Page 141 of Knot my First Rodeo

I sip my Dr. Pepper and watch Montana roll past outside the window. The farther we drive, the more familiar everything starts to feel. The little towns, mountains sitting in the distance, even the gas station outside town where Clint always fills up.

By the time the ranch finally comes into view, Tripp is awake again, Clint is complaining about the way he slept, and the horses start nickering from the trailer before Briggs has even parked.

A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.

The house comes into view: the barn, the pastures, the chicken coop.

Home.

The word slips into my head so naturally this time, that I don't even try to argue with it.

The second the truck stops, everybody falls back into their usual routine. Briggs heads straight for the trailer, while Clint starts unloading gear. Tripp gets distracted almost immediately because one of the goats has somehow managed to wedge itself between the feeder and the fence.

I climb out of the truck and stretch, my back popping after hours in the cab. The afternoon air smells like grass, horses, and sun-warmed dirt. Bruce nickers before Briggs even gets the trailer door fully open, and Captain answers from the stall beside him.

"You boys got this?" I ask.

Clint glances over his shoulder. "You volunteering?"

"Nope." I laugh and head for the house before any of them can change their minds.

The kitchen feels exactly the same as when we left. A basket of mail sits on the counter, along with a coffee mug somebody forgot to put away before we left.

I drop my bag by the stairs and start digging through the fridge.

Cooking feels easier than unpacking.

By the time I've got water boiling and sauce simmering, I can see the guys through the kitchen window moving around the yard. Briggs leads Bruce toward the barn while Clint carries an armful of tack.

The back door finally opens almost an hour later.

"I'm starving," Tripp grumbles.

"You've said that six times," Briggs sighs.

"Because I am."

"You ate enough snacks to feed a small village."

"Travel food doesn't count."

I grin and point toward the stove.

"Dinner's ready," I call.

Tripp reaches me first, his hand settles against my waist as he leans down and kisses me. Clint follows a second later, brushing a kiss against my temple before stealing a piece of garlic bread off the tray cooling on the counter.

I smack his hand, but he steals another piece anyway.

Briggs comes in last. His gaze lands on me for a second before shifting toward the stove.

"Thanks for cooking."

That's it.

The disappointment catches me off guard. I hate that it does.

Luckily, dinner is loud enough to distract me from it. Tripp retells the mechanical bull story despite all of us having been there. Clint insists the story gets less accurate every time Tripp tells it. Briggs mostly listens while eating, occasionally shaking his head whenever one of them says something ridiculous.