“Leave it, Jake,” I said.
Jake watched me for a second, then pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully inside. He reached back and closed the door, as if he didn’t want what we talked about carried down the hall.
“We’re all talking,” he said. “About you owning a quarter of the ranch, Lucas being here, him writing down assets on the ranch, and the others are getting the feeling he’s looking to sell?—”
“I’m not selling,” I snapped, and Jake’s eyebrows went up. “He can’t sell any of it without me,” I added, colder now. “Not his share. Not any of it. This ranch isn’t going anywhere.”
“You want I should spread that around?”
I stared at him, and something ugly twisted in my gut. It was on me to reassure the people working with me. I was the boss, and I sighed heavily. “Shit, Jake. It shouldn’t be you doing that. It’s on me. I should’ve reassured them before it ever got to this.”
His mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “Yeah. That part’s true.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Snow Creek is safe and staying.”
“So, you’re gonna say it out loud? To them. Not just to me.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll handle it.”
“I know you will,” he said. Then, he waited as if I was going now, and he was right. So bundled up, I headed away from paperwork and onto the land I loved, to reassure everyone that nothing was changing. Lucas could get in the way, use his share to make life difficult for the ranch, but at the end of the day, he’d go back to the city, rake in his share of profits, and we’d never see him again.
I just had to hold out until his six months were up, and then, we’d be done.
No more sex.
No more sinking into his tight body and hearing the sounds he made when he came.
Nope.
No more.
Even so,over the next few weeks, as the snow pulled back in dirty sheets and the first thin signs of spring showed through the mud, every single one of the ranch hands found a reason to track me down. Every conversation circled back to Lucas Barrett.
Questions, mostly. Too many of them.
What was he doing over by the south fence line? Whywas he taking photos of the old pump house? Had I told him it was okay to wander through the calving sheds during feeding? Was he meant to be measuring things, or was that just how he stood—staring, hands in his pockets?
No one ever said he was in the way. No one complained outright. But I heard it anyway, in the pauses, in the careful phrasing, in the way every conversation ended with a glance over their shoulder, as if they were checking he wasn’t lurking behind them.
Too close. Watching. Getting underfoot.
Not a single one asked outright if he wanted to sell his stake, but he wasn’t exactly integrating, and Gunner had told me, horrified, he didn’t even want to ride a horse.
He took photos of things that didn’t make sense. Fence posts. Rooflines. Tracks in the snow that would be gone by morning. He asked Miguel to pick up deliveries in town when he was there—boxes from all kinds of places.
Even Jake was restless, and Jake was the calmest man I knew. If Jake was pacing, something was off.
I was finding it hard to stay angry until Gunner caught me by the tack room late afternoon, with dust and leather thick in the air, Boone shifting in his stall behind us.
“Boss,” he said, voice low. “We got a Lucas issue.”
I frowned. “Huh?”
Gunner shook his head. “He’s up a quarter mile behind Redstone Ridge. Ranch truck. Engine running, sitting there with binoculars,” Gunner added.
I stared at him. “Binoculars.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Didn’t look like he was birdwatching.”
