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“I’m serious, you assholes. I know they’re a thing.” I’m not about to admit I’ve spent an obscene amount of time today watching Instagram reels on successful animal sanctuaries. I’d never hear the fucking end of it. “There has to be grants for something like that.”
“A few grants, even if we can get them—and it’s certainly not the first step—aren’t going to turn these numbers green,” Liam says, waving a hand over the open ledger.
“But there are other ways to make money with something like that,” Weston says, the wheels turning in his eyes. “Petting zoo, goat yoga, offering the public options to sponsor the animals.”
“Now you’re getting it,” I say, feeling a shred of relief. Thought I’d have to show my hand and admit how much social media research I’ve consumed since Macy sent me the first video. Though I’d do nearly anything to save this ranch for Paps and Grams, there’s a part of me that’s excited to see Macy’s face light up when I share the good news with her. One way or another, we have to pull this off.
“After I see what’s involved in getting this place nonprofit status, I’ll have to see what the liability insurance would run us,” Weston admits. “It won’t be cheap.”
“That’s where some grant money might be useful,” Liam says, catching on.
“Once we have nonprofit status, grants will be easier to come by if we have donors already lined up. You better start thinking about who around here has deep pockets and wants to support this place. None of those corporate assholes, either. I won’t support that. Local donors only. But even if you find some, it’s still a long process.” Weston raises his coffee mug, warning, “These things don’t happen overnight.”
“I have a friend who owes me a favor who might be of some use,” Liam adds. “I bet I could get some of that time shaved off.”
“Let’s see what we can figure out with the paperwork before we present anything to Paps, okay?” I insist.
“You know Grams can sniff out a secret a mile away,” Weston says.
“Well, try your damnedest then.” I take a long sip of coffee, allowing the nectar to course through my veins. It’s already bound to be a sleepless night, so I don’t hold back on pouring myself a second cup. “Can you guys help me do some research and come up with a plan?”
They look at each other, then at me and nod.
“Let’s meet up in a few days, then.”
“I’ll need some time,” Weston insists. “What’s the rush?”
I point my mug toward the ledger. “You’ve seen the numbers.” The truth is, though, it’s not only about the numbers. I want to tell Macy the good news in person. It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping it might just be enough to make her consider staying.
CHAPTER 9
Macy
“Ryder Stone is a colossal asshat!” I announce to the pen of goats I agreed to monitor for a short while after their shots so Paps could get in his mid-morning nap. Mostly, he was worried about Gertie’s reaction since she’s the youngest of the crew and we aren’t entirely certain if she’s had any vaccinations or not. She was a little cranky with me at first, but she’s warmed up to trying to eat my boot again.
The cute little terrorist looks at me and bleeeats.
“I’m not encouraging you to escape and eat his cowboy hat today, but I’m not exactly going to stop you either,” I say to Gertie as I gather my things and check my phone once more. Another missed call from Ryder makes me want to feed the device to the goats. Or better yet, put the damn thing through a wood chipper.
“Can you believe he wants to sell the ranch?” All four goats look at me. “I know, right? It’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard! What an ass.”
My heart pounds violently in my chest as I slip out of the goat pen, careful to latch the gate despite the temptation to let Gertie accidentally get by me just so Ryder has to chase her down again. The anger simmering inside me is the only thing keeping me from breaking down and crying. Because there is no way in hell I can process this ranch no longer existing. It’s been a staple not only in my life, but for this town. Where will the misfit animals go if they can’t come here? And how can I help any of them if I’m all the way back in Colorado?
“I can’t believe I almost slept with him,” I grumble, marching my way toward the barn.
Because I haven’t been able to reach Nadia or Everleigh this morning, I settle for violently scrubbing my hands and arms free of goat slobber in the barn’s washroom. Despite the epic party that happened last night, there are almost no traces of it inside the main barn. Only a few folded-up tables remain, waiting for pick up. Which means the wonderful townspeople helped clean up without even being asked. Had I not been so livid after overhearing Ryder’s family meeting conversation, I would’ve stayed to help, too. But I had to leave before I did something I couldn’t take back.
“Avoiding me, sweetheart?”
I stiffen, anger rising from simmering to boiling in half a second flat at Ryder’s smug tone. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, strutting into the room and coming up behind me. I hate that my entire body reacts to the wave of heat emitting from him. I hate even more that my instinct is to step back the two inches he’s left between us and press my back against his chest. Maybe hate sex could be fun? Shut up, Evil Macy. You’re not in charge today.
“How could you possibly think selling this place was any kind of solution?” I hiss, careful to keep my voice low in case Paps—who should be in the middle of a nap but who knows for sure—or anyone else might be lurking nearby.
Ryder’s hand slips onto my hip, his fingers gently digging in. The cotton fabric of my leggings does little to muffle the intensity of the contact. His fingertips are practically fire to the touch. He leans in, his warm breath teasing the shell of my ear. “Next time you decide to eavesdrop, sweetheart, try staying for the whole conversation.”
“So you’re not selling?” I twist around to look over my shoulder, intent on incinerating him with my narrowed gaze of fire daggers. But I don’t get the chance to make eye contact because the jerk slides his hand from my hip to the front of my thigh, making it impossible to remember why exactly I’m mad at him. A couple of those fingers are dangerously close to sensitive territory. It takes all my willpower not to tilt my hips in encouragement.
