Cash (Lucky River Ranch #1)

1. Mollie

CHAPTER 1

Mollie

KISS MY ASS, COWBOY

SEPTEMBER

I’m deep in cowboy country, but I still jam on the brakes when I see an actual cowboy park his actual horse outside an actual saloon.

Have I gone back in time?

Or is the whole scene a mirage? My dashboard does say it’s 109 degrees outside.

The cloud of dust that’s followed me since Belton billows around my SUV, temporarily obscuring the view of a building marked The Rattler .

The Hill Country dust clears. Yep, that’s definitely a horse.

And that’s definitely a guy in slim-cut jeans and a cowboy hat sliding off the saddle with an ease that makes my breath catch.

Mom’s words echo inside my head: Hartsville is a one-horse town. I didn’t know she meant that literally.

I feel a whisper of recognition as I take in the building’s fa?ade behind the cowboy and his horse. It’s two stories, brick, with windows whose uneven panes glint in the hazy afternoon light. A faded green-and-black striped awning bears the image of a white rattlesnake, its forked tongue protruding from between its fangs.

I was six years old the last time I was in this tiny town, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Why would I remember a bar of all places?

“Mollie? Did I lose you?”

My stomach seizes, the sound of Wheeler’s voice on the phone yanking me back inside the Range Rover. Without looking, I immediately hit the gas, then send up a silent prayer of thanks that Main Street is deserted. No one to hit, thank God.

Well, except for the cowboy and his horse, who I glimpse at in my rearview mirror. I’m less than two hundred miles southwest of Dallas, but I might as well be on another planet for how different this place feels.

I reach for the vent beside the steering wheel and aim a blast of AC at my face. “Sorry, I’m here. I just got to Hartsville and…I think I may have just had an Outlander moment? But a Western-themed one, with a saloon and a cowboy.”

My best friend and business partner’s raspy laugh pours through the speakers. “Bring cowboy Jamie back to Dallas. Tell him city life is better.”

“No shit.” I peer out my windshield as my GPS tells me I’m approaching my destination. “Mom wasn’t joking when she said there was nothing out here.”

“Get your money and get the hell out of Dodge. Call me when you’re done, okay? I’m thinking of you.”

I smile, even as my stomach seizes again. “Thanks, friend. I can’t wait for the pop-up.”

“Same. I’m so curious to see how it goes.”

One of Dallas’s better-known boutiques is hosting a pop-up shop for our cowboy boot company this week. The boutique’s clientele is fashion-forward and well-heeled, so we’ll hopefully make a decent number of sales. Lord knows we could use the revenue .

Hanging up, I slow down in front of the last building on the left before Main Street continues down a desolate stretch of nothingness ahead. The chalk-colored dirt, dotted sparsely with trees, cacti, and brush, wavers in the mid-afternoon heat.

A brass placard beside the building’s door reads Goody Gershwin, Attorney at Law, Est. 1993 .

“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS informs me.

I pull into an angled parking spot beside an enormous candy-apple-red pickup truck. It also appears to be from 1993, its windows rolled down to reveal a front bench seat upholstered in faded gray fabric. A box set of Brooks & Dunn’s greatest hits sits on the passenger side of the bench.

It’s a box set of cassette tapes.

Maybe I really have gone back in time.

The heat hits me like a slap to the face the second I hop out of my car. It radiates off the blacktop and singes my bare legs.

At the same time, the sun bears down on my head and shoulders from above. It’s like being pressed inside a griddle.

Looping my bag over my shoulder, I wonder why the hell anyone would live out here. What did Dad see in this place?

I can’t believe I’m actually here. I can’t believe he’s actually gone.

Most of all, I can’t believe I lost the chance to ever make things right between us.

Grief, mixed with a hefty dose of anger, sits on my chest like an elephant.

A literal bell jangles above the door as I enter the building. It’s blessedly cool inside the office. The familiar scent of brewing coffee makes me feel slightly less discombobulated.

