Page 13 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Colt, too. Definitely the golden boy of Wildbrook Hollow. He’s sweet and easy-going in a way that makes conversations with him feel comfortable, like he’s known you for years. I didn't have to perform in front of him or edit myself down, even with the rest of the crew. I could be my sarcastic, bantery self without feeling out of place. I can't remember the last time I slotted into somewhere that quickly.

Which is exactly why Wade Carter irritates the ever-loving hell out of me.

He's the variable I can't make sense of. Sharp and closed off in a way that makes me want to understand him, which is annoying, because the most sensible thing I could do is take him at face value and leave it alone. He's my boss. He's made it clear he didn't want me here. That should be the beginning and the end of it.

I pull on a hoodie over my pyjamas and tiptoe across the cold floorboards. The wooden steps down to the main hall are cold under my bare feet, every bump and groove sharp against my skin. The silence is thick, so different from the chaos of my arrival.

Colt had mentioned briefly that no one had lived in the house since his grandfather died. Said it stays empty after dinner and until about 6:00 a.m. when the day kicks off. I didn’t think to ask why, but now, in the stillness of the early morning, I can’t help but wonder. Why leave a place this beautiful to be only used for work hours and spare bedrooms? More questions about the Carter family swirl in my head, and I haven’t even been here a full day.

At the bottom of the stairs, I pause, breathing in and letting the scent hit me. A warm mix of sun-baked pine with a hint of leather, a faint trace of smoked wood, and that same soft lavender from my room. I’m not sure what I expected ranch houses to smell like—maybe manure and hay— but definitely not this.

I turn left down the long hallway toward the kitchen, fingertips brushing the wall as I go. I'm not sure how I missed the artwork yesterday. I was probably too distracted and too tired. But now, in the stillness of the early hours with nothing but moonlight slipping through the glass panel windows, they stop me in my tracks.

A whole lineup of ranch landscapes—rolling hills, barns at sunset, a stretch of wildflowers along a fence line—all signed Ruby Carter in a delicate script. Every brushstroke feels like a love letter to this place, the kind that makes you want to go and stand in those exact spots yourself. I know I do.

I also want to know who Ruby Carter is.

I file it away and keep moving past the open oak doors, like the house is saying, “Nothing to hide here!”. That seems to be the case when I am met with bare rooms with no real character other than the ranch’s main features. Wooden beams, vintage furniture with modern elements like the industrial-looking hanging lights, and smart devices such as TVs and speakers. They have a common room feel to them. I wonder if this is where the ranch hands hang out too, besides the kitchen.

At the end of the hall, I spot something that feels a little too deliberate. A closed door. It stands firm with its iron strap hinges on full display. Curiosity gets the better of me, as always, and I nudge it open.

The room on the other side is nothing like the rest of the house. No, this one feels different. Warmer. Lived in. The kind of space that holds echoes of birthdays, movie nights, and probably more than one Thanksgiving meltdown. A stone fireplace sits at the centre, logs still stacked neatly like someone meant to light a fire and never did. The sofas are draped in tartan blankets that match the curtains in my room, and there’s a softness here that the rest of the house doesn’t have.

In the corner sits an old bookcase shoved into a little alcove, absolutely cluttered with a variety of different-sized frames holding decades’ worth of family photos.

I drift closer, my eyes landing on a few faded, black-and-white snapshots, some even curling the corners. A young couple outside this very ranch, scissors raised to cut an opening ribbon, faces lit with the joy of a fresh start. The same man crouching beside a newborn calf, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. I scan the rest of the black-and-white moments, until I reach the last on the shelf. It shows a woman in a sundress on a porch swing—the one I noticed on my way in, noting it as a great reading spot—smiling at whoever was behind the camera.

So much history and so much joy preserved in these photos.

I scan the rest of the shelves, coloured photos making an appearance. The house looks closer to how it does now. An elderly man next to a young man, and a baby in a new woman’s arms. I almost move past it before I catch a detail that stops me. A rose tattoo on the young man’s hand. The same one I clocked when he grabbed my suitcase.

Wade. Young and beaming with happiness. The woman beside him has her head tilted toward his, soft-eyed, her whole body angled into him. His wife, presumably. And the baby must be Colt.

They look like a proper little family, all smiles and full of love.

I move on to another photo, one that shows Colt as a tiny golden-haired boy on what might be the world’s tiniest pony. My heart lurches. Ain’t he the cutest thing? The smile on his face is huge, all gap-toothed confidence.

More photos, more moments—picnics, horse shows, sun-drenched summers—frozen in time.

Fewer smiles. More distance. The woman disappears from the photos entirely. Then Wade does too. The later photos are just Colt, growing up in snapshots.

I'm about to turn away, trying to shake the sinking feeling the photos have gifted me, when something by the fireplace catches my eye.

A small cluster of framed photos, all of Wade. He is younger, in his early twenties. In one picture, he’s mid-air on the back of a bucking bull, dust flying, one arm raised in that perfect rodeo arch. His face is locked in an intense focus, but there’s a wild energy to it. Like he lived for that moment. In another, he’s grinning, holding up a giant belt buckle like it’s the Holy Grail. A row of similar buckles lines the mantel above.

Bryan wasn't wrong. Wade must've been really good. And actually happy.

Happiness looks good on him.

I lean in, tilting my head to read the engraving on one of the buckles. “Champion Bull Rider. Fifth of August 199…”

“What are you doing in here?”

A gasp catches in my throat as I spin around. Wade fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit as unimpressed as he sounds.

“I—uh—couldn’t sleep,” I stammer, way too flustered for my own good. “I was just… wandering.”

His eyes flick to the mantel, then back to me. His jaw tightens more than I’d thought humanly possible. “This room was closed for a reason.”