I was forty-two hours from a full clinical burnout after three straight nights sleeping in my office, two panic attacks I pretended was exhaustion, and completely forgetting I’d promised Maisie I would make it to her school performance when I called my broker and said, "Find me something that isn't a city."
He sent me a listing for Silver Mesa Ranch.
Twelve hundred acres outside Silver Ridge, Texas. Working cattle operation. The listing photo that got me was a sunrise shot of the back pasture. Golden light stretching over open land with absolutely nobody in sight. No traffic. No glass buildings. No noise. Just quiet. Luxury ranch house, four upscale cabins, horse barn, equipment sheds.
A staff of two full-time ranch hands and a ranch manager who'd been running the property for the previous owner for four years. Turnkey. Operational. Immediate occupancy.
I made the offer on a Tuesday. Closed on a Friday.
Apparently billionaires can impulse-buy ranches the same way normal people buy air fryers during online sales. Told Maisie we were moving to Texas over pancakes on a Sunday, and she pumped her fist in the air like I'd announced we were going to Disney World.
That was six weeks ago.
Now I'm watching my daughter sprint toward the barn after the dog who stole my briefcase while a truck driver swears colorfully into a walkie-talkie. I'm reassessing every decision I've made since February.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls my attention toward the ranch drive. A battered green pickup rolls in fast, kicking up dust, and parks at an angle that suggests the driver either has a lot of confidence or no concern whatsoever about other people's vehicles.
The woman who gets out is not what I expected.
Mostly because she looks more capable in the first thirty seconds than I've felt in the last six months.
I don't know what I expected, exactly. The previous owner had described the ranch manager as "very capable" and "a real asset."
At thirty-eight, I've learned to read people fast, and the image I'd built was someone practical and weathered, maybe closer to sixty, with a clipboard and a sun hat.
Laney Jenkins is none of those things. She's got dark auburn hair pulled into a messy ponytail that's half escaped its tie, sun-warmed skin, and the kind of effortless, unselfconscious prettiness that probably drives her insane whenever anyone mentions it.
Five-foot-six in worn boots, wearing jeans that have seen actual work. A faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looks at my moving truck disaster with the expression of someone arriving at a crime scene they called twelve minutes ago.
She looks at me.
"You're the buyer," she says. Not a question.
"Beckett Wilder." I extend my hand. "I've heard good things about the operation here. I've done a fair amount of research on ranch management and I'm looking forward to—"
"Your truck's in the mud."
"I'm aware."
"Rear axle's going to dig deeper every time he guns it."
I glance back. The driver guns it. The truck digs deeper.
"I'll call Remy," she says, already pulling out her phone. She's not looking at me anymore. She's looking at the truck with the focused assessment of someone calculating exactly how much of her day this is going to cost. "He's got the tow chain."
"I was going to call a service company," I say.
She does look at me then. It's a very specific look. The kind that says she's filing something away for future reference.
Which means I've absolutely been judged and found lacking before noon.
"You've got cell service out here about sixty percent of the time," she says. "The nearest commercial tow is forty-five minutes away, assuming Earl's nephew isn't the one driving it today. Last time he showed up, he somehow locked the keys inside the tow truck while it was running."
I blink.
She shrugs. "That's not how Texas works, Money Bags. We solve problems with whoever's closest and least likely to make things worse. Usually Remy. Unfortunately."
From somewhere near the truck, Remy yells, "I heard that."
