Page 195 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

The drive back to Ironwood feels strange.

Like something fundamental shifted while Duke and I stood outside Old Mill Café and talked about family legacies, emotional damage, and apparently my inability to stop running from things.

The truck hums steadily beneath us as dusk settles over Colter Creek in bruised shades of blue and gold. Pine trees blur past the windows. The mountains sit dark against the horizon like sleeping giants.

Beside me, Duke drives one handed, thumb tapping absently against the steering wheel in time with the old country song playing softly through the speakers.

Usually he fills silence instinctively.

Today he lets it breathe. Which feels more intimate somehow.

I keep replaying what he said.

Ironwood made us rich, but it also made us prisoners.

The words hooked somewhere under my ribs and stayed there. Because I understand prisons built from expectation better than I’d like to admit.

Mine just looked different.

Sharper smiles. Cleaner clothes. A mother who treated emotions like embarrassing stains on expensive fabric.

Same cage.

Different wallpaper.

The ranch gates appear ahead of us, black iron cutting across the fading light.

Ironwood doesn’t welcome you. It admits you.

Funny how different that sentence feels now.

Duke glances over at me as he slows the truck through the gates. “You’re doing the overthinking face again.”

“I don’t have an overthinking face.”

“Honey, your eyebrows practically file paperwork when you’re stressed.”

I snort despite myself.

“There she is,” he says softly.

Warmth spreads unexpectedly through my chest.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

By the time we pull up near the main house, the ranch is wrapped in evening quiet. Barn lights shine amber against the darkening property. Somewhere distant, a horse nickers softly.

Homey.

Which is deeply unfair considering this place has spent the last month trying to assassinate me.

Duke cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.

The cab fills with soft music and tension.

“You okay?” he asks.

No.