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“This land sat empty for years. Before that, it was a prosperous ranch with even more land than it has now,” I spat, setting the binoculars on the railing and turning to George. “None of this was an issue until that EPA surveyor came to town and forced his way onto the property without an inspection warrant.”
“You think that young lady is going to be able to do anything about this?”
“I don’t even know where to start with any of this,” I groused, pressing my hands into the railing and letting my head fall forward. “My lawyer’s skills only go as far as asserting what rights I have as the owner of this property. If there was any wrongdoing before I took over the land…” I looked up, taking in the acres and acres of pristine country before me. “It’ll be decades of issues to fix, whatever it is. Otherwise, I’ll lose that acreage to the fucking EPA.”
I pushed off the railing and started to walk back into the house, but then paused, turning on my heel and looking at George. “I could use a drink.”
“I know a place,” George said with a wry grin before clapping me on the shoulder and jogging down the porch stairs.
I followed, looking out over the land once more before getting into his truck.
Moira better be my saving grace, or all of this was for nothing.
ChapterTwo
Moira
“Day!” I hollered from the garage, gathering a bunch of crap in my arms and tossing it unceremoniously toward the driveway. “The movers are here! Get your shit,we gotta go!”
“Mama! Where’s Hammy?”
“He’s in the car already, baby,” I replied, kicking a box full of God knows what toward the driveway. The movers pulled up at the end of the driveway, their truck creaking and sputtering as they kicked it into park. I squinted into the glare of sun beaming off the white walls of the box truck, scowling as I flicked my sunglasses over my eyes.
I’d been out in the garage since six in the goddamn morning trying to get my life, Day’s life, and the life my parents left behind when they died, packed into boxes. I got the call that I got the job at the Hallston Ranch in Hot Springs, Montana, less than forty-eight hours ago and said I could be there by Friday afternoon, which wastomorrow.
I’d neglected to say that we were living in Dallas, Texas.
Shit, I had one hell of a drive ahead of me.
“Everything in boxes is going to the storage unit,” I said to the two movers dressed in pale blue coveralls. “Everything was in the email, the location, all of that,” I continued, watching the men examine the antique furniture, art, and boxes of crystals I’d inherited from my mother. She had been a pack rat and eBay’s most loyal customer. I hadn’t had the heart, or time, to even sort through her things.
I let out a breath, running my fingers through my hair as I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror framed in brass that was leaning against the wall of the garage, the edges covered in bubble wrap. My blue eyes were lined with dark circles, and my white tank top and athletic shorts were already damp with sweat in the unforgiving early summer heat. I shook my head, blinking away from my reflection as I glanced around the garage to make sure I got everything out of our condo.
“Mama,” Day whispered from the doorway leading into our two-bedroom condo on the outskirts of Plano, which had cost me an arm and leg to rent over the last two years. “Can we stop at Chicken Burger?” By Chicken Burger, he meant Chick-Fil-A. It was a cute little hiccup he’d been saying since he was a toddler, and it broke my heart to think he’d ever call it anything different.
“Yes,” I breathed, giving him a soft smile before reaching my hands behind my head to twist my thick, nearly waist length auburn hair into the biggest claw clip I’d been able to find. The sun was relentless and beating down on me as I walked out into the driveway and opened the trunk to my red Jeep Wrangler to begin tossing duffle bags full of what little necessary personal belongings we had inside—clothes and shoes and Day’s favorite toys and books.
We’d be in Montana for a year at least, based on the contract I’d electronically signed. I wasn’t about to send our furniture all the way to Montana. We’d take what we needed, and if we needed anything else, I’d find a way to get it. We were being given room and board and a weekly stipend for food and other necessities on top of a contracted salary I couldn’t have turned down even if I wanted to.
“Holliday Raylon,” I griped, glancing at my eight-year-old son, who was now dilly-dallying in the garage, popping bubble wrap between his fingers. “Did you double check that you got everything out of your room?”
“Yeah, Mama. The house is totally empty. It’s weird.”
“Then get it in the car, we’re running late already!”
Day pursed his lips at me, his freckled nose crinkling as he sulked over to the Jeep, his tangled mass of light brown curls tucked behind his ears. He was wearing my mom’s leather satchel across his chest, which made me pause and take a deep, restorative breath. It was the only thing belonging to my mom, his grandma, that he wanted to keep after she passed away.
When she was alive, he’d dressed up as a cowboy in little leather boots and hats. Mom had given him the satchel for his fifth birthday, completing his cowboy outfit.
Day had an unconventional childhood so far, which was entirely my fault. My mom dying severed the last thread of “normal” we had.
He fingered the turquoise beading on the strap as he stood on his tiptoes to peer into the front seat, likely to confirm I had, in fact, packed a cooler full of snacks and his beloved Capri Suns like I’d promised when I told him we had to take a big, long, last minute road trip.
I don’t think he fully understood that we were moving, but we were nomads, and had been since he was a year old.
I never stayed in one place for very long. I couldn’t, not with the ghost of his father haunting me wherever I went.
“Is this everything?” one of the movers asked, motioning to the piles of boxes pushed up against the edge of the driveway. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms dotted with unmistakable prison tattoos.
