Money Bags
Laney
I've been managing Silver Mesa Ranch for four years, two months, and approximately sixteen days.
In that time, I've handled drought. A broken well pump that decided to quit on the hottest day of July. A cattle escape that made it three miles down the county road before anyone noticed the steer was gone. A ranch hand who quit via text message on the single busiest morning of the year.
And one very memorable incident involving Rowdy, a delivery driver, and a very expensive saddle that I still don't like to talk about.
Through all of it, I never once questioned whether I could handle whatever this ranch threw at me.
Beckett Wilder has been here less than six hours and I'm already questioning things.
I pull into the diner parking lot a little after seven, still in my work clothes, and Remy's truck is already there because Remy is always there whenever food's involved.
Silas's truck is parked beside it with perfect precision, which means Silas absolutely has opinions about tonight even if he'll die before admitting it. I sit in my truck for ten seconds longer than necessary, looking at the lit-up windows of Magnolia Diner, listening to the engine tick down.
I need to say it out loud to someone, before it calcifies into something I carry alone all week.
Jolene seats us in the back booth before we even ask, which is her way of saying she knows we need to talk and she's already decided to be nearby for it.
She brings coffee without being asked and sets down a plate of biscuits that weren't on our order, pats the table once, and disappears.
"So," Remy says, the second she's gone. He's grinning already. He has been grinning for approximately four hours this afternoon and I don't think he ever fully stopped. "Beckett Wilder."
"Don't," I say.
"The man read ranching books, Laney."
"I know."
"He had notes on his phone. Notes. About hay rotation."
"Remy."
"He tried to tell me about saddle anatomy." Remy picks up a biscuit and points it at me like a prop. "I've been putting saddles on horses since I was nine years old. This man read a chapter."
Silas wraps both hands around his coffee mug and says, without any particular expression, "He did fix the tow chain hook when it slipped. Nobody asked him to."
Remy and I both look at him.
Silas shrugs. "Just noting it."
"He's not going to last," I say, and I mean it, even though something about saying it out loud feels slightly less certain than it did at four o'clock this afternoon.
"He showed up in khakis, Silas. Pressed khakis. To a working cattle ranch."
"Rich people wear strange things," Silas says diplomatically.
"He had a matching luggage set.
Remy looks genuinely offended by this information. "On purpose?""
"How many pieces?"
"Seven."
Remy makes a noise that is not quite a laugh and not quite a groan. "Seven pieces of luggage."
