Page 40 of Wild Sanctuary

10

DAISY

Marcus Donnelly hasn’t changed at all since I was a kid—same silver hair, same gentle manner, same unhurried warmth that always made me understand why my father called him a friend.

He stands when he sees me, his weathered face breaking into a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. His handshake is firm without being aggressive, and when he speaks, he sounds exactly how I remember.

“Daisy Monroe, as I live and breathe.” He holds my hand a beat longer than necessary, his gaze going soft. “Lord, look at you. Last time I saw you, you were, what—twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty. It was my last Christmas at the ranch.”

“That’s right. That’s right.” He shakes his head before gesturing for me to sit across from him in the booth. “Your daddy talked about you all the time, you know. ‘My Daisy’s gonna change the world,’ he’d say. ‘Just you wait.’”

The words catch in my throat. “He said that?”

“All the time. Every time you published something, he’d print it out. He had a whole folder of your articles. Didn’t matter if it was a city council recap or a tiny feature buried on page six, he’d find it. He was so damn proud.”

I blink hard, looking down at my notebook to give myself a moment. The lines blur and swim.

A folder.

He kept a folder.

I never sent him links. Never called to tell him when something went to print. I always meant to and I never did. But he found them anyway. He was paying attention the whole time, and I had no idea.

“I didn’t know that,” I manage, my voice rough.

“That was Tom. Always paying attention.” Marcus’s smile turns wistful. He gives me a moment—doesn’t rush to fill the silence—then signals the bartender. “Another coffee for me, and whatever the lady wants. Put it on my tab.”

“Just coffee’s fine.”

We settle into the interview, and Marcus is everything I hoped he’d be—warm, forthcoming, full of stories that paint a picture of my father I’ve been hungry for. The man I only got in summers, in scattered phone calls, in too-short visits that never felt like enough.

“Your dad and Bill Hartley.” A fond smile creases his face. “Those two were thick as thieves. Bill was the businessman, always thinking about the numbers, the long game. Tom was the heart of the operation. Knew every hand by name, knew their families, their problems. If someone was struggling, Tom was the first one there with a listening ear and an offer of help.”

I trace the edge of my notebook, remembering. The way Dad would sit with me on the porch when something was wrong, never pushing, just waiting until I was ready to talk.

“That sounds like him,” I murmur quietly. “He was like that with me too.”

Marcus nods, his expression softening. Then he chuckles, shaking his head at some memory. “He’d sing, too. Lord, that man could not carry a tune to save his life. I remember one summer barbecue, Tom had a couple beers in him and started belting out Johnny Cash like he was performing at the Grand Ole Opry.” He wipes his eyes. “Bill laughed so hard he nearly fell off the porch. Even the dogs left.”

I laugh, and it feels good. Real. “He used to sing to me when I was little. I thought he was great.”

“Well, you were biased. The rest of us had to suffer.” Marcus’s eyes twinkle with laughter before he sobers. “But we loved him for it. We all did.”

He asks about my life in Denver, and I give him the same answers I give everyone. He nods along, genuinely interested, asking follow-up questions like the answers actually matter to him.

And maybe they do. Maybe this is just what it’s like to be part of a community that remembers where you came from.

“So the article.” He leans back with his coffee cup clasped between his hands. “Multigenerational ranching families. That’s a big topic.”

“I’m focusing on Glacier Ridge. The Hartleys and their legacy, specifically, but I want to capture the broader picture too. The challenges. The traditions. What it takes to keep these places running.”

“Smart angle. Lots of folks don’t understand what goes into it. They see cowboys on TV and think it’s all romance and sunsets.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard work. Brutal, sometimes.”

“That’s what I want to capture. The reality behind the romance.” I lean back in the booth, coffee warming my hands.

“It’s not easy, keeping a place like this afloat.” Marcus turns his coffee cup in his hands. “Lot of ranches around here haven’t made it. The Hendersons, the Millers… all of them are good people. Sometimes people just can’t catch a break.”