Page 1 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

CHAPTER ONE

Annie

The iron gates are the first thing that make my stomach drop.

Not because they’re dramatic—though they are, tall and black and undeniably expensive—but because they don’t creak.

They don’t sag. They don’t look like they’ve ever known rust or neglect or the kind of half-assed repair job I’m used to seeing at ranches that run on grit instead of money. These gates glide open with an efficient whir, as if they’ve been oiled within an inch of their life.

Ironwood Ranch doesn’t welcome you.

It admits you.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I drive through, my old Subaru suddenly feeling like it doesn’t belong here any more than I do. Gravel crunches beneath my tires, but even the drive is immaculate. Wide, smooth, flanked by fencing so straight it looks measured with a laser.

Okay.

Deep breath.

You’ve done this before, Annie.

Just… not quite like this.

The ranch opens up in front of me like something out of a magazine spread. Barns painted a deep, rich red without a single chip. White trim so clean it almost glows.

Perfectly stacked hay bales lined like soldiers. Horses moving through paddocks in calm, controlled lines, their coats glossy, their tack spotless.

Ranch hands move with purpose, not rushed or sloppy. They know where they’re going. They know what they’re doing at all times.

It’s intimidating as hell.

And I say that as someone who’s worked on more than a few ranches where bedlam was just part of the job description.

I park where the discreet sign tells me to, ADMIN / STAFF, and sit there, staring through the windshield.

This place doesn’t look like it needs me.

Yet, here I am…

I grab my bag, grab my camera strap out of habit before tucking it back inside, and step out of the car. The air smells of pine and leather and money. Real money. The kind that doesn’t flinch.

Before I can overthink it, a woman appears at the front steps of the main building, waving enthusiastically.

“You must be Annie! Annie Wright?”

Her smile is wide, friendly, sweet. Blonde hair pulled into a tidy ponytail. Clipboard tucked to her chest like it’s an extension of her body.

“That’s me,” I say, forcing my own smile into place.

“I’m Sherry. Sherry Baines. Payroll, admin, scheduling, miracle worker.” She laughs like it’s a joke, but her eyes are curious, measuring. “Welcome to Ironwood.”

She steps aside to let me in, already talking as we walk.

“I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve been needing an extra set of eyes on the books for ages. Things are growing fast around here. Very fast.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “The Harlans don’t like lack of control.”

That’s… not ominous at all.

The inside of the building is just as polished as the outside. Wood floors that gleam, framed historical photos lining the walls.