailand, from neon-lit Seoul to the rugged coasts of Australia. I even made it to Finland once, lured by its title as “the happiest country in the world.” And while those journeys have given me good memories and glimpses of hope, I’ve never found a place where I truly belong. No matter how far I go, I always end up back here, crashing with my best friend in her cramped flat in Shoreditch, clinging to cheap rent and pulling shifts at the same coffee shop that keeps welcoming me back, mostly because they're always short-staffed. All just to save for the next expedition, the next chance to find my forever home.

“Hellooooo.” The drawn-out, nasal screech of middle-class entitlement yanks me out of my thoughts, pulling me back into the overstimulating chaos around me. The woman, who had been jabbing her finger in the air like it was some kind of weapon, has finally lowered it. Now that I’m fully back in reality, I can hear her loud and clear. “My coffee is way too strong. This is not what I asked for,” she whines. She’s serving full Karen energy, wrapped in a Kardashian aesthetic, perfectly contoured and perfectly condescending. I plaster on my war paint—a fake smile that I’ve been perfecting over the years and respond with as much forced cheer as I can muster.

“I’m so sorry about that. What was it you asked for? I can have the barista remake it for you.”

“I asked for a flat white,” she snaps, planting her hand on her hip. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“A flat white is meant to be a strong coffee,” I say in my overly sweet, overly fake tone. “If you’re after something not so strong, I’d recommend a latte.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “If I wanted a latte, I would’ve asked for one,” she spits.

And that’s when I’m done. Completely done. I lock eyes with her, pull off my apron, and set it down on the counter. No words. No final sass. I turn, grab my bag from the staff coat hooks, sling it over my shoulder, and walk out.

Frustration courses through my veins as I walk through the streets of Hackney, my Dr. Martens boots slapping against the damp pavement with no real destination in mind. My shift wasn’t supposed to end for another five hours, and yet, here I am. Fired? Quit? I don’t bloody know.

All I know is that I’m out, and like the chaotic queen I am, I left with no plan B. I haven’t really ever needed one when my life in London has been the same old rinse-and-repeat bullshit: work, save, sleep, repeat. Sprinkle in a breakdown here and there to keep it spicy.

The only consistent thrill I get these days is from my books, and my current read sits at the bottom of my bag, practically begging to be picked up. I had to put the book down last night right as the hot, single dad cowboy got into the hot tub with the nanny… playing truth or dare.

Elsie Silver, you evil genius. The way she writes these men makes me swoon for a reality that doesn’t exist—because let’s face it, if a single dad cowboy challenged me to truth or dare, he’d probably be more creepy than charming. And I would probably dare him to pay off my student debt.