Page 4 of The Cowboy's Secret Babies

Ryder Carey tookthe turn off of the snowy interstate too fast, then had to slow way down as he transitioned onto the smaller county road. It was that or welcome himself home in a ditch, face-first in a snowdrift, for all the locals to discuss instead of, say, his rodeo career.

Not really what he was going for.

If he had to come back to Cowboy Point, he figured he might as well ride what so-called stardom he had. In his experience, that might get a man a beer. Once.

It wasn’t like a bull rider was all that exciting outside the ring. Devoid of context, he was just another guy in cowboy boots and a Stetson. A bull rider wasn’t a hero, like a firefighter.

The only life Ryder had ever tried to save was his own.

Thoughts like that, he knew, were only going to lead to an immediate sit down with his ghosts, and he was already moving home for a spell. No need to rush into meetups with the inevitable specters from his childhood.

It was a bright blue February day, as pretty as it was cold. Once he was certain his Airstream wouldn’t slither right off the snow-packed road, he pulled the shearling collar of his favorite coat up higher on his neck. Then shook his head at the fact he was cold at all. That was what he got for leaving Montana pretty much the moment he turned eighteen, and for wisely spending the bulk of his winters in places that smelled like flowers all year long.

Thin blood and a lot of texts from his twin brother, all designed to make him feel like an asshole for not moving on home to live on the ranch and beone of those Carey brothersfor all eternity.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his brothers. He loved them. All of them.

Still, he’d wanted to see more of the world than what was available on the backside of a mountain in Paradise Valley, MT, miles away from everything. No matter how pretty it was.

He wasn’t all that happy about returning now, but he was doing it.

Finally, Wilder had texted him when Ryder had told him that yes, he was finally coming home andyes, he intended to stay. A while.

There was no end date because no one knew how long it would take.

It was a part of life, Ryder knew that. People got old and died. He’d watched this cycle play out in the rodeo more times than he’d like. He’d always fancied himself pretty practical where these things were concerned.

But it was different when the dying man in question was the father he’d idolized his entire life. The one he’d always believed was immortal, because how could Zeke be anything else? Everything about him was larger than life could ever dream of becoming.

He hadn’t stayed away because he didn’t care. It was the opposite.

“Now you’re back,” he told himself, like saying the words out loud would make it better. He reminded himself of the vow he’d made when he’d left what might have been his last rodeo in Texas a few days earlier—though he wasn’t sure he was ready to pull that trigger, not yet, no matter how much his damn body hurt these days. He’d told himself thatthis time, in honor of his father, he would leave the historic chip on his shoulder behind for once.

But there it was, sure enough, pressing down on his trapezoid muscles like an anvil.

Like it planned to stay a while.

He drove along the outskirts of the small town of Marietta, nestled there in the inarguably beautiful Paradise Valley about an hour or so south of Livingston. As a teenager, he’d raced along these roads as fast as he could go, like he was trying to outrun the Gallatins themselves. Those were the mountains that started down in Yellowstone and stretched all the way up to Livingston, forming the western wall of the valley.

Somehow, he always forgot the way it was when he was near them. How they seemed to sing their way inside him.

That chip on his shoulder only got heavier as he aimed his truck and trailer up the side of Copper Mountain, all covered in snow, which made it a certainty that the winding, ten-mile stretch of road that meandered its way to the back side of the mountain would be slick and dangerous.

“Good times,” he muttered.

Not that it was the weather that was really bothering him. He didn’t even mind it when the wind picked up halfway into the slow climb, kicking around the already-fallen snow like it wanted to welcome him home with a trusty ground blizzard. Just to say hello, Montana-style.

The trouble was that he was coming home at all.

Ryder had spent the better part of his adult life avoiding ever visiting for more than a quick weekend, and even that as seldom as possible. It wasn’t that he hated this place, he admitted to himself as he crested the last rise and got a good look at the even smaller valley that waited there on the other side. Truth was, he didn’t. He couldn’t.

But he preferred to keep his distance all the same.

This afternoon, with the sky so blue and the tiny community of Cowboy Point spread out below him like a painting, it was hard to remember why.

Ryder drove down the far gentler slope on the far side of the mountain, through waiting lines of evergreens with snow weighing their branches down. The road wasn’t plowed—there was no point in it, not this high up—but the snow beneath his tires was packed tight and didn’t feel icy or treacherous.

Snow made everything feel closer, cozier. The last time he’d been home had been a whirlwind trip to make it to Wilder’s shotgun wedding. It had been an achingly crisp and beautiful fall, gold and orange and red. It had hurt a little, if he was honest. So had seeing his twin so happy, for all the right reasons.

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