Copyright © 2026 J.P. Russell. The author asserts the application of all U.S. and associated international copyright protections and all rights to this original work of fiction. Do not reproduce without explicit written permission, etc.
Hey Good Lookin’
The next morning I showered and decided to dress up a bit for what I hoped would be an interview, figuring my collection of vintage Master of the Universe and Star Wars t-shirts wouldn’t really help my chances of landing the job. Mom had filled my old closet with a bunch of boxes and baskets filled to bursting with quilting supplies that she never quite got around to using, but I fumbled through the straining hangers and found one relatively unwrinkled shirt, a blue and white plaid with thin black stripes. It still fit me, if a bit more snugly than I’d have liked.
I took a look in the mirror on the bedroom door and was pleasantly surprised—it was tight, but I actually didn’t look too bad. Yeah, I was skinny, but I'd put on a bit of muscle, and it was tight in the right places to show them off. Maybe I had a chance after all. Before I lost my nerve I grabbed my sunglasses, my phone, and my keys, and hurried out to my old powder blue Toyota Corolla, hoping that its extensive hail damage and cracked windshield would give me a bit of country cred and make up for me not driving up in a proper truck or 4X4 like everyone else in my family had.
Everyone in the valley knew about Saddle Mountain Ranch. It was about forty minutes from our town, which was nestled right at the arid edge of the Sangre de Christo range. Back in my parents’ day it had been a thriving business—a working dude ranch that welcomed city visitors from Denver and farther afield to have their fantasy country adventure on horseback, along with a few hundred proper head of cattle—but the last twenty years had been hard on the place. I’d never really paid attention to it before, but as I drove down County Road 12 toward the main gate with the possibility of working there firmly in my mind, I saw just how bad things had gotten. The three-strand barbed-wire fencing had a lot of obvious breaks, at least along the road; it looked like more fenceposts were down or broken than intact; there were no cattle to be seen, and it was clear from all the sagebrush, juniper, and low-growing pines that the land hadn’t been grazed for years.
My heart sank down to my faded sneakers. If I did get the job, it would be tough work—I wasn’t at all work-shy, but this really wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my summer, which in my imagination had been sitting at a hotel desk reading fantasy novels between check-ins. Still, I needed the money, so I swallowed my disappointment and drove over the cattle guard toward the house.
The ranch crouched at the base of a boulder-studded ridge covered with aspens and ponderosa pines, with the white-capped mountains looming behind. The main house was a sprawling, one-story structure with massive pine timbers giving it the look of an old wilderness lodge and a huge wooden door with black wrought-iron trim in the Spanish hacienda style so common in southern Colorado. On the other side of a wide driveway next to the main house was a row of six faux-adobe apartments, painted a dull reddish brown, where the paying customers used to stay. Beyond the houses stood weather-worn wooden stables and a rusted-out old corral complete with a derelict cattle chute, along with a pitted steel Quonset hut I figured was a workshop of some kind.
The whole place just looked sad and weary.
A mud-spattered white F150 with Arizona plates was parked in front of the house, but I didn’t see anyone around. I pulled up beside it and shut off the engine. For a minute I considered driving back home, but if this was my one chance at a decent job this summer, I needed to at least try. I took a deep breath, stepped out, and slammed the door.
As if that sound was a ringing bell, three big Australian shepherds came racing from the shadows at the side of the house, all of them barking wildly. I was so taken by surprise that I dropped my keys, so I couldn’t get back in the car before they’d surrounded me, howling in warning. They didn’t attack, but they didn’t seem very friendly either, with hackles raised and legs stiff and menacing. In the middle of the tremendous racket, as I was trying to figure out how I’d get my keys and make my escape before anyone showed up, I heard a gruff voice call out from the other side of the truck.
“What do you want?”
I didn’t dare look away from the dogs. The hair on their backs was still standing on end in agitation, and they were moving close enough to start sniffing at me, though that didn’t ease my own worry at all. “I’m B-Ben, Ben McBride,” I called out toward the truck. “I heard you were at Chapman’s store looking for someone to help out around here?”
A moment of silence, and then, “Toby, Bailey, Bear—off!” The dogs turned their attention from me and ran panting toward the voice, content that they'd done their job, and I took a long, deep breath and bent to collect my keys. When I stood and looked over, however, I lost my breath again for a different reason, a surge of tingling warmth flowing through my body.
A man had stepped out from behind the F-150, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He was tall—six foot four at least—and broad-shouldered, with the thick black fur on his muscled chest and arms matching his trimmed black beard and close-cropped hair under a dark gray baseball cap. I could see tanned skin through the holes in his stained white t-shirt. His jeans hugged his tight curves and left nothing to the imagination, especially around the crotch, where a bulge pressed against the faded denim. I stood there, stunned, as his electric blue eyes gleamed under heavy brows, and he assessed me with an intensity I’d never experienced from any man before.
He frowned. “McBride…? You related to Shirley McBride down at the Honeybee?”
“Yeah—she’s my mom,” I said.
His face softened. “You’re her boy who’s going to school over in Durango? She talks about you all the time.”
I blushed and nodded. He looked me over again, this time more critical in its appraisal. “You know anything about ranch work?”
“Yeah. I grew up helping my dad—he works with my brother and uncle for John Harrison over at the Bar Stacked, on the other side of the valley. Not much I haven’t done, to be honest, though it’s been a few years.”
“Haven’t been able to find anyone interested in coming all the way out here. I pay a fair day’s wage, but it’s going to be hard work.”
Something about his tone grated on me. He didn’t know me well enough to decide whether I could handle it or not, and yeah, I might have been a bookish twink at the time, but I wasn’t lazy, and like all McBrides I honored my commitments.
I looked him straight in those gorgeous blue eyes. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” I said with a sudden fierceness that surprised even me.
Grady’s left eyebrow went up. A small smile creased the corners of his mouth. “Then I guess you got yourself a job, Ben McBride.”
“Really?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping some of the dirt off his hand before reaching out. “I’m Grady. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I said as we shook on it. His hand was big, but the skin was smoother and warmer than I expected, and his squeeze was surprisingly gentle. He wasn’t one of those guys who crushed your hand in some bullshit test of masculinity the first time you met. He let go and turned back toward his truck. “Be here at eight—we’ve got a lot to do.”
“Sounds good,” I said, barely able to contain my relief and excitement. I had a job—I was going to be able to stay in school. And I was going to be working alongside the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my life.
Summer was finally starting to look up.
