A few people shifted, listening harder.
“No one here loses a job,” I said. “Nothing gets stripped back. The ranch stays a working ranch.” I met the gazes of each person in the room. “The money from that sale goes straight back into this place. We fix the cabins properly. We add a few more. Part of them becomes the basis for outreach work. A place for kids who need space, structure, and something real to hold on to.”
Jake and Gunner exchanged glances, but neither man gave anything away about how they felt, and I faltered.
“Go on,” Jesse said.
“Can you say the ranch bit?” I asked him.
Jesse cleared his throat. “The funding lets us upgrade fencing and corrals, improve pasture rotation, bring water lines where they’re needed, keep horses sound and well-worked, new horses, hire seasonal staff when we need them,and invest in tack, trailers, and facilities.” He stopped, and I assumed that was all he was going to say, and it was my turn to take over.
“That investment will earn money that will fund the outreach long-term.” I took a breath. “I want to set up a program for LGBTQ+ teens and young adults. Kids, too, if that’s what it takes. The ones who fall through every net. The ones with nowhere left to go because no one wants them.” I braced myself for the truth of what I needed to say, because saying it here was tearing open something that had been buried deep. “The Harbor 5280 charity saved my life when my dad, Walter’s son, threw me out at fifteen for being queer. They found me on the street, hurt badly, and took me in, got me a bed, got me an education and a future.”
No one interrupted. Jesse brushed my hand with his and laced our fingers.
“I was already written off. No money. No safety net. No one was asking questions. They got me medical care. A bed. Food that showed up whether I deserved it or not. They made education possible when it felt like something that belonged to other people.” I didn’t look away from any of them, pride and anger sitting side by side—proud I’d survived, still furious I’d ever had to. “They saved me by not letting me disappear,” I said.
I let the words sit. “So, what I want to do here is make sure there’s a place for the next kid who thinks there isn’t hope. Does anyone have any questions?”
There were some quiet exchanges of words between them all, but they all looked to Jake to summarize. He pushed his hat on his head and stood, and fuck, I suddenlythought this was going to go badly when Jesse’s hold on my hand tightened.
Jake cleared his throat and nodded once. “That’s rough, Lucas,” he said. “So. When do we start?”
The dining hall emptied out in slow stages after that. Questions turned practical, voices eased, boots headed for doors. Jesse stayed close without crowding me, one hand at my back, and I turned into his arms, inhaling the scent of him and holding him close.
He frowned. “Is everything okay? I thought that went well.”
“I know he’s probably busy, but can I get Gunner to take me out to the graveyard again?” I mumbled into his shirt.
He didn’t hesitate. “Nah, I’ll take you.” He paused, then tipped his head toward the yard. “You want to ride out there?”
I blinked. “I don’t know how to ride a horse.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s okay. Come on. I’ll introduce you to Sadie.”
We walked to the barn together, the late morning light cutting clean lines through the dust motes. He stopped at a stall halfway down, resting his forearm on the door.
“She’s slow,” he said. “Steady. She was your grandpa’s old horse, and Miguel looks out for her. She was already near retirement when Walter passed, so she never worked much after that.” He glanced at me. “She’ll take care of you.”
Sadie was a gorgeous, dappled gray, and she lifted her head when we stepped in, ears flicking forward, dark eyes calm and curious. Jesse moved with easy confidence, brushing her down, checking herfeet, talking to her under his breath as if it were only the two of them, and he put on a blanket, saddle, and bridle. I watched because, one day, I wanted to be able to do this.
“Okay,” he said and handed me something. “Helmet.”
“A helmet?” I repeated. “Not a Stetson?”
“Nope,” he said firmly. “You’re not putting on a hat until you know what you’re doing.”
He helped me climb into the saddle, one hand steady at my knee, the other at my back, talking me through it without making a thing of it. Tighten this. Hold that. Sit like this. Breathe. He supported my weight when it would have hurt me, and then, all too soon, we were heading out, the barn falling away behind us as Sadie moved off at a patient walk, Boone just to the side of us, Jesse in reach.
I didn’t feel brave, and jeez, it was high up sitting there, but after a few moments of my ass thumping against the saddle, I found the rhythm of it, the rise and fall starting to make sense.
The path was obviously familiar to Sadie and Boone, and snow lingered in the shadows, the air cold and bracing. Jesse stopped us a little way from the graves and pointed to our left.
“From here you can see the ranch house and barns.”
I checked where he pointed, the house and barns lay out below us, familiar shapes now instead of things I’d been measuring and pricing. In a few months, this would be mine and his. We’d own it together once my seventy-five percent kicked in, and the thought no longer felt abstract or frightening. It felt settled. Like a plan that had finally found the right ground. I could see it then—not just projects and fundingand ideas, but a future that stayed. A place we built forward instead of tearing apart.
Jesse leaned over in the saddle and rested a hand on my knee, steadying, grounding. I glanced at him.
