“Army.”
He lets out a low whistle, tips his head. “What’d you do?”
I drag a hand through my hair, debating how much I feel like saying. These conversations always go the same way. Curiosity, sure. Genuine interest, maybe. But they don’t understand how heavy some answers sit once you let ’em out.
“Special Forces,” I say after a pause.
Wyatt’s brows shoot up. “Green Beret?”
I nod once.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, blowing out a breath. Shakes his head a little. “What does that even mean? What’d you do?”
I set my coffee down, roll my neck, trying to ease the tension that’s been riding shotgun since I got back. “Bit of everything. Unconventionalwarfare. Direct action. Training up foreign units. Intel stuff. Some counterterrorism.” I shrug. “Spent most of my time overseas.”
He just stares at me for a second. “Jesus.”
I don’t respond. Just pick my coffee back up, let the heat settle in my chest.
“Where were you last?”
“Syria.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You done?”
“With the Army? Yeah.”
Wyatt nods, takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s trying to put the pieces together. “So…what now?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
Truth is, I never looked that far ahead. The Army laid out the map, told me where to go, what to do, when to move. That worked—until it didn’t.
Then Dad died. Stroke. Sixty-two. Went fast. Quiet. Not how I pictured it, not for a man built like stone.
I came back to check on Mom. My sisters, too. Ridge is still chasing rodeo glory. Wren’s got her horses. Sage could probably run the whole damn town if she wanted. They’ve all got their lanes.
And then the letter came. The one saying that Dad left the ranch to me.
Didn’t expect that. Always figured I was the one he never quite forgave—for leaving. For choosing something else. But now? It’s mine. The land. The weight of it. The name that built it.
All of it.
I’ve always loved the ranch. Still do. But loving something doesn’t mean you’re supposed to chain yourself to it for the rest of your life.
That’s why I started therapy.
Didn’t think I’d be the guy sitting on a couch, talking about feelings. But Meredith—my therapist—told me I talk about my life like it belongs to someone else. Like I’m just passing through it, doing what’s expected instead of what I actually want. Said I need to start making choices that are mine.
She wasn’t wrong.
I think I just needed to say some shit out loud. About the ranch. The Army. Jack.
He was my best friend. My brother in every way that mattered and he didn’t make it home. I don’t think I’ve ever really talked about that—not in a way that mattered.
I blink, realizing Wyatt’s still watching me.
“I don’t know what’s next yet,” I say, pushing back from the counter. “Still working on it.”
