Dakota’s behind the island, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. On her hip, Duke. He’s cherub-cheeked, with jet-black hair and chubby fists. “Perfect timing,” she says, bouncing her son. “Uncle Ford’s here.” I place Mouse on a stool and take him as Dakota passes him off to me. “What’s up, you little monster?” Even at a year old, the kid’s the tiny terror of Runaway Ranch. He chases horses. Sneaks up on Mouse. Bosses my brother’s Belgian Malinois, Keena. I keep telling Davis he takes after Wyatt, but my twin refuses to hear it. It scares the shit out of him.
