Ignoring her turns out to be easier than I expect. She spends most of the day with Hank, and honestly, that works for me. The less friction between us, the better.
Later, I head into the office to go over expense logs and stop short when my eyes land on the will sitting on the corner of the desk.
I know I’m not doing either of us any favors by being stubborn. But I’ve never been good at bending when I feel cornered.
I tell myself there’s nothing new inside—just the same legal garbage—but my hand moves anyway.
A letter slips out. Uncle Sam’s handwriting stares back at me.
I unfold it.
Gage,
I know you’re probably fuming right now. But trust this process. Lean into the unexpected, like I always told you. You’ll be surprised by what’s waiting for you at the end.
~ Uncle Sam
I snort.
Yeah. I doubt it.
But hell if I don’t wish you were here to explain this mess yourself.
four
Sloane
The ranch is already awake when I slip into the office before sunrise, and my nerves are still buzzing from yesterday.
Still, I manage one small win. Convincing him to let me look at the water usage and land records. My guess is he doesn’t know much about them, which—petty or not—is an advantage I intend to use.
Ranch instinct is useful. Paper trails are lethal.
I make sure to get up early, before he has another chance to barge into my room like a drill sergeant with a personal vendetta. I head straight for the office.
I know he wasn’t exactly thrilled the last time he caught me buried in files, but he did say I could review them. AndI don’t need his permission to examine documentation tied to what is very legally half mine.
The small lamp on the desk is the only light cutting through the dark office. The office has the kind of security you’d expect on a working ranch—habits, not alarms. The sun hasn’t risen yet.
I can hear the distant chatter of the hands starting their morning routines—boots on gravel, gates creaking, animals shifting. Whether Gage is out there barking orders or pretending I don’t exist, I don’t know.
Either way, my goals today don’t involve him.
I pull the same documents I was reviewing yesterday, the ones Gage interrupted before I could finish cross-checking them. As I scan the pages again, my attention catches on a set of clauses that don’t align with the water permit dates.
My eyes narrow.
“What?” I whisper to myself.
I move back to the filing cabinet, sliding out the financial records tied to the same period. I spread both sets across the desk, lining them up, side by side, running the dates again. Once. Twice.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I mutter, scrunching my nose.
All of it is wrong. Not messy. Not incomplete. Wrong.
The signatures tell the same story—Samuel Hollis. Every document bears his name. The man who somehow left me half a ranch I never asked for and a situation I can’t walk away from. But these numbers don’t match the permits.
The permits don’t match the land. And the land definitely doesn’t match the water allocation.
