Roaring Fork Roughstock (Roaring Fork Ranch Book 2), page 3
After a long, hard day, ticking off the list of things that needed to be fixed without taking as much as a break to eat, I fell on the cot, hoping exhaustion alone would help me sleep.
Instead, after placing the call to Buck I’d intended to earlier, I lay on the lumpy pad that was supposed to substitute for a mattress and stared at the ceiling. I’d ask God, a higher power, or the universe how the fuck I ended up here, but that answer was abundantly clear. I’d lived a shit life and got what I deserved.
After a couple of hours, my muscles already ached and harrowing thoughts continued swirling in my head.
Morris Ranch’s rapid decline weighed heavily on me as I got up, turned on a light, and pored over the records I’d already read enough to have memorized. Numbers swam before my eyes—genetic markers, performance ratings, bloodline charts. I recognized Hank Morris’s innovative touches being slowly eroded by necessity and mismanagement. Each page reminded me of time spent in his office, learning his methods. It was invaluable knowledge I hoped I could share with Cici one day. Tell her how many times I was here when she wasn’t. Hank had been careful about that. God, I wanted to talk to her about the fond memories I had of a man who’d treated me far better than my own father ever had.
I was still awake well after midnight, rereading the same things again and again and knowing disaster loomed if someone didn’t intervene soon. The only saving grace, as I saw it, was that Buck had agreed to send over the three men I asked for and, more importantly, keep them on the Roaring Fork payroll for however long they were here. They’d arrive first thing tomorrow morning and would bring some of our other hands, all of whom would be prepared to get right to work.
I stood, thinking about attempting to get some rest, when a flicker of movement caught my eye through the window—an orange glow reflecting off the northwest barn’s metal roof.
I jumped up, stuck my feet in my boots, grabbed my coat, and raced from the bunkhouse. The acrid smell of accelerant hit me before I’d fully processed what I was seeing. This was no accident. The flame pattern was too deliberate and spreading too fast.
I slammed my hand on the emergency alarm on one of the closer outbuildings, pulled my cell from my coat pocket, and called one of the ranch’s few remaining hands, who was likely fast asleep in the other bunkhouse. My voice cracked when the man answered. “Johnson, fire in the northwest barn! We need everybody! Wake up Martinez and Shaw, and get the trailers to the back alley doors. Now!”
The night air bit through my shirt as I sprinted across the yard. Heat blasted my face when I wrenched the front door open. Inside, the animals had worked themselves into a frenzy. Smoke curled along the ceiling beams, and flames licked up the far wall. The horses screamed—high, terrified sounds that made my skin crawl.
Past experience from fires at the Roaring Fork, along with Hank’s training, kicked in. I moved methodically despite the chaos, things I’d learned echoing in my head. “A scared horse is a dangerous horse. You gotta be their calm,” Cici’s father said in my head. I started with the nearest stalls, leading them out in pairs, one hand on each lead rope. The frightened animals fought me at first, but I kept my movements unhurried, my voice low. “Easy now. That’s it.”
Embers rained down, burning holes in my coat and searing my exposed skin. I ignored the pain. Six horses out. Eight. Ten. The smoke grew thicker as sirens sounded in the distance, still too far away, in my estimation. What the fuck was taking them so long to get here?
Then I heard it—a familiar whinny through the roar of flames. Thunder Cloud. The stallion was trapped in the back corner, a fallen support beam blocking his stall. The horse’s bloodline alone was worth more than most of the ranch’s contracts, but it wasn’t just about money. This was Hank’s pride and joy, the cornerstone of his equine program.
I wrapped my bandanna around my face and crawled under the worst of the smoke. The beam was heavy, but fear and adrenaline gave me the necessary strength. My shoulders screamed as I heaved it aside. Thunder Cloud’s eyes rolled white with terror, but he knew me. When I reached for his halter, he didn’t fight.
We burst out of the barn together just as Cici pulled up and leaped from the cab of her truck. The light from the fire painted her ghost-white face as she ran over.
Our eyes met, and in them, I saw relief warring with suspicion. Before I could say a word, fire trucks pulled in. They weren’t just from Parlin; units from Gunnison, Crested Butte, and Montrose arrived minutes later, but by then, her crew and I had saved what mattered most.
I wanted to tell her my suspicions, that the fire had been set deliberately, but there was no time for that now. Instead, I joined the hands Johnson had roused, along with those from nearby ranches he must’ve called for support. I focused on treating the horses and cattle for smoke inhalation, checking each one for burns while trying to ignore the stinging of my own.
When Kaleb arrived to take statements from us and the fire chief, I couldn’t help but notice the looks Cici shot me while we answered the sheriff’s questions. That her expression of gratitude was mixed with distrust burned worse than my injuries.
When she approached Thunder Cloud, running her hands over him, I saw tears in her eyes she quickly blinked away.
“Thank you,” she whispered so quietly I almost missed it. “You should get those burns looked at.” I nodded, watching her lead her father’s prized stallion to safety to the smaller pasture that was closest to the house.