A young man with round glasses smiles up at me from a nearby desk. “You must be Mollie Luck. Welcome! I’m Zach, Goody’s paralegal.” He rounds the desk and holds out his hand. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

I take his hand. “Three hours. Not terrible. Nice to meet you, Zach. And I’m fine, thanks.”

He eyes my metallic-pink boots. “Those are spectacular .”

“Aw, thank you. They’re part of my boot company’s most recent collection.”

“You own a boot company?” A woman with short, dark hair in a light-colored linen suit emerges from a door to my left. She appears to be wearing a bolo—black, silver buckle—without a trace of irony. “How amazing!”

“They’re manufactured right here in Texas.”

The woman’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at me. “Even better. I’m Goody Gershwin. Nice to finally meet you, Mollie. Your dad talked about you often. He was so proud of you.”

My eyes burn, and my heart twists. Was Dad proud of me? He never showed it. Definitely never said it. But I’d like to think he’d be a little proud of how I turned out at least.

I paste on a smile. “Nice to meet you too.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. The community here has taken Garrett’s death hard, but I can only imagine how tough it’s been for y’all.”

A piercing ache shoots through my heart and settles in the back of my throat. “The community” must’ve been a lot closer to Dad than I was. Then again, no one except Mom, Mom’s parents, Wheeler, and I showed up to his funeral in Dallas three months ago, so who knows?

“I appreciate that.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re here.” Goody drops my hand. “Today should be relatively straightforward. As the executor of your father’s will, I’ll walk you through his estate and the distribution of his assets, along with his wishes for?—”

Goody looks up at the jingle of the bell behind me. The creases at the edges of her eyes deepen. “Hello, Cash! Always a pleasure seeing you. ”

Cash . Why is that name familiar?

“Ma’am. Good afternoon.”

Something about the deep voice—its scraped-bare sound, maybe, or the thick-as-molasses accent—has me glancing over my shoulder.

My heart takes a tumble at the very handsome man standing just inside the door. He looks to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Tall—six-three, I’d guess—with the kind of build you see on quarterbacks: broad shoulders, thick arms, long legs with thighs that strain against his fitted jeans. Wranglers, if I had to guess.

He’s holding a cowboy hat to his chest, like he just swept it off his mass of messy brown hair that curls out at the ends. Veins crisscross the back of his hand. He’s sporting a scruffy beard that’s longer along his top lip—I don’t normally find mustaches attractive, but somehow, it’s downright hot on this guy—and a white-and-blue striped button-up that complements his cobalt eyes.

Eyes that are so blue, in fact, they seem to glow against his deeply tanned face.

Those eyes lock on mine. My pulse blares inside my ears. One beat. Two.

The intensity of the extended eye contact, the ballsiness of it, makes my stomach drop. His gaze flickers. Why do I get the feeling he’s annoyed? Angry even?

The memory hits me: a pair of gangly blue-eyed boys in the bed of a pickup truck. One of them was punching another in the head, the blows increasing in frequency until a voice shouted at them from the cab to quit it.

The Rivers boys.

Despite the obvious prevalence of bodily injury in their family, I was so jealous of those kids. As an only child, all I wanted was a house full of siblings, and here were the Rivers with oodles of them. I distinctly remember seeing Mrs. Rivers in the passenger seat, her hand on her pregnant belly .

Their family owns the ranch next to Dad’s property. I remember seeing the boys at the tractor-supply store here in town and at the rodeo out in Lubbock once. Not often enough to be friends—their mom homeschooled them on their ranch, so they weren’t around a lot—but often enough to know who they were.

Unable to withstand Cash’s gaze another second, I look down at his boots. They’re square-toed, dark brown. The leather is creased with age, but obviously well cared for, the color gleaming from a recent coat of conditioner.

The whisper of vague recognition I felt earlier returns.

Thanks to my job, I know cowboy boots better than anyone. This is a pair of Lucchese: expertly made, expensive, and classic. They’re the kind of cowboy boots you pass down from generation to generation.

Dad wore Lucchese. I don’t know how I remember this, but the certainty of it sits in my gut like a brick.

