Page 5 of Claimed By the Cowboys

I walk in slowly, putting the bag of groceries that I got for Tate down on the kitchen table. I can hear some kind of hissing noise coming from the back, so I poke my head out and blink at the sight.

“Tate,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “Is that a… what the hell is that?”

Tate pokes his head up, his ice-blue eyes almost luminous in the darkness from the shaded area that he’s rooting around in. “It’s a cooking pit.”

I stare at the giant hole in the ground. “I can see that it’s a pit.”

“For roasting hogs.”

Tate clearly thinks that addresses my confusion when it does not, in fact, address shit. “Why are we roasting hogs?”

He gives me a look. “Because it’s delicious, and it’s a new technique I want to try.”

“New technique,” I echo.

“Yeah.”

I love Tate. He’s like a brother to me. But the giant hole in our backyard, which appears to be lined with some kind of brickand has a literal roasting spit over it, is absolutely not something I had envisioned.

The question that’s on the tip of my tongue is just itching to come out.How much did all this cost?But I’m not exactly in a position where I can ask shit like that. Not after everything I’ve put us through.

“Okay,” I say. “And when will you be roasting this hog?”

Tate gives me a shrug and goes back to chopping wood. “Probably sometime soon.”

“Where are you getting a hog, anyway?”

That earns me a look. “What’s with the interrogation, Brent?”

Ugh. This is what I wanted to avoid. I don’t want to piss Tate off, especially when we need to be on the same team to pitch our idea to Piper later today. “I’d say a man has a right to ask a lot of questions when a giant hole appears in his backyard.”

It’s not like it’s a nice backyard, but it’s decent. We have a grill and a small patio, and as the days lengthen, it’s nice to sit out and drink a beer after sunset, after the mosquitoes get thick in the afternoons. We don’t often get the chance, but still… it’s nice to have that option on a slow night.

Clearly grumbling, Tate walks away from the wood pile that he’s in. He’s wearing his apron, and his hands are encased in large gloves. There’s an axe dangling from his side as well, and I give it a meaningful look. He gestures to it.

“Hickory. To smoke the hog with.”

“Got it. So. Hog roast,” I say.

Tate’s face turns solemn. “Well, it would be good for the catering business. Something fun, you know, that’s different than other places.”

Ah.

“Okay. Don’t you think it’s probably good to get the catering business off the ground, first?”

Tate glances at me. “Did you talk to Piper?”

Clearly, we’re holding each other’s next steps up as weapons.

Originally, we bought this farm with the intent of raising cattle. We still do that, of course, and horses, too, but if I know anything from my past mistakes, it’s that we need to diversify. Montana isn’t what it used to be, and with the wild influx of ultra-rich people, the nature of our business has to change. None of us were interested in running anything hospitality-oriented, so we decided to enter luxury spaces with items curated for high-end buyers.

Which means I’m angling for a way to sell high-quality beef. Dalton is trying to get his horses seen by buyers who aren’t just looking for ponies to do trail rides with. And Tate is starting a catering business. Farm-to-table, featuring meat and vegetables grown on the ranch.

We’ve had some interest, of course, and it’s enough to be exciting. All three of us are experts in our chosen lines of business. My family’s bred cattle for a century, Dalton has an eye for horses that rivals any I’ve ever seen, and Tate received prestigious culinary recognition at the restaurant where he was the head chef in Denver.

However, we’re at a place where we don’t actually know how to reach the clients we’re looking for. But Piper does.

“Talked to Piper. She’s coming for dinner,” I add.

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