He circles past me, dismissing me entirely, and I stand there stunned.
Instinct?
If this man thinks permits and compliance are bureaucracy, he’s one bad audit away from losing everything—and he doesn’t even see it. This isn’t red tape. This is justification. Resource optimization. Protection.
I groan inwardly.
No. This is not how this is going to work. I am not going to sit back and let him bulldoze his way into a legal disaster just because he refuses to listen.
I’m going to the county commissioner’s office.
I retrieve the folder I prepared earlier and head for my car just as Gage exits the barn. He doesn’t ask where I’m going. Doesn’t ask if I’ll be back. Honestly, I doubt he cares—but his gaze follows me as I back out and disappear down the drive.
Fine. Let him stew.
I hit the road as daylight finally breaks, my focus narrowing to a single objective. Gage may not care now, but in six months, he’s going to wish he had listened.
Once I’m free of this place, once my hands are clean of it, he’s going to realize I wasn’t the enemy here.
I don’t know why I care this much. I should walk away. Let him handle it—or mishandle it—on his own.
But I can’t.
Every instinct I have tells me this place is worth protecting.
Downtown Bell River appears fifteen minutes later—not because of traffic, but because Hollis Ranch may as well be its own town.
It’s massive compared to everything else around it, and that alone makes me wonder just how much this ranch means to the community.
I didn’t know any of that when I arrived. I didn’t know the town. Didn’t know the history. I was too distracted by the fact that I’d inherited land from a man I’d never met.
Now, I’m starting to see what I missed.
The town is barely awake, storefronts dark and sidewalks empty, but one thing catches my eye. An elderly woman flips a sign fromClosedtoOpen, apron tied at her waist.
Daisy’s Café.
My brain doesn’t so much suggest a detour as it demands one—loudly, with coffee incentives.
I turn the wheel.
I pull into one of the angled parking spots and step out of the car. Inside the café, it’s just the elderly woman, hands deep in dough, working with the kind of calm confidence that comes from decades of repetition.
I push the door open and a little bell jingles overhead.
She looks up immediately and smiles—warm, easy, unguarded. The kind of smile that settles something in my chest before I realize it’s been tight all morning.
She dusts the flour from her hands, and the scent of fresh bread and sugar wraps around me like a promise.
“Welcome,” she says. “Always nice to see a fresh face.”
I smile back. One thing about small towns—they know instantly when you don’t belong. And somehow, she doesn’t make it feel like a bad thing.
“What can I get you, honey?”
I sigh, the sound half relief, half surrender. “Coffee, please. Creamer and one sugar, if you have it.”
Her eyebrows lift, amused. “Fancy.”
