“You want one of us to follow him?” Gunner asked.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. Of course, we should. The doctors had cleared him to drive—technically. Passed the tests. Checks in the right boxes. But they’d also warnedme it wasn’t something he should be doing often, not with the damage he carried like a live wire in his skull.
The TBI hadn’t taken his ability to handle a vehicle. It had taken his filter. His reaction time on bad days. His judgment was compromised when stress spiked, or his memory slipped sideways. He could drive fine—until he couldn’t, and I had no idea when that day would happen. The road between here and his place was an empty stretch of nothing, but there was one thing they could do. I watched the truck disappear down the track, my jaw tight.
“He’s cleared,” I said finally. “Doesn’t mean he’s safe. Can you head back in and call Deputy Wainwright, get him to… I dunno… pull him over, cite him? Fuck!” Tension banded my temples, but Gunner did his usual I-got-this nod and headed back to the ranch. Simon Wainwright was one of the good guys and would have our backs, but how in God’s name did I stop Dad from getting behind a wheel? Did I pull him back to the ranch? Did I have him here poisoning the team every freaking day?
I closed my eyes, checked myself, settled my fears, unknotted the tension in my chest, and everyone gave me space, because they were all good men.
When I turned to face them, Miguel let out a careful breath. “Calves look good to me, boss, but maybe I need to check again?”
“No,” I said, “you’ve done everything right, and I’m proud of how you’re doing, Miguel.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry about?—”
“It’s all good, boss,” Miguel saidbefore I could finish the whole apology thing. Hewasa good addition to the team, and we were lucky to have him.
I went back to the fence, put my hands on the cold wood, and stared at the pasture until the shaking in my fingers stopped.
The calves were fine.
I wasn’t.
Chapter 11
Lucas
I’d seen the books, and the ranch was profitable. Some full-time staff, with seasonal workers brought in when calving or winter hit hard. Cattle. One main house, three others scattered across the property. Enough land to justify the valuation Lowstat-Meyer had suggested.
All the good things I could do with my share!
I’d make sure everyone was taken care of, even Ruth, with her salty, rubbery eggs, and burned toast, would have a payoff depending on years served. I’d make sure everyone would be okay.
The argument to sell was clear and defensible, if I could ignore the self-doubt about how Jesse wouldn’t meet me halfway.
Halfway how? My internal voice was irritating. I hadn’t given him a halfway option, no “keep some of the land,” or “work with me,” no, it was sell or nothing. This would make Jesse a rich man.
But none of that would happen unless I got top moneyfor the ranch, and the guest cabins, an aborted attempt at a dude ranch, were something the appraisers suggested wouldn’t make much difference when it came to valuation. Although they hadn’t been out to do a full appraisal because they weren’t interested in the buildings here, just the land.
Six guest cabins were tucked away to the east of the main house, across the creek. Money had been sunk into them roughly three years back, and nothing had come of it. No income. No write-off that made sense. No clear explanation in the notes I’d received with the notice of my share.
That was where I wanted to start because the numbers didn’t line up. The value of the assets on the page didn’t reflect what was on the ground, and it bugged my accountant self. Structures were worth more than what appeared in the accounts; even neglected or unfinished. Even if the real estate purchase didn’t include them in the valuation, I wanted everything logged. To me, every structure had a purpose and a monetary amount I could attach to it.
If no one was free to take me, then I’d take myself.
But how deep was the snow over there?
“Okay, let’s see what I have to work with.” I took a step and slipped on a damp puddle of melted snow on the wooden floor. “Boots first.”
Once I’d pulled them on and layered up, I left the warmth of the main house behind.
An ATV cut into the yard, engine whining hard before it dropped to idle. The rider swung off before it fully stopped, boots hitting dirt, phone already in his hand. He stood there for a second with his shoulders hunched, head bent, thumb stabbing the screen before he lifted the phone to his ear.
I watched him pace a short, tight line while he talked. Whatever the call was, it wasn’t good. He ended it with a sharp movement, shoving the phone into his pocket, and turned back toward the ATV.
“Lucas Barrett!” I called, stepping forward and thrusting out my hand, my smile already in place. Polished. Professional. If I couldn’t win over Jesse, the rest of the staff was fair game. Though the memory of breakfast made me wince. Ruth, at least, had not been swayed by me pointing my fake buddy/buddy smile at her.
The man stopped. Turned.
Cowboy, through and through. Blond hair, a day or two of stubble, strong jaw, blue eyes—god, was every cowboy in this place hot, or did I have a type? I threw him my best smile, but his expression stayed flat as he took in my outstretched hand, then shook it once, firm and brief.
