Page 17 of Never Left You

Pinching my brow, I jogged to meet up with him. I always—always—called him Stet. Sylas started it, the small nickname becoming what I knew the kid as. He wasn’t Stetson, he was Stet.

“Why? I always called him Stet. He liked it.”

Lachlan choked out a laugh. “He does, she doesn’t.”

“You know,” I started as I opened up my truck door a few hours later, Lachlan close behind me, “I plan on being here every day. I can help with something around the ranch.”

He shook his head, “Nah. I can’t afford to pay you, too.”

“Think of it as a thank you.” I took my hat off, tossing it on the front seat. “I need this place as much as you do.”

“For eight to ten weeks,” he reminded me, a snarky tone fluttering through the air between us.

“So, for the time I’m around, let me help out. Your barn is looking as rusty as you.” I chuckled.

Furrowing his brow, Lachlan turned to look at his stables. “I just haven’t been able to keep up on the aesthetics of things. Wyatt mentioned events…I should probably fix it up a bit.”

“A bit.” I took one last look around. “Just a bit.”

Raising a single eyebrow, Lachlan tilted his head to the side. “The roof needs patching,” he began. “A couple of fences, a paint refresh, and a few things in the main house Aunt Lottie has been on about. Seeing as she and Uncle Leo want out—”

“Out?” I stopped him.

With a single node, he continued. “He’s officially retiring.”

“There’s a lot more happening here than I thought, huh?” I couldn’t imagine anyone besides Leo and Charlotte Hartwell running Hartwell Hills alongside Lachlan. “What’s going to happen to the ranch?”

“I own half, that won’t change, but the other half will be split between Rhett, Abi, and Wyatt.”

I barked out a laugh. “Wyatt?”

“He’ll get a small percentage, but the majority will probably go to Abi since she and I run the show anyway and Rhett is still on the circuit.”

Last I knew, Abi wanted to travel. She wanted to see the world with Sylas and his rodeos, so what changed to make it so she was getting the majority of the ranch? I bit my cheek, keeping that question to myself. “Does she want it?” I asked, keeping the travel thoughts to myself.

“It makes sense, and she deserves it. After Sylas died, she poured herself into the ranch. She knows it like the back of her hand, just like I do. She does more than make sandwiches, you know.”

I didn’t doubt that at all, but it didn’t fit with the Abi I knew. Then again, that was years ago.

“It was Wyatt’s idea about bringing in horses to stable, but Abi took on the project. She put together the numbers and made it happen. Sure you’re our first client, but we’ll get more because of her. She’s always been good at the financial side of things.”

“Does Hartwell Hills need money?” I asked, finally letting the thought out of my brain.

He shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not drowning, we’re not going to go bankrupt, but it’s been tight. According to Abi, we’re barely making even.”

“Hence the renting the arena and stabling horses. More work for Abi?”

“Nah, Rhett will take on the horses. He agreed to it, and we do have enough hands for the extra jobs. Once winter ends, things will pick up.”

The crunch of gravel pulled both of us away from the conversation, as Abi’s gray truck pulled up to the main house. She stopped and reached for her woven straw hat on the dashboard, a small set of hands in the front seat next to her doing the exact same motion. A slight smile grew on my lips. Stetson.

My heart jumped a little. The last time I saw Stetson, he was barely three years old. He would gladly jump in my arms and settle down on my hip or shoulders as Sylas rode the bull. He loved watching his dad just as much as he loved hanging out with me. We had tons of camp outs on the ranch. Millions of riding lessons. Thousands of laughs as the little guy was learning the ropes.

I ached to see him even knowing he wouldn’t remember me one bit. It had been too long, and he was too young. The memory died the moment I remembered I walked out of their lives, ultimately his.

The door to the truck opened, and the kid jumped out. Cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, a blue plaid shirt and a white haton top of his head. He was taller now, probably to my torso, and his gait was that of a cowboy already. A smile tugged on my lips. He was a little Sylas.

“He looks just like his dad,” I mumbled.

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