The dry line had finally pushed through, leaving the air crisp and the mud brittle. It was the kind of day where you could actually breathe, and for a few hours, the only chaos on the ranch was the sound of leggy foals playing tag in the sun. I was mid-brush on the last mare, the rhythm of the bristles against her coat keeping my mind off the fact that Cash and Colt were due back any minute.
Grandpa had dropped the bombshell earlier: they'd asked for his blessing to date me. The fact that he hadn't reached for his shotgun—and actually seemed to approve of the "teamwork" involved in their lifestyle—told me everything I needed to know about how much he trusted them.
But the ranch doesn't care about your love life when there's work to be done.
Sweet Dreams, usually the calmest mare in the string, suddenly went from sunbathing to hard labor. My gut twisted when I realized the first foal was breech. "Oh boy," I muttered, my hands already moving. When I felt that second set of hooves, my heart nearly stopped. "Twin foals. One's breech," I barked into the radio.
It was a grueling, sweaty half-hour. I worked with the mare, guiding the breech colt out with shaking hands, then helping her through the second delivery as she flagged from exhaustion. By the time the vet and Grandpa skidded into the pen, I was covered in birth fluids and dust, sitting in the straw with two wet, shivering colts.
"You did well, Cam," Grandpa said, his voice thick with pride as the vet confirmed both boys were healthy. "We could've lost all three if you hadn't been right here."
Axel showed up just as the adrenaline was cooling, actually helping me lead the mare toward the observation stalls. It was the most "sibling bonding" we'd done in years, working in sync to settle the new family.
I was sitting in the straw, the paperwork for the American Quarter Horse Association balanced on my knee, when the familiar sound of two sets of boots echoed on the concrete.
I had the twins' names picked out. For the dark bay with the white face, One Sweet Malt Shot (Malt). For the chestnut with the stripe, Sweet Whiskey Shot's Dream (Whiskey).
Whiskey came wobbling over, sniffing my hand before flopping down to my right—exactly where Colt usually sat. Then Malt nudged my shoulder and curled up on my left, taking Cash's usual spot.
"Looks like you're already taken, honey," Cash said from the stall door, a grin spreading across his face.
"Wanna meet them?" I asked, looking up. My hair was a mess, and I probably smelled like a barn, but I didn't care.
"Mare might get us," Colt cautioned, though his eyes were fixed on the way the foals had claimed me.
"She won't bite," I promised.
Cash was the first one in. He let the mare scent him before dropping down next to me, leaning over to look at the registration papers.
"One Sweet Malt Shot and Sweet Whiskey Shot's Dream," he read aloud, his voice low and warm. "Makes me want to put them together to see how that would taste."
I hooked a brow at him, a playful smirk tugging at my lips. "Not bad, right?"
"Better than 'not bad,'" Cash said, his shoulder brushing mine. "I think these two have a hell of a future. Just like us."
Colt sat down on my other side, completing the circle. For a moment, the world was just the five of us—two new lives, two men who'd fought for their place beside me, and the quiet peace of a job well done.