“I smell gasoline,” Kaleb said in a low tone of voice when he came to stand beside me. “The chief is calling in an arson investigator.”
The ranch’s problems went deeper than bad fencing and poor breeding choices. Someone wanted Morris Ranch to fail, and they were willing to burn it to the ground to make that happen.
4
CICI
The smell of smoke still clung to my clothes, so I went upstairs to change before returning to my dad’s office. I stared at the financial reports that had been spread out on his desk for days. The leather of his chair creaked as I leaned back, trying to sort through the mess of emotions churning inside me. Outside, the sun was barely cresting the horizon, painting the snow-covered yard in shades of pink.
Sometimes, I swore I could hear him here, late at night, muttering over contracts or calling his old rodeo buddies to arrange deals. He’d built this place from nothing, turned a rundown cattle ranch into a well-respected roughstock operation. And in my less-than-capable hands, it was crumbling.
I shook, picking up the latest reports I’d generated from the ranch’s antiquated accounting software. The numbers reinforced what I’d known for months—we were hemorrhaging money faster than I could patch the holes. And now, with the fire damage…I dropped the paper and pressed my palms against my eyes, fighting back tears of exhaustion and frustration.
The image of Porter rushing into flames to save our stock kept replaying in my mind. The way he’d known exactly which horses and bulls to prioritize, as if he understood their value beyond dollars and cents. It was the kind of knowledge that came from experience—the kind Dad would have appreciated.
A sound at the door made me jump. I looked up at Porter, who stood in the doorway. His face was streaked with soot, and burns were visible on his forearms where his sleeves had rolled up. The sight of him in my father’s sanctuary sent an irrational surge of anger through me.
“I, err, knocked,” he said. “The sheriff needs your signature on some forms,” he added in a voice rough from smoke inhalation when I nodded. He didn’t step into the room, instead maintaining the careful distance I’d demanded. Smart man.
I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. The memory of him emerging from the flames with Thunder Cloud was still too fresh, too confusing. It didn’t fit with the image I’d built of him over the past couple of years—especially over the last one when all I could see was the reckless drunk who’d nearly killed my brother. The man who’d almost destroyed what little there was left of my life with one night of the worst kind of stupidity.
“The fire chief suspects arson,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “They found accelerant patterns. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
“Who would…?” I stopped, remembering not only the recently received threatening letters but the whispered conversations I’d overheard between my parents before the accident.
Then, it was about the mounting pressure from the developers eyeing our land that I believed fueled my dad’s paranoia in those final weeks.
“Someone who wants the ranch to fail.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket—the Houston contract he’d tried to give me yesterday. “This could help stop that from happening. But only if you’ll agree to it.”
Pride warred with pragmatism as I stared at the papers. Every instinct screamed at me not to trust him, but the numbers didn’t lie. Without major contracts, we’d lose everything within months. Mom and Dad’s legacy would vanish like morning frost under a harsh sun.
“Show me.” The words felt like gravel in my throat.
“What?”
“Show me what’s wrong with the operation. Everything.” I gestured to the chair across from the desk—Dad’s guest chair. My stomach twisted at the sight of Porter settling into it, but I forced the feeling down. “You’ve been here two days and already spotted problems I missed. So show me.”
Porter hesitated only for a moment before pulling out a notebook filled with his cramped handwriting. Pages of detailed observations about our stock and our facilities. The thoroughness surprised me—he must have been up half the night documenting everything.
“Your father had a system,” he began, and for once, I didn’t stop him from mentioning Dad. “He tracked genetic lines, performance ratings, health records—everything that made Morris Ranch’s roughstock program as respected as it was. In order to give you an accurate picture of where that stands now, we’d need to do the testing I mentioned before.” He flipped through several pages. “Here’s what we’d need to evaluate.”
As he walked me through the list, I felt my confidence crumbling. Possible problems I hadn’t allowed myself to think about were laid bare—inbreeding risks, declining performance metrics, missed health screenings. Every word was evidence of my incompetence, but I forced myself to listen.
“See these charts?” He spread out several papers. “Your father was careful about genetic diversity, but in the last year, you’ve had to sell off key bloodlines. The remaining stock is too closely related.”
I’d heard him the first time he mentioned the markings indicative of bloodlines. That I’d been so focused on keeping the lights on was no excuse for me missing the bigger picture. Dad’s meticulously crafted program was dissolving under my watch because I’d sold the wrong animals.
“The Houston contract is just the beginning,” he said, his voice softening. “But we need to address these issues first, starting with—”
“We?” I cut in sharply.
He met my gaze steadily. “Yes, we. Because, like it or not, Cici, you need help. The ranch needs help. And I’m not the only one who sees it.”
Through the window, I noticed Maverick making his way toward the barn, leaning heavily on the cane he used when he didn’t think he needed the crutches. The sight of his halting progress hardened my resolve. This wasn’t just about me. It never had been. And it wasn’t about Porter. It was about preserving something bigger than all of us.
