Page 2 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

“One of our ranch hands,” Andy says. “Good guy. Works hard.”

Ridge nods. “He happens to be sick today too, but he’ll lose his mind if something happens to her. Probably’ll want to sleep in the stall with her when he finds out.”

“Tell him she’s in good hands,” I say.

“Well… now that that’s out of the way, how about a tour?” Andy asks, rubbing his hands together. “A quick overview of the lay of the land so you’re familiar?”

A small smile returns to my face. “That sounds great.”

I follow Andy out of the stall, leaving Ridge to finish tending to the unwell mare.

Over the next hour and a half, Andy shows me the ins and outs of Silver Creek—or as much as you can on a six-thousand-acre ranch.

We go from the horse stalls to the grassy hillsides and pastures, working our way back around to the main house where a woman named Miss Bee waits for us with coffee and pastries.

We pass a few ranch hands already out on the land, hard at work for the day. Several nod their heads in greeting, many of the men wiping sweat from their brows, shirts soaked through despite the early hour.

It’s instantly gratifying to see so many people doing what they love.

Silver Creek was created as a place for veterans to start over, transitioning from their time in the service to the new lives they’ll lead.

As someone in the middle of my own transformation, I can relate.

A year ago I was bald, married, and miserable.

Now I’ve got a honey blonde pixie cut and a new job on a ranch tending to the sweet animals. I’d call that progress. A brand new kind of life to live.

I plan to make the most of it.

My cottage is on the outskirts of town, about fifteen minutes from the ranch. The two-bedroom rental has a porch that faces west, which means I’m treated to the sunrise and sunset each day. That alone sold me when I saw the listing online.

I didn’t bring much from Texas.

A few boxes of clothes, my veterinary equipment, a record player and vinyl collection, and some sentimental things like the framed photo of Aunt Paula and me at my vet school graduation.

Everything else was either donated or went straight in the trash—or wound up in Craig’s custody.

But I didn’t care anymore. I had wiped my hands of my old life and was more than ready to leave it behind.

Possessions included.

It was oddly liberating packing my entire life into my Honda Civic hatchback and hitting the road.

Two weeks into my new start in Ironhaven, the cottage is still only half-furnished. I haven’t even begun to finish settling in, but I’m not in a big rush.

After eighteen years of living in a home that was perfectly curated, I’m fine dragging my feet. More than okay with a little mess and some stacks of unpacked boxes.

I kick my boots off as soon as I’m through the door, then head over to shower and wash off the ranch dust from the day.

A quick change into an oversized T-shirt and some leggings, and I’m headed into the kitchen to heat up some leftover pasta in the microwave.

…pasta I eat out of the container with plastic utensils.

No fancy dinnerware. No elaborate home-cooked meal and table set for two.

Another thing about my new life that feels strangely satisfying.

My evenings are slow and steeped in solitude. A book, some mindless television, bed by ten, up at five to do it all again.