Sloane’s smile tightens as she looks at me, eyes narrowing just enough to challenge me—like she’s daring me to contradict him in front of everyone. Instead of saying a word, she keeps whatever sharp comment she’s brewing locked behind that polite expression.
“It’s been a tough situation for us both,” she says evenly. “But we’re managing. I’m looking forward to learning the ropes and pulling my weight.”
Then she lifts her mug. “If you’ll excuse me, I just need to bring this back to the main house.”
I watch her walk away longer than I mean to. Long enough to notice the way she moves like she’s already mapping the place.
Once she’s gone, Hank turns back to me with a knowing grin. “Oh boy,” he says, laughing. “You are in trouble.”
“Come again?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.
“She’s a spitfire,” he says. “All polite now, but give her time. She’ll be running this place better than you before you know it.”
I snort. Hank’s been here longer than I have—might as well be family—but that doesn’t make him right.
“Sounds like your age is catching up to you, old man,” I mutter, brushing past him.
His laughter follows me out of the barn.
There is no way in hell Sloane Carter is running this ranch.
Not now. Not ever. Not while I still draw breath.
I agreed to let her see land and water information because she needs to understand it if she’s staying. Truth is, I’ve wanted a deeper handle on it myself—but wanting something and having the time to chase it are two different things.
Still—that doesn’t give her permission.
I head for the back office and stop short when I see the light on.
The door’s unlocked — like it always is during the day — and she’s already inside.
She’s already inside.
Anger hits like a strike. She was supposed to meet me back at the barn so I could put her on chores and keep herout of my hair. Instead, she’s made herself comfortable in my space.
My office.
“Do you always make a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, jaw tight.
She barely looks up.
Unfazed. Calm. Like she belongs there.
She turns back to the document in front of her.
“You did say I could take a look at the land ledger and water usage documentation,” she says, eyes still on the page.
“Yeah,” I reply, folding my arms, “but I assumed you’d wait for me to collect it all for you.”
She lifts her brows. “You know what they say about people who assume.”
I don’t take the bait. She shouldn’t be in here like this—digging through records without me present. It isn’t just business; it’s personal. Years of mistakes, fixes, and late nights laid bare for someone I barely know.
I scoff. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
She leans forward, planting her forearms on the desk, frustration finally cracking through her calm. She looks up at me, eyes sharp, controlled—but burning.
“And what?” she snaps. “You think you’re some saint? Last I checked, you’re the guy who’s been walking around with a stick so far up his ass since I drove up that I don’t think you know how to dislodge it.”
