Jesse straightens and meets me halfway, like he’s testing my authority. The nerve of him, standing tall like he’s forgotten exactly who signs the checks around here.
“You’re still my boss,” he says evenly, “so I’m gonna say this respectfully—you’re grasping at straws, trying to find anything that makes this hurt less.”
“I didn’t listen in. I was working the horses. You two were loud enough that anyone nearby would’ve heard.”
He pauses, sliding the clipboard back into its slot with deliberate care. “I’m going to help Mason unload that feed.”
He walks away, leaving me seething, my hands curling into fists before I even realize I’ve done it.
I scan the ranch, my eyes landing on Hank perched on the barrel he likes to nap on. I shake my head and stomp over, already knowing I’m looking for another outlet.
I always hated it when he did that—acting like there wasn’t work to be done, like the ranch ran itself without anyone riding it.
I kick the barrel hard, the metal ringing out as Hank snorts awake.
“Listen here, old man,” I snap. “If you can’t get work done, I’ll find someone who can. You got it?” I tell him as he fixes his hat, slow and deliberate.
“Now I don’t know who you’re talking to, Gage Hollis,” Hank says evenly, “but I know you ain’t talking to me.” The tension stretches tight between us.
“If you’re getting too old for the job,” I press, “there wouldn’t be much use for you anymore, would there?”
Hank pushes off the barrel with a burst of energy that has nothing to do with his age. Maybe that power nap did him good—or maybe it’s pure anger hauling him upright.
“Now you listen to me!” he bellows, jabbing a finger into my chest.
“I don’t know what the hell crawled into you between this morning and now,” he says, “but you better fix yourself before you burn everything down.”
The only reason I don’t fire him on the spot is Uncle Sam—their friendship, and how long Hank’s been stitched into my family’s history.
Letting him go would be like cutting out blood, and no matter how angry I am, that’s a line I won’t cross.
He steps back suddenly, really looking at me this time, then scoffs. “It’s the lady boss, isn’t it? She got under your skin.”
My jaw locks, and the silence answers for me.
“By all means,” he adds, shaking his head, “take it out on all of us. Won’t fix a damn thing.” He walks off to find something else to do, leaving me alone in the barn with too much space and nowhere to put what’s boiling inside me.
I pace back through the barn and into Uncle Sam’s office, frustration stacking higher with every step as my thoughts circle Sloane—where she is, who she’s talking to, what she’s already decided.
What if she agrees to it today? What if I’m already too late to fix any of it? The what-ifs stack up fast, tight and relentless, wrapping around my chest until it’s hard to breathe through them.
I bang my fists on the wooden desk, the wood splintering slightly under the pressure. It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do now. Every option feels wrong, and the harder I push at it, the worse it seems to get.
But how did we get here?
For the last month, everything felt perfect—or close enough that I let myself believe it. We were on the cusp of something amazing, and for once, I was actually happy. That should’ve been my first warning.
Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I keep doing this to her? I think I know why. Or at least, I’ve got a dozen excuses lined up.
Because for as long as I’ve been old enough to understand things, I never believed I was meant to be genuinely happy—and that belief sits heavy, settled deep.
If even for a moment I felt an ounce of happiness, something else would come and screw it up. It felt inevitable that a good life—someone I loved, kids, the ranch—was always going to be just out of reach.
Everyone always left, so why would Sloane be any different? She was supposed to be leaving next month anyway, so maybe I just sped it up for both of us—ripped the bandage off before it could hurt worse.
But is that what I want? I don’t know. It’s just what I’ve told myself long enough that it starts to sound like acceptance. For weeks now, the question has burned in the back of my throat—ask her to stay—but how the hell is that fair?
She has a whole life in Austin, and my life is here. Even if she had asked me to follow her, I couldn’t do that. The truth is, I love Bell River and I love this ranch—but every time I try to measure that against her, the scale won’t settle.