A memory surfaced—Dad standing in this very office, telling me that sometimes the hardest part of running a ranch was knowing when to swallow your pride and accept help. I’d been twelve then, watching him negotiate a loan to expand the costly programs he’d developed. Now, I understood exactly what he’d meant.
“I only agreed to one month,” I finally said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
“You know that won’t be long enough.”
I scowled. Of course it wasn’t. “There are conditions.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “You don’t speak to Maverick. You don’t make major changes without consulting me first. And you tell me everything—every problem, every solution, every detail. No secrets.”
The irony of demanding honesty from him wasn’t lost on me. Not when I had my own secrets locked away in the desk. Not when I still couldn’t explain why our parents had been on that icy road the night they died.
“Agreed.” He didn’t hesitate. “But I have a condition too.” He tapped the Houston contract. “You give this a real shot. No sabotaging it out of spite.”
The accusation stung. I had been ready to reject the opportunity simply because it came from him. How many other chances would I miss if I didn’t set aside my anger?
“Fine.” I snatched up a pen and signed the contract before I could change my mind. The scratch of pen on paper sounded final, irrevocable. “But again, don’t mistake this for forgiveness. Or trust.”
“I don’t.” He gathered his notes and stood. In the early morning light, the burns on his arms looked worse—angry red welts that made me wince despite myself. “I’ll have a full assessment of the rest tonight since now we’re down a barn. I plan to include security recommendations. That fire wasn’t an accident, and we both know it won’t be the last attempt to destroy what’s left of this place.”
The certainty in his voice sent a chill down my spine. He knew something—something he wasn’t telling me. But before I could press him, Maverick’s voice drifted through the window, calling to one of the horses. Porter’s expression shifted, something like guilt flickering across his features.
As he reached the door, I called after him. “Porter?” He paused but didn’t turn. “Get those burns looked at. We can’t afford to have you sidelined by infection.”
He nodded once and was gone, leaving me alone with the ghost of my father and the sickening feeling that I’d just made either the best decision of my life or my worst mistake.
I turned to the window, watching him cross the yard, realizing I’d never signed the forms the sheriff needed. I went outside and walked over to him. On the way, I caught how the rising sun cast Porter’s shadow long across the snow—a dark line cutting through the pristine white, like a divider between past and future. Like the one I’d just crossed by letting him back into our lives—into my life.
Dad’s voice seemed to whisper from the corners of the office: “Trust your gut, little girl. But remember—sometimes the truth isn’t what we think it is.”
I wished I could decide which truth to focus on—the one about Porter Wheaton or the one about why he and Mom had really died that night. I couldn’t shake the fear the two might be more connected than I wanted to know. Was that the real reason he was here? Did his guilt run deeper than the accident with my brother? Had he played a role in my parents’ death too?
5
PORTER
The numbers didn’t add up.
I sat at the rickety table in the bunkhouse, surrounded by years of Morris Ranch’s financial records I’d “borrowed” from the office in the barn before someone set it on fire. Most likely, Cici didn’t even remember leaving them there.
My burns throbbed, but I ignored them, focusing instead on the pattern emerging from the scattered papers. Equipment failures, lost contracts, mysterious accidents—this was personal. I felt it in my bones.
The wind howled outside, rattling the loose windowpane I’d tried to seal earlier. February in Colorado was always brutal, but tonight, the cold seemed to have an extra bite to it, like nature itself was trying to warn me about what I was uncovering. I pulled my jacket tighter and reached for the thermos of coffee I’d been nursing all morning. The liquid had gone cold hours ago, but I barely noticed. I was too caught up in the story the documents were telling—a story that made my gut twist with every new detail I unveiled.
Four years ago, a promising young bronc threw a shoe during a major competition, leading to a career-ending injury. The timing? Just as the animal was gaining interest for more than bucking. The farrier’s report noted unusual wear on the shoe, almost like it had been deliberately weakened. I remembered that horse—a stunning bay stallion named Storm Warning that Hank was particularly proud of. He’d called to tell me about the animal before he placed a bid, explaining the bloodlines that made him a perfect combination of power and control.
“This one’s going to change everything,” Hank had said. “Bring Morris Ranch to the top of broncs, where it belongs.”
While the horse would recover, he wouldn’t be able to compete again. And while he could still be bred, he hadn’t been on the circuit long, which meant he hadn’t yet gained much of a reputation. The traction Hank had hoped for wasn’t meant to be. The loss had hit him hard, both financially and personally.
I’d happened to be at the event when the accident took place, watching the color drain from his face as he spoke to the vet. Now, I’d bet anything someone had gotten to that horse before the competition.
Then, three years ago, a trailer axle had snapped on the way to Fort Worth, forcing Hank to default on a contract that would have helped put them in the national spotlight. The maintenance logs showed regular inspections, so the failure made no sense, given the relatively new equipment.
And now, the fire just as I was pushing for the Houston bid. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. Someone was making sure Morris Ranch stayed down, and they were getting bolder with each attack.
I took a break when I got a message from Thorn saying he was about to arrive and that Bullet, Stetson, and three other hands who had been brought on to help at the Roaring Fork after Cord had to leave were right behind him.
