Page 2 of Untaming the Cowboy
“Easy, boy,” Luc murmured, scratching the stallion’s jaw. “You’ll get your turn.”
The latch clanged open behind him.
“You’re up early, Marine.”
Luc turned, and shot back teasingly. “Says the Army man who beats me to the feed trough every damn morning.”
His ranch’s foreman and best friend Beau Wilson filled the doorway, broad as the frame itself, the kind of big that looked both unshakable and kind. His straw hat shadowed a dark brown face weathered by sun and laughter, the kind that carried stories whether he spoke or not.
They’d met years ago at Silver Creek, two soldiers patched together by grief and stubborn will. Beau had no blood left in this world, so Luc had made sure he never fought his ghosts alone.
“She’s such a free spirit,” Luc said, nodding toward the end stall. “What am I gonna do with her?”
The two men stood side by side, taking in the line of horses Luc had bred over the past five years. What started as therapy had become purpose; the lessons he’d learned at Silver Creek never left him, and the animals kept him grounded in a way nothing else could.
One of them—a mare named Cookie—was the problem child. Born from a horse gifted to Luc and sired by Blaze, she was beautiful and maddening in equal measure. Even Ironhaven’s vet, Ridge Harvey, had managed her only when she was a filly. Once she reached maturity, she stopped letting anyone near her.
Cookie was playful, unpredictable, and impossible to break—a palomino-spotted Appaloosa with a streak of defiance that made her the bane and pride of Luc’s herd. He’d given up trying to train her long ago, content to let her roam the acres with the other horses until she tired herself out by nightfall. It had been that way since she turned two. Cookie, their wild heart diva, moved to the beat of her own drum.
Beau chuckled, unlocking the stall beside her that belonged to Blaze. “Let her do her. Ain’t like she gon’ let you do anything else anyway.”
“You’re right about that.” Luc lifted the bolt on her pen and greeted. “Good morning, Cookie.”
He stepped back as the door creaked open. Beau wisely moved a few feet away.
Cookie blew out a hard breath, ears flicking back before she shot forward like lightning, tail snapping, hooves drummingacross the packed earth. Luc could only shake his head, watching her vanish through the open gate into the pasture.
He turned to the next pen that Beau had opened and held out his hand for Blaze. The stallion stepped forward with calm assurance, the mirror opposite of his daughter’s chaos.
Luc rubbed his nose. “Hey there, bud. That’s your kid. Wished you’d help get her under control.”
Blaze tossed his head and let out a low, rumbling whinny that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Beau barked out a laugh. “Guess the apple didn’t fall far.”
Luc chuckled, running his hand down Blaze’s neck. “Nope. And I’ve stopped trying to catch it.”
After the laughter settled, they went on releasing the rest of the horses from their stalls, the barn now alive with sound and movement.
“Speaking of our wild child, I need to take a ride out to Ridge’s about Cookie’s next visit,” Luc said while tightening Blaze’s bridle. “It’s about time for the annuals on her, Blaze, and a few others. I’ll circle back to help with the cattle after.”
He rode out to Ridge’s clinic, where they went over the schedule for the horses’ annual exams. Once everything was on the calendar, Luc returned before the heat set in, the day already stretching long across the fields. His hours fell into rhythm: feed rotations, fence repairs, water checks, livestock counts. The ranch spanned fifteen hundred acres of space that asked nothing of him but his hands. Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes it wasn’t.
By sunset, he was bone-tired but restless. After a shower, he traded his worn jeans for a cleaner pair, and grabbed his keys. Wynn trailed him to the porch, tail thumping against the post.
“Guard the fort,” Luc told him, ruffling the dog’s head. Wynn gave a soft huff in reply.
In the driveway, his Silverado waited—cobalt blue with a blacked-out grille, lift kit, and oversized all-terrains that made it sit taller than most trucks. The chrome caught the porch light and gleamed. It wasn’t his work truck; it was his prized possession, his armor on four wheels. When the engine roared to life, it filled the still air with something that sounded a lot like release.
The drive into town was short, the road cutting through fields that shimmered in dying light. In the distance, The Hen House’s neon flickered, a beacon of noise, beer, and borrowed company.
Haven’s Chicks were already on stage, harmonizing their way through a cover of Lady A’s “American Honey.” A few locals two-stepped near the floor while others leaned on the bar, watching on.
Luc nodded to the bartender and took his corner seat. The servers knew him, so it wasn’t long before he had a cold brew hit the table, and a bourbon burger followed—BBQ sauce dripping down the bun. He took a bite, washed it down with a long swallow, and let the music and the easy rhythm of the place work the day out of his body.
Then the sound shifted. The Haven’s Chicks slid from country comfort into something rowdier—bass dropping low enough to vibrate through the floorboards. The crowd stirred as the opening of “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” by Shaboozey rolled out, the beat catching fire. Boots hit the wood. Laughter rose. For the couple of songs, the place came alive—louder and looser.
And then he saw her.
She wasn’t a regular, and definitely not from around here.
