Page 55 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Carrie Jo, bright eyed and energetic in a gorgeous floral blouse, pops up at my elbow.

“You made it!” she says, like I’ve achieved something profound. “I told Betty Lou she scared you off at the diner.”

“I do not scare people off,” Betty Lou calls from across the room, not even turning around. “I make them feel welcome with enthusiasm!”

Carrie Jo beams at me. “Come on, I’ll show you where to put your bag before someone ropes you into folding napkins.”

“That’s a real risk?”

“In this town? Absolutely.”

The next fifteen minutes pass in a blur of names, handshakes, and warm, mildly mental introductions.

Tommy Jones from the feed store nods at me over a tray of cornbread like we’re co-survivors of some event no one else fully understands. Terry waves from beside him, mid joke with someone I don’t know.

Millie from the bakery presses a lemon square into my hand on instinct, apparently having decided I look like someone who should never be allowed to stand still without sugar.

Sheriff Hank Miller gives me a dry, measuring look that lands somewhere between courteous and amused. Mayor Hannah Richards shakes my hand like she means it and tells me she’s glad Ironwood finally hired someone with “fresh eyes and awesome hair.”

And then more people catch my eye because of the way they enter the room with presence.

A woman with dark hair stands near the center of a crowd, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a little boy pressed against her side. He leans into her without thinking about it.

One man crouches in front of him, saying something low that makes the kid grin. Another stands just behind them, easy and watchful, like he’s keeping track of everything without making it obvious.

A third balances three paper plates like this is a completely normal amount of responsibility for one human being.

I frown. My gaze flicks between them, trying to map it so it makes sense.

Family, maybe. Except…

The woman glances up at something one of the men says, and the look that passes between them isn’t ambiguous. Not distant. Not cousin-level affection or longtime-friends energy.

It’s intimate.

Openly.

“Duke,” I murmur under my breath, not taking my eyes off them. “Am I reading that wrong, or…”

He leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes mine, following my line of sight.

Then, casually, like he’s pointing out the weather, “That’s Dakota Fletcher. High Ridge. And her boy, Charlie.”

I wait. He doesn’t elaborate.

I turn my head. “You’re going to need to give me more than that.”

His mouth twitches. “She’s with Clint, Sawyer, and Reid.”

I look back at the group.

At the little boy now reaching for one man’s hand while leaning into another. At the way the third passes a plate to Dakota without breaking stride, like he’s done it a thousand times.

At the complete and utter lack of weirdness from anyone around them.

“All of them?”

Duke huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. All of them.”