“Mollie, allow me to introduce Cash Rivers.” Goody extends her arm. “He’s been the foreman at your family’s ranch for, goodness, has it been?—”

“Twelve years.” Cash’s clipped reply makes me think he really is annoyed. With me? But why?

And he’s working on our property now? What happened to his family’s ranch? I’m confused.

That does explain why he’d be at the reading of Dad’s will, though. As the foreman, maybe he’ll be giving me the literal lay of the land?

Not like it matters. The second Lucky Ranch is in my name, I’m putting it up for sale. I have absolutely no interest in running a Hill Country cattle ranch. I’ve always been more of an indoor girl, and my whole life is in Dallas anyway—my friends, my family. Bellamy Brooks, the cowboy boot company I started with Wheeler, is also based in the area. Business is finally taking off, and the inheritance I’m about to get will definitely bring us to the next level .

“Cash. Wow. I remember you.” I extend my hand.

He glances at it, his mouth a hard line. An awkward beat passes before he wordlessly envelops my hand in the warm mitt of his. My pulse skips at the firmness of his handshake. How his heavily calloused palm presses against mine, dry but somehow thrillingly alive at the same time.

I give him a firm handshake back, making a point to look him in the eye again.

“Been a minute,” he says at last.

A scent rises off him. Simple soap, cut with something sexier. Aftershave? Whatever it is, it smells fresh and herbal, and it’s delicious enough to make my pulse skip a second time.

“Good to see you again,” I manage.

I wait for Cash to reply. What kind of name is Cash, anyway? His real name? A nickname?

He doesn’t say a word.

“Well, now that we’re all here”—Goody grabs a file and a small zippered pouch Zach holds out to her—“we can get started. Just follow me to the conference room.”

She heads down a hallway. I glance at Cash, who lifts his hat a half inch off his chest. “After you.”

I wonder if he’s a man of few words or if he’s just an asshole.

I want to be back in Dallas so bad, my stomach hurts. Then again, my stomach always hurts, so that’s nothing new.

I follow Goody down the hallway, Cash’s heavy footfalls behind me.

One hour. Two, max . Then I’ll have the money I need to make my dreams come true.

Well, one dream at least.

And maybe using Dad’s money to fund Bellamy Brooks will finally make me feel less angry about—well, everything.

Goody takes a seat at the head of the long, shiny conference table. I grab the chair to her right and watch Cash fold his large body into the chair to Goody’s left. He sets his hat on the table upside down so that the crown is facing up. What’s that about? A way to protect the hat’s shape or something?

Then he reaches up and runs his blunt fingers through his hair, drawing his shirt taut across the well-muscled expanse of his chest.

Looking away, I busy myself pulling my planner out of my bag. I have no idea why I’d need it, but I have to do something with my hands. I’m suddenly nervous.

Which makes no sense. Mom assured me I was Dad’s only living child and heir. According to their divorce settlement, I’ll get all his property since he never remarried or had other children. Money is the one thing Dad did give me over the years. Anytime I needed it, he’d cut a check.

But anytime I needed him, he’d never show.

I blame my nerves on the glowering cowboy across from me. Who, by the way, is lazily leaning back in his chair, knees spread, forearms slung across the armrests like he’s bored.

I feel a surge of anger. I don’t wanna be here either, dickwad.

Dad and I were not close. But I still wish he hadn’t died, even if I am about to get a boatload of his cash and his ranch. In fact, I very much wish he were still here, so I could—I don’t know—try one last time.

Maybe call him one last time and say I love you, I’m sorry, can we start over?

I always assumed we’d have all the time in the world to mend our relationship. Part of me wanted him to know just how hurt I was by his absence in my daily life after my parents got divorced when I was six, so once I got older, I totally shut him out. I figured once I hit a certain level of success—once I was a real adult, one who didn’t hold grudges—we’d iron things out.

Now I’ll never get that chance, and it kills me.

