Page 1 of Brim Over Boot
Chapter 1
Colton
NoahKing.
The bane of my existence. The thorn in my boot. The man who’s dedicated fifteen years of his life to thwarting me at every twist and turn.
Bet he wouldn’t be so smug if my nippers could meet his balls.
I snort at the thought, and the mare I’m shoeing tries to tug her hoof away.
“Sorry, sorry,” I tell her, reaching back to pat her leg. “You’re doing good. Almost done, girl.”
I finish clipping off the ends of the horseshoe nails before setting my nippers aside. It only takes another minute after that to crimp the nails down, clean the outside of her hoof, and let her go. I toss the rasp back in my bag, dusting my hands on my chaps as I look out over the misty morning on the Allens’ farm.
It’s damn cold for being the start of spring, dew still on the ground and a definite nip in the air that has me tugging my gloves back on quickly. Even so, my hometown of Darling, Montana is beautiful no matter the time of year. I’ve always thought so. Never really had a desire to leave, if I’m being honest.
Part of that probably has to do with my family, close as we are. But part of it, I’m sure, is because I’ve simply never felt the need to see what else is out there. Maybe I’m just a homebody. Or maybe I was born in the place that’s right for me.
I don’t much care when it comes down to it. I love Montana. I love the mountains, my job as a farrier, even our quaint downtown and the tourists we get throughout the year who stop here hoping to experience a little slice of life that’s so foreign to them yet simply part of my everyday existence. I love Darling, period.
Even though I have to share my town with a certain infuriating King.
I pull out my phone, huffing a breath as I listen to the voicemail I’ve already heard a good dozen times.
“Hey, Colton,” the voice of Henrietta Brooke says. “I was hoping to catch you in person, but it seems a voicemail will have to do. There’s no easy way to say this, but we’ve decided to switch our services to Noah. Times have been hard, and, well, he was able to cut us a deal. I hope you understand.”
The recording ends, and I blow out an exhalation that whitens the air.
Another client. Stolen.
By Noah fucking King.
I shove my phone in my pocket and start collecting my gear, making sure I have all my tools packed and the area cleaned up before tugging off my chaps and plopping my hat back on my head. I cross paths with Tipper Allen on my way off his farm.
“Hey there, Colt. Any issues today?”
“Not a one,” I tell him, knocking my hat up so I can see him better. “Miss Bonnie should be good for another six weeks, but just give me a holler if you have any issues in the meantime. She’s a real sweet horse. Always love visiting her.”
“She loves you, too,” he says easily. “Wouldn’t even let our last farrier near. I don’t know what sort of magic you’ve got in that bag of yours, but don’t lose it.”
I huff a laugh. “It’s not magic, Tipp. I just listen to what Bonnie’s telling me. Don’t hesitate to give me a call if you need to, all right?”
“Will do. Have a good day, Colt.”
I bid farewell to Mr. Allen and get into my truck, the heavy-duty pickup in need of a good wash. Maybe I’ll get to that later, assuming the sun sticks around.
Bonnie was my only client for the morning, so I head home, the wooden sign at the start of our gravel drive welcoming me.Darling Ranch. The place I was born, raised, and still live at thirty-seven years old. I could have moved out by now, maybe even built my own house on the property the way my brother Jackson did.
But I like staying close to my roots. My parents both live in their own cottages beside the main ranch house. Jackson is down a short quarter-mile-long drive. Remi, the youngest of us, is in the room next to mine, and even Lawson, our eldest brother, is back at home after separating from his soon-to-be ex-wife.
This ranch—it’s ours. It’s always been ours, back generations. Heck, back to when the town of Darling was founded by my great-great-great-something-grandfather.
This place? It’s home. A damn good one.
Why would I want to leave?
I park in the busy lot in front of the house, a good couple dozen vehicles already occupying the space. The ranch hands are hard at work this time of day, some having started their shifts at an ungodly four in the morning.
