I stand there, absorbing it anyway, even though I already knew the answer before I walked in.
“She’s altering how this place runs, Monty.”
What I don’t say is that it isn’t just the ranch. She’s changing more than procedures or traditions—she’s changing me, and that’s what sticks in my throat. The branding is only the start of it.
If I give ground here, what comes next? Something else will. Another decision, another compromise, another expectation that I bend without question.
“Change isn’t always a bad thing,” he says, measured.
I close my eyes, jaw tightening, because I don’t want to hear that right now.
“I get that this is a lot for you,” he adds, softer now, “but you can imagine it’s not easy for her either.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “She’s warming up to everyone else real well.”
He smiles, just slightly, like he’s heard this complaint before—even if the details are different.
“Some people adapt,” he says, chuckling softly. “They make the most of what they’re handed. Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” he adds, pointedly.
I meet his gaze. It’s knowing. It says more than he’s willing to spell out, like he’s nudging me toward a conclusion without taking responsibility for it.
I try, briefly, to put myself in Sloane’s shoes and imagine what this has cost her. She’s gained a ranch, sure—but she’s lost her home. Her routines. Her autonomy.
She’s living with a group of men she didn’t know a week ago, and her assigned roommate for the next six months has made no effort to hide his hostility.
She’s used to the city.
Structure. Distance. Privacy.
Being forced into the middle of ranch life until this settles can’t be easy. She might be making the most of it, adapting where she can, but it’s taken me this long to really see what she’s giving up just to be here—and that realization sits heavier than I expect it to.
Maybe it would be better if I did her a favor.
I pace the length of Monty’s office, the soft hum of the overhead light grating on my nerves. This isn’t how I imagined this conversation going. I came here looking for a technicality, a clause I could point to and saythere—that’s the fix.Instead,
I’m standing in the same place I started, boxed in by legal language and my uncle’s intentions.
Monty watches me over his glasses, saying nothing. That silence weighs heavier than any argument. He’s letting me run myself into the corner, letting me hear the shape of my own thoughts before I commit to them.
“She’s not going to stop,” I say finally, more to myself than to him. “Today it’s branding. Tomorrow it’s feed schedules. Next week it’s who makes the calls around here.”
The words come faster now, stacking on top of each other. “I can’t run a ranch where every decision is up for debate.”
I stop pacing and plant my hands on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. This isn’t anger anymore. It’s calculation.
I recognize the shift even as I let it happen.
“I just need to know what my options are,” I say, lowering my voice. “That’s all.”
Monty exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for where this is headed, and I know I’m closer to the line than I was when I walked in.
“If she leaves,” I ask carefully, choosing my words with more intention than I like, “that’s it, right?”
Monty studies me for a beat, then shrugs and nods.
“She’d have to leave willingly for ownership to turn over completely,” he explains. “The deal itself is structured to benefit her if she stays.”
I wave that part off with a short breath. All I hear iswillingly.