Goody sets out several pieces of paper on the table, pushing them around until they line up in rows of three. “ I’d like to start by saying emotions can run high during these situations. It’s okay to take a break if you need it, all right?”

I uncap a purple felt-tipped pen. “Okay.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cash sits up in his chair and rests his elbows on the table.

“Let’s dive right in.” Goody glances down at the papers. “For simplicity’s sake, we’ll divide Garrett Randall Luck’s assets into two buckets: financial and tangible. The Lucky Ranch comprises 256,000 acres and 15,000 head of cattle, along with 22 structures, several pieces of heavy equipment, and an oil operation that produces approximately 1,000 barrels a day. As of the signing of this will, the ranch employed 50 people…”

I hear the whisper of denim on denim. Looking across the table, I notice Cash’s knee is bouncing. He’s anxious too.

Why is he here? Is he expecting to get something from Dad?

“…and then we have the financial bucket, consisting of cash and an investment portfolio. Garrett requested this be put in a trust…”

Cash glances up, and our gazes collide. I finally recognize the look in his eyes.

Resentment. What? Why? I haven’t been in this town for twenty years . What could I have possibly done to him?

“…all this is to say”—Goody inhales sharply, and Cash’s eyes cut to her—“Garrett last amended his will in April of this year. In that amendment, he stipulated that Lucky Ranch and all its operations be bequeathed to his only living relative, Mary Elizabeth Luck, nicknamed Mollie.”

Cash’s hands land with a whack on the table, making me jump. “With all due respect, Goody, that’s incorrect. Garrett said the ranch would go to me.”

My head spins. A fist grips my lungs and squeezes. “Excuse me? ”

“Garrett promised me the ranch.” Cash looks me square in the eye. “Many times, in fact.”

Goody frowns. “We don’t have that in writing, I’m afraid.”

I stare at Cash. “Are you delusional?”

“Are you?” he fires back. “Goody, Garrett said he’d put it in his will. I can have all of Hartsville—every single person—vouch for me. Patsy and John B. The ranch hands. Sally and Tallulah, and, well, everyone heard Garrett say it. Think about it. I know Lucky Ranch better’n anyone. My family’s been in Hartsville for generations?—”

“He was my dad.” Regardless of the fact that he and I barely spoke over the past decade. “I’m his daughter. What makes you think you’re entitled to his assets? I’ve barely even heard of you.”

Cash’s blue eyes burn. “You would have if you’d called or spent any time on the ranch.”

Fuck. This guy. For life .

“You know nothing about me.” My voice wavers. “And clearly, you know nothing about my family. The ranch belongs to me?—”

“Lemme guess. You’re gonna sell it.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Sure as hell is my business. I’ll be damned if our operation is sold to one of your idiot trust-fund friends who doesn’t know their ass from their elbow when it comes to ranching. You got no idea how much work we’ve put in?—”

“I don’t care.” I clench my teeth. “Truly, I could care less about you or whatever work you do.”

“You couldn’t care less.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes bore into mine. “That’s the proper expression.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

“Where do I begin?” He leans forward.

“All right, y’all.” Goody raises her voice. “Let’s try and keep it civil, all right? Garrett wouldn’t want y’all arguing this way. We have to respect his wishes as he laid them out in his will. It is the law.”

“I’m gonna fight this,” Cash says.

I purse my lips. “I’d like to see you try.”

Goody clears her throat. “May I finish?”

Cash’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Go for it.”

“The monetary assets—cash and the investment portfolio, which have been placed in a trust—will also go to Mollie.”

Dad made a pile of money back in the nineties when oil was discovered on a far corner of our family’s property. Mom got some of it in the divorce, and she used it to start a real estate brokerage company in Dallas. Dad divided the rest between the ranch and the stock market. Considering the Dow Jones Industrial Average has increased fourfold since then…yeah, there’s a lot of money there.

Cash lets out a dark chuckle. “See, City Girl? You got your money. Let us have the ranch.”

I take a page from his book and stay silent. No point honoring that ridiculousness with a response. Although what does he mean when he says us ?

