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A motorcycle roars up Main Street, breaking the silence of the sunny June morning. I lift a hand to Rufus, leader of the Choir Boys motorcycle club, and watch him head to the Legion.
Already the town’s bustling. Shopkeepers are outside setting up A-frame signs and sweeping the front stoops of boutiques and coffee shops. Summer in Resurrection means our tight-knit mountain community of 6,000 increases tenfold during the peak tourist season.
The sooner I can get back to the ranch, the better.
Still, I like this walk. This view.
Dense pine forest and the sun-drenched Rocky Mountains frame Resurrection, a former Wild West mining town that is snugly situated in a box canyon. In the distance is Crybaby Falls, the switchbacks that lead up to Glacier National Park.
I duck around the corner, stride up to the Bear Creek Clinic, and enter through the sliding glass doors. The elevator takes me to the second floor, where I enter a narrow hallway that connects the community hospital to the cancer center.
I step up to the front desk. “Hey, Kara.”
“Charlie.” She snaps a bubble. “Stede’s back in his chair. He’s ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
I walk down the hallway and enter the room.
Stede lifts a gnarled hand when he sees me.
The space is sterile and minimalist. There’s a couch, a muted TV showing an old episode ofBonanza, and framed scenes of nature with cheery words of positivity printed beneath them. In other words, depressing as fuck.
“Hey, kid,” Stede says, setting the book in his lap aside.
“Hey, old timer.” I pull a chair around and sit in front of him. By now, like Stede, I’m used to the machines and the needles. “How you doin’?”
“Kicking ass, kid. You goddamn blind?” Stede drawls in his deep rumble, gesturing at the needle lodged in his arm.
I chuckle. “Nice to see you too, asshole.”
Even stage two lung cancer can’t keep Stede McGraw down. His thick silver hair is gone, but he still has his signature horseshoe mustache. Coming from a long line of prospectors and cowboys, Stede’s ancestors founded Resurrection, and he looks the part.
The man’s a legend in our small community. A retired pro bull rider who made millions working as a stuntman and livestock wrangler—he has pull, influence and the biggest ranch in Resurrection. He’s been like a surrogate father to me and my brothers ever since we blew into town, guiding us and putting in good words with the locals so they didn’t eat us alive. A man I admire and respect. A man who gave me a new start.
Ten years ago, I stumbled into the Nowhere bar and took a seat beside the man. When I told him I wanted some land to get lost on, he asked me only one question: “You from California, boy?”
“No, sir,” I replied, five whiskeys deep by then.
Satisfied by my answer, he sold me the land.
It was a handshake deal. I used my rodeo prize winnings and cashed in on my trust fund to get enough money for a down payment. Buying the ranch means I didn’t just run and piss away my future. I did something with it. The land I own is mine and nothing can take it from me. Even if the light at the end of the tunnel is still hard to see.
Stede stares me down, his gaze eagle-sharp. “We got to talk, kid. And talk now.”
I sigh and scrub my hand down my beard. “Listen, if it’s about the video—”
“I don’t give two fucks about social media.”
That makes two of us.
Although Davis might be right about putting some thought into it.
Advertising was one thing we never did. Social media was a pain in my ass, so I steered clear of it and relied on word of mouth. Slowly, after five years’ operating as a working ranch, Runaway Ranch is showing small but consistent profits.
But it won’t be for long if we don’t get ourselves out of this mess.
No one wants to go to a ranch where they get yelled at.
