“Little missy,” I say evenly, already reaching for the light switch, “I know you’re not used to early mornings, but it’s time to get to work.”
The light clicks on. She groans louder, rolling onto her back and glaring at me like she’s plotting murder. Honestly, it doesn’t faze me. I’ve survived worse mornings than this.
“What time is it?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.
“Four-thirty.” I push off the doorframe. “Get dressed. We’ve got chores to do, and I’ve got coffee started.”
I leave her to it and head back down, pouring myself a mug—black, no nonsense. Coffee doesn’t need assistance doing its job. As I take the first sip, footsteps pound down the stairs behind me.
She appears in the doorway wearing tight jeans, boots that cost more than they should and have no business anywhere near manure, and a blue plaid shirt she probably thinks makes her blend in. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, eyes still heavy with sleep.
I grab another mug and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she mutters, still half-awake.
I should feel bad. She isn’t used to this life. But sympathy doesn’t keep animals fed or fences upright. If she’s part owner, she’d better learn fast.
She pours her coffee and sighs. “This is probably a long shot, but do you have creamer?”
I smirk behind my mug. One raised eyebrow is enough of an answer.
“Great. Sugar, at least?”
She reaches for the cabinet, stretching onto her toes like she has something to prove, and it sets my teeth on edge. Mornings on a ranch aren’t about comfort. They’re about order—about knowing your place in the chain and honoring it.
Uncle Sam drilled that into me long before I was big enough to swing a hammer straight.
He used to say the day tells you who a person really is by how they show up before dawn. Anyone can work when it’s convenient.
Anyone can talk big once the coffee kicks in. But four-thirty in the morning, when your bones ache and the world’s still dark—that’s when you find out who’s worth keeping around.
That’s what I’m watching for now—how she handles her first full day out here.
Not whether she complains. Not whether she stumbles. But whether she adapts.
This place doesn’t bend. It doesn’t care about titles or inheritance paperwork. The land rewards consistency and punishes indecision, and every hand on this ranch learned that the hard way—including me.
If Sloane Carter thinks owning half the deed means she gets to set her own pace, she’s about to learn how wrong that is.
She scoops sugar into her mug, then reaches for the milk when I open the fridge for her. Watching her make her coffee tells me more than yesterday ever did—her habits, her rhythm, the way she assumes the space will bend around her.
I finish my cup before she even takes her first real sip. I don’t stand around when there’s work waiting—animals don’t care if you’re caffeinated.
“Finish up.” It isn’t a request. It’s an order.
She looks at me like she’s debating whether to push back.
Too bad.
She’s here now, and she’s going to follow the same rules as everyone else. I don’t care how much stake she thinks she has, nor what paperwork says her name belongs beside.
Paper doesn’t run a ranch. People do.
“I’ve barely opened my eyes, Gage. Can you go a little easier, please,” she asks. Her tone isn’t threatening—measured, even—but it doesn’t move me. Feelings don’t feed livestock. Routine does.
“No,” I say flatly. “Finish up or take it with you. Either way, we’ve got work to do.”
I head for the door. The screen slaps shut behind me.