“However”—Goody flattens her palm on the table beside mine—“there is a stipulation.”

I finally break eye contact with Cash to look at Dad’s attorney. “A stipulation? Like I have to be a certain age or something to inherit the estate?”

“Sort of.” She hesitates. “This stipulation…is unique, I’ll say that much. Your father is requiring you to reside on Lucky Ranch for one full calendar year before you can access any of the funds in the trust. He also requests you actively participate in the day-to-day operations as principal of Lucky Ranch Enterprises, Incorporated. If you do so, you’ll receive a generous monthly stipend from the trust for every month you reside in Hartsville.”

I laugh .

I throw back my head and laugh, hard, because if I don’t, I’m worried I’ll puke.

Surely , Goody is joking. Surely , my father, a quiet, practical man, would never ask me —the daughter he sent to boarding school and then to college in major cities—to live in the middle of nowhere for a year while running a cattle ranch .

But Goody just looks at me and blinks. Totally unfazed.

Oh, God. She’s serious.

“That can’t be right.” Cash leans over to glance at the paperwork. “Doesn’t sound like Garrett.”

At least we can agree on that.

Goody tilts her head. “I was sitting in this very chair when Garrett said exactly those words back in April. We drafted the new will that day.”

I blink back tears, my stomach pitching. “But why make me live on the ranch? Is that even legal? How can it be enforced?”

Goody takes a long inhale and then holds out her hands, palms up. “It’s what your dad wanted, Mollie. I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you hoped to hear.”

“What if I don’t do it?”

Cash harrumphs. “Shocker.”

Ignoring him, I press on. “I have a job. Like I said, I run my company back in Dallas. And I have a condo, and—and my mom lives there, and I—my friends, everything—I can’t just?—”

“Leave?” Cash raises a brow. “You could try it, right now.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why don’t you take your own advice? My dad clearly didn’t leave you anything?—”

“That’s not exactly true,” Goody interjects.

“—so why don’t you get the hell out of here already?”

Cash turns to the attorney. “I’m listening.”

“Can’t you just release the funds, Goody?” I ask, desperate. “ Even just a portion of them? At least until I can get Mom’s lawyers to look at the will.”

She offers me a contrite smile. “Wouldn’t be right, Mollie. I’m sorry. We do this how your dad wanted it done, or we don’t do it at all. My hands are tied.”

My mind whirls. Pressing my fingertips to my forehead, I close my eyes and try not to panic. I can’t make heads or tails of what was my father’s dying wish. I haven’t stepped foot on the ranch in twenty years. Why bring me back now?

Why make me Lucky Ranch’s principal owner?

Why do I care?

Why the hell do I care?

I don’t know why. But my heart still feels like it’s being passed through a paper shredder.

“As ranch life is”—Goody clears her throat—“clearly not a passion of yours, Mollie, I suggest you establish residency here in Hartsville as soon as possible. The sooner the clock starts, the sooner you’ll get your stipends, and the sooner you’ll be able to go back to your life in Dallas.”

“She won’t last a week,” Cash mutters.

“You’re not going to last another minute if you keep insulting me.” I open my eyes to glare at him. “I don’t know what my dad saw in you, but it’s obvious he was a piss-poor judge of character. Seriously, leave.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere until I know Lucky Ranch ends up in the right hands.”

Goody rises. “How about we take five?”

Jamming the cap back onto my pen, I throw it into my bag, along with my planner. “I’m done here. Goody, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” I hear Cash say as I stalk out of the conference room.

“Wait, Mollie—Miss Luck—” Zach rises from behind his desk, but I zoom past him and out into miserable afternoon heat .

I only allow myself to burst into tears when I’m safely ensconced inside my car. Grabbing my phone, I hit Mom’s number, the dial tone barely audible over the roar of the air-conditioning.

“Mollie!” Her familiar voice makes my runaway pulse slow ever so slightly. “How are you, sweetheart? How’d everything go?”

I collapse against the steering wheel, burying my face in my forearms. Letting out a sob, I say, “Not great.”