Page 47 of Wild Sanctuary

“Colt and West are both here. June too, most of the time. Maggie’s in town. The ranch stays in the family.”

“And after them?”

“That’s their business, not mine.”

She taps her pen against the notebook. “You’re the oldest. You run the operation. Presumably you’ve thought about what happens down the line—who inherits, how the land gets divided, whether there’ll be anyone to pass it to.”

“Presumably.”

“So?”

“So that’s not what this article is about.”

“It’s exactly what this article is about.” Her pen hits the notebook with a sharp tap. “Multigenerational. That means past, present, and future. I can’t write about legacy without asking what comes next.”

“Write about the cattle. Write about the land. Write about a hundred years of Hartleys breaking their backs to keep this place running.” I keep my voice flat. “That’s plenty.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It’s going to have to be.”

“Why?” She’s not backing down. “Why won’t you give me anything real?”

“I’ve answered every question you’ve asked.”

“You’ve given me facts. Data. Stuff I could pull from a county records search.” She leans forward, and there’s a spark of frustration in her eyes now. “Old Dave talked to me for three hours. Three. Hours. He told me stories about your father, about mine, about that time you got stuck on the roof. He got emotional talking about our dads—said those two built something most men only dream about.” Her eyes go bright for a second before she blinks it away. “Miguel showed me the entire cattle operation and explained why he’s turned down better-paying jobs three times. Even West opened up, and I’m pretty sure he’d rather have a root canal than make small talk.”

The words land harder than she probably intends. Because she’s right. And the reason I can’t do what they did isn’t something I can explain. Not to her. Not ever.

“Good for them.”

“But you—” She shakes her head. “You’re giving me nothing. No stories, no memories, no sense of what this place actually means to you. Just… walls.”

“You know I’m not much of a talker.”

“That’s a cop-out and you know it.”

It is. She’s right.

And the fact that she won’t let me hide behind it makes me feel cornered in my own damn office.

I shove back from the desk suddenly. “What do you want from me, Daisy?”

“I want you to talk to me like I’m a person, not an inconvenience.” She’s on her feet now too, notebook forgotten on the chair. “I’ve been here a week. I’ve talked to everyone on this ranch, and every single one of them gave me more in ten minutes than you have in an hour. They talked about this place like it means something to them. You talk about it like you’re reading from a manual.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“It is. It’s exactly like that.” She takes a step closer, voice rising. “And I don’t understand why. I don’t understand what I did to make you treat me like I’m some stranger you can’t wait to get rid of.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is your problem?”

The words hang in the air between us, sharp and demanding.

I should answer. Should give her something—anything—that will end this conversation and get her the hell out of my office. But my mind is blank, every excuse I could offer tangled up with truths I can’t say.

“We’re done here.”