Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I gotta call the Brody brothers back. They pinged me last week about a Friesian they’re interested in. He’s a big boy, pure hell to break. But his bloodline is impeccable. I know he’ll be an excellent competitor. The negotiations over price and delivery will be a huge pain in the ass, but it’ll be worth it.
Long story short: Being a parent and a foreman is hard.
Being a single parent and the guy slated to take over his family’s ranch that’s been passed down from generation to generation for over a hundred years is fucking impossible.
But I don’t have a choice about whether I raise my son, just like I don’t have a choice when it comes to being a steward of my family’s legacy. So I make it work as best as I can.
The most important thing for my work is that I protect our family’s business and our reputation. When it’s my turn to pass the ranch on to the next generation, I want to make sure Dean and his loved ones inherit an operation they’re proud of.
For decades, Dad’s worked his fingers to the bone to honor the toil of the generations that came before him. His daddy, my grandfather, made some questionable business decisions. Dad fixed all that, rebuilding our stellar reputation as the Hill Country’s top producer of pedigreed horses and Hereford cattle.
I have every intention of continuing Dad’s work when he retires. This legacy is a heavy burden to carry sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Pouring myself a second cup of God’s elixir, I grab my laptop, roll up my sleeves, and get busy at the kitchen table. My back is tight from haying an especially hilly field yesterday.
My neck hurts too from sleeping on it wrong. I swear that since I turned thirty-one earlier this year, my body just started to randomly hurt or stop working for no damn reason.
Dad chuckles whenever I complain. “Just wait until you hit sixty. Then shit really hits the fan.”
Can’t wait.
But really, sixty doesn’t seem half bad if you get to finally rest. I don’t have any plans to get married again—hell, I’m not sure I ever want to date again—so chances are I’ll be on my own.
I wouldn’t mind sex being a more regular thing, though. I’m not opposed to casual hookups. Had some a while back that were pretty fun. I never take girls back to my place—feels too risky with Dean at home—but I make do.
I don’t look up from my screen until I hear the pad of familiar footsteps. I smile when I see a little boy in blue pajamas standing in the doorway.
Well, not so little anymore. Like me, he’s tall for his age—ninety-eighth percentile, no joke—with long legs and knobby knees. He’s six, but he looks like he’s eight or nine.
His hair sticks up at the back of his head. The pajamas I just bought must’ve shrunk in the dryer because they’re already too small, revealing a sliver of his tummy.
I smile. “Good morning, buddy.”
He closes the distance between us and climbs into my lap. “Mornin’, Daddy.”
I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his rumpled dark blond hair. He may be in “big kid school,” but he still smells like baby shampoo.
I fucking love it.
“How’d you sleep? Have any dreams?” I ask.
I know without looking that it’s six o’clock on the dot. Like me, he thrives on routine, waking up at almost exactly the same time every day.
He curls up even tighter against me, his elephant lovie tucked between his ear and my chest. “I slept good. I had dreams, but I don’t remember them.”
My chest clenches. Just like your mama.
“Is today the weekend?” he asks.
“It’s not, buddy. Today is Wednesday.”
“That means I get to go to school, right?”
“Right.”
“Good.” He sits up and smiles. “I think we have PD today.”
Chuckling, I run a hand over his back. “You mean PE? You really like that class, don’t you?”
“I do, but I think I like music better.”
“I like music too. Should we play some while we eat breakfast?”
“Only if you make me waffles,” Dean replies.
I frown. “Where’d those manners run off to?”
He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but then he grins. “May I please have some waffles, Daddy?”
“Sure thing. You gotta eat your yogurt, though, too, all right? That protein will help you grow big and strong, like me.” I lift my arm and tense my bicep, making it pop against my sleeve.
Dean does the same but pulls up his sleeve. “I got muscles too. See?”
“Lemme feel ’em.” I pretend to pump his little bicep. “Wow, buddy, those are impressive.”
He pulls his sleeve back down. “Thanks. It’s because I’m a cowboy.”
“Best cowboy on the ranch, no question.”
“I know,” he says with a sly little smile. “Will you get me some new chaps if I poop? The kind without the fringe, like yours?”