Page 241 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Healing isn’t linear.

Neither are men.

Today, however, none of that is the problem.

Today is my birthday. Which I forgot.

Completely.

In my defense, December at Ironwood is basically controlled agricultural madness. End of year financial restructuring alone could qualify as psychological warfare.

So when Duke starts acting suspicious at breakfast, I assume somebody died.

“You’re smiling too much,” I tell him while pouring iced coffee into a travel mug despite the fact it is literally snowing outside.

Duke gasps dramatically from across the kitchen island. “Wow. Incredible. Punished for having joy.”

“You’re never joyful before noon voluntarily.”

“Baby, that hurts.”

Cody walks in halfway through this conversation carrying his laptop and narrows his eyes at Duke. “You’re being weird.”

“Excuse you,” Duke replies. “I’m always weird.”

“More than baseline.”

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Silas enters next, already wearing his ranch jacket, dark hair still damp from the shower. His gaze lands on me instantly like it always does now.

“You’re all acting suspicious,” I say.

Three male expressions immediately become aggressively neutral. Which is worse.

By noon, everybody keeps disappearing mysteriously.

By 2:00, Cody claims he needs me out of the main house for “operational reasons,” which is corporate nonsense for “please stop noticing things.”

By 4:00, I’m standing outside the barn holding a camera while snow falls softly through amber evening light and Duke refuses to answer direct questions.

“I swear,” I tell him, “if this turns out to be a murder mystery dinner party, I’m leaving.”

“Noted.”

“That sounded way too calm.”

Duke just grins.

Then the barn doors open.

And I stop breathing.

Oh.

Oh no.