“Looks like you won, Aunt Ivy.” Sitting on the rail next to her, Wyatt’s oldest son, Ty, swung his legs. Astrid had already headed home with Wyatt’s two youngest children. She and Astrid weren’t sore at each other anymore, and Astrid was no longer pining after Jericho, thank goodness. She’d finally started paying attention to other young men. But their friendship had changed. They had changed. And maybe that was okay too.

Ty twisted a long piece of grass in his mouth. “Reckon ain’t nobody ever gonna beat you. Leastways until I grow up and do it.”

“Maybe you will. But you’re gonna have to be real good if you have any hope of winnin’ against me.” She took in the view with a deep sense of contentment. They’d built at the bottom of a hill, the forest behind the cabin with the barn positioned in the clearing to the southeast in a level area so that when the north wind blew, it’d take the barn stench away from the cabin and not to it.

The rolling hills to the east sloped to the plains that dominated South Park. But her land to the west, though grassy, was more rugged and suited for sheep.

“And that’s it folks!” Mack Custer strode out into the middle of the paddock, his pocket bulging from the coins he’d managed to collect. “Sorry we can’t keep goin’—”

“Hold up! We’ve got one more contestant!” Flynn shouted excitedly as he shouldered through the bystanders. When he reached the rail, he glanced in the direction he’d come, as though waiting for someone to follow him.

“Who is it?” Mack lifted on his toes to see behind Flynn.

Before Flynn could answer, a man with a strong, lean frame stepped up to the fence, a man with a determined, proud bearing in his shoulders and an assured way of holding himself.

Ivy’s stomach bottomed out. Jericho.

As if she’d spoken his name aloud, his attention darted to her. His face was covered in a scruffy layer of stubble, a sign he hadn’t shaved in days. His garments were dusty, as if he’d ridden hard and hadn’t changed. And the light brown hair showing beneath the brim of his hat was curled up and overlong.

But he’d never looked better or more handsome.

“Well, I’ll be. It’s Jericho Bliss himself.” Mack Custer’s scowl disappeared, replaced by a gleam that said he was busy tallying how much more money he could make by letting Jericho compete.