I don’t know where I fit yet.
About half an hour later, I turn onto the gravel drive that leads to the Wilding Ranch.
The entrance sign is still there, same as always. Thick timber posts. A slab of weathered wood with our name carved deep into it—Wilding Ranch, blackened and worn by time. The brand’s front and center—a W inside a rising sun, burned clean.Est. 1896stamped in the corner. That sign’s taken more than a century of Montana beatings—snow, dust, hail big enough to crack windshields—and it’s still standing. Like this ranch. Like the people who built it.
This place isn’t just land. It’s a legacy.
Almost ten thousand acres of prime Montana ground. Pastures that roll for miles. Dense timber. Foothills that rise up toward the mountains like they’ve got something to prove. Wilding Ranch is one of the biggest operations in Summit Springs—built on sweat, grit, and knowing when todig in and when to pivot.
Our cattle? They’re the real deal. Mostly Angus and Hereford—built for quality, built to last. Closed herd. Bloodlines tracked down to the last damn detail. We don’t breed for show. We breed for results. Best beef you’ll find in this part of the country. High-end restaurants, boutique butchers, international buyers—they all know the Wilding name. It means something.
And the horses? They speak for themselves.
Quarter Horses with bloodlines that go back generations. Ranch horses. Rodeo stock. Athletes with brains, bone, and grit. We train ’em here, slow and right. Start ’em young, make sure they’re solid before they ever see an auction. Our stallions carry names people recognize. Our broodmares? Buyers fly in just for a shot at their foals.
We run two auctions a year—invite-only. One for cattle, one for horses. Big money shows up. Serious buyers. It’s not just about the sale, it’s about reputation. Exclusivity. My dad built that from the ground up. A Wilding auction tells people we don’t just run a ranch—we set the bar.
I ease the truck through the gate, taking it all in.
Pastures stretch out on both sides, cattle scattered across the fields—thick-coated and slow-moving, turning their heads toward the truck. A couple of the foremen are out on ATVs, checking fences, watching the herd. In the round pen, a few hands are working horses—hooves kicking up dirt, voices low, measured. Spring air carries the sound across the open space.
It’s the same ranch I left, give or take a few new fences and a fresh coat of paint on the barn. But something about it feels different now. Heavier, maybe.
I always told Jack I’d bring him here one day. He used to laugh at the idea—city boy from Queens who thought cowboy boots were just a Halloween costume. Said he didn’t trust any place that didn’t have a subway system or a decent slice of pizza.
But still, I used to talk about this place like it was heaven on dirt. Told him how the air smelled like sage after it rained, how the sky stretched wide enough to make a man feel small in the best kind of way. How if heever made it out here, I’d throw him on a horse, make a cowboy out of him whether he liked it or not.
He’d roll his eyes, call me a redneck, then ask what the hell a round bale was.
And I’d promised—more than once—that one day I’d show him. Let him see the ranch. Let him see what home looked like.
But I never did. And now I never will. The thought wedges itself deep in my chest.
Jack would’ve hated the dust, bitched about the lack of Wi-Fi, asked why every animal here looked like it wanted to kill him. But damn if I don’t wish he were here anyway.
The barn comes up ahead—big, red, built like a damn fortress. Dad rebuilt it himself years back, made sure it’d hold through anything. It houses our best stock. Breeding stallions. High-dollar cutting horses. Prospects just getting started under saddle. The training pens run along the side, right next to the arena and the hot walkers. Everything laid out with purpose. Clean. Efficient. No wasted steps.
I pass the bunkhouses—modest, solid. Nothing fancy, but they hold heat in the winter and keep cool in the summer. Good enough for the crew that sticks around all year.
Back past the barns is Loretta’s place. Small house. White siding. Always smells like fresh bread. She’s been feeding the hands longer than I’ve been alive. Keeps this place running in her own way—quiet, dependable. No one goes hungry on her watch.
Then there’s the main house.
Looks the same as it always has—sturdy, wide-shouldered, built to last. Classic farmhouse with wood shutters and a porch that wraps around like it’s got arms wide open. Rocking chairs lined up neat, the old porch swing still creaking on its chain at the far end. I can see my mom sitting there in my head, mug of coffee in her hands, watching the storm clouds roll in over the mountains like she was waiting on something only she could see coming.
They’ve made some changes since I left. New windows. Fresh paint.Landscaping cleaned up a bit. But the bones are the same.
The heart’s still here.
I cut the engine and just sit there for a minute, hands resting on the wheel.
Home.
I did just about every job there is on this ranch growing up. Fed horses before sunrise. Drove cattle, fixed busted fences, hauled hay, started colts. By eighteen, I could eyeball a steer and guess its weight within five pounds. Watch a horse move and know exactly what kind of ride it’d give you. I knew every trail, every dry creek bed, every stubborn-ass fence post that never stayed straight.
Knew this house just as well.
I knew which floorboards creaked, which step on the stairs would give you away if you were trying to sneak out. Which spot on the wall made Mom sigh every time the paint peeled just a little more. I figured out how to slip through the laundry room window without waking anyone, how to hug the shadows past the old oak tree out back. That tree’s been here longer than we have.
