Roaring Fork Roughstock (Roaring Fork Ranch #2)

4. Cici

4

CICI

T he smell of smoke still clung to my clothes, so I went upstairs to change before returning to my dad’s office. I stared at the financial reports that had been spread out on his desk for days. The leather of his chair creaked as I leaned back, trying to sort through the mess of emotions churning inside me. Outside, the sun was barely cresting the horizon, painting the snow-covered yard in shades of pink.

Sometimes, I swore I could hear him here, late at night, muttering over contracts or calling his old rodeo buddies to arrange deals. He’d built this place from nothing, turned a rundown cattle ranch into a well-respected roughstock operation. And in my less-than-capable hands, it was crumbling.

I shook, picking up the latest reports I’d generated from the ranch’s antiquated accounting software. The numbers reinforced what I’d known for months—we were hemorrhaging money faster than I could patch the holes. And now, with the fire damage…I dropped the paper and pressed my palms against my eyes, fighting back tears of exhaustion and frustration.

The image of Porter rushing into flames to save our stock kept replaying in my mind. The way he’d known exactly which horses and bulls to prioritize, as if he understood their value beyond dollars and cents. It was the kind of knowledge that came from experience—the kind Dad would have appreciated.

A sound at the door made me jump. I looked up at Porter, who stood in the doorway. His face was streaked with soot, and burns were visible on his forearms where his sleeves had rolled up. The sight of him in my father’s sanctuary sent an irrational surge of anger through me.

“I, err, knocked,” he said. “The sheriff needs your signature on some forms,” he added in a voice rough from smoke inhalation when I nodded. He didn’t step into the room, instead maintaining the careful distance I’d demanded. Smart man.

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. The memory of him emerging from the flames with Thunder Cloud was still too fresh, too confusing. It didn’t fit with the image I’d built of him over the past couple of years—especially over the last one when all I could see was the reckless drunk who’d nearly killed my brother. The man who’d almost destroyed what little there was left of my life with one night of the worst kind of stupidity.

“The fire chief suspects arson,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “They found accelerant patterns. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

“Who would…?” I stopped, remembering not only the recently received threatening letters but the whispered conversations I’d overheard between my parents before the accident.

Then, it was about the mounting pressure from the developers eyeing our land that I believed fueled my dad’s paranoia in those final weeks.

“Someone who wants the ranch to fail.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket—the Houston contract he’d tried to give me yesterday. “This could help stop that from happening. But only if you’ll agree to it.”

Pride warred with pragmatism as I stared at the papers. Every instinct screamed at me not to trust him, but the numbers didn’t lie. Without major contracts, we’d lose everything within months. Mom and Dad’s legacy would vanish like morning frost under a harsh sun.

“Show me.” The words felt like gravel in my throat.

“What?”

“Show me what’s wrong with the operation. Everything.” I gestured to the chair across from the desk—Dad’s guest chair. My stomach twisted at the sight of Porter settling into it, but I forced the feeling down. “You’ve been here two days and already spotted problems I missed. So show me.”

Porter hesitated only for a moment before pulling out a notebook filled with his cramped handwriting. Pages of detailed observations about our stock and our facilities. The thoroughness surprised me—he must have been up half the night documenting everything.

“Your father had a system,” he began, and for once, I didn’t stop him from mentioning Dad. “He tracked genetic lines, performance ratings, health records—everything that made Morris Ranch’s roughstock program as respected as it was. In order to give you an accurate picture of where that stands now, we’d need to do the testing I mentioned before.” He flipped through several pages. “Here’s what we’d need to evaluate.”

As he walked me through the list, I felt my confidence crumbling. Possible problems I hadn’t allowed myself to think about were laid bare—inbreeding risks, declining performance metrics, missed health screenings. Every word was evidence of my incompetence, but I forced myself to listen.

“See these charts?” He spread out several papers. “Your father was careful about genetic diversity, but in the last year, you’ve had to sell off key bloodlines. The remaining stock is too closely related.”

I’d heard him the first time he mentioned the markings indicative of bloodlines. That I’d been so focused on keeping the lights on was no excuse for me missing the bigger picture. Dad’s meticulously crafted program was dissolving under my watch because I’d sold the wrong animals.

“The Houston contract is just the beginning,” he said, his voice softening. “But we need to address these issues first, starting with?—”

“We?” I cut in sharply.

He met my gaze steadily. “Yes, we. Because, like it or not, Cici, you need help. The ranch needs help. And I’m not the only one who sees it.”

Through the window, I noticed Maverick making his way toward the barn, leaning heavily on the cane he used when he didn’t think he needed the crutches. The sight of his halting progress hardened my resolve. This wasn’t just about me. It never had been. And it wasn’t about Porter. It was about preserving something bigger than all of us.

A memory surfaced—Dad standing in this very office, telling me that sometimes the hardest part of running a ranch was knowing when to swallow your pride and accept help. I’d been twelve then, watching him negotiate a loan to expand the costly programs he’d developed. Now, I understood exactly what he’d meant.

“I only agreed to one month,” I finally said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

“You know that won’t be long enough.”

I scowled. Of course it wasn’t. “There are conditions.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “You don’t speak to Maverick. You don’t make major changes without consulting me first. And you tell me everything—every problem, every solution, every detail. No secrets.”

The irony of demanding honesty from him wasn’t lost on me. Not when I had my own secrets locked away in the desk. Not when I still couldn’t explain why our parents had been on that icy road the night they died.

“Agreed.” He didn’t hesitate. “But I have a condition too.” He tapped the Houston contract. “You give this a real shot. No sabotaging it out of spite.”

The accusation stung. I had been ready to reject the opportunity simply because it came from him. How many other chances would I miss if I didn’t set aside my anger?

“Fine.” I snatched up a pen and signed the contract before I could change my mind. The scratch of pen on paper sounded final, irrevocable. “But again, don’t mistake this for forgiveness. Or trust.”

“I don’t.” He gathered his notes and stood. In the early morning light, the burns on his arms looked worse—angry red welts that made me wince despite myself. “I’ll have a full assessment of the rest tonight since now we’re down a barn. I plan to include security recommendations. That fire wasn’t an accident, and we both know it won’t be the last attempt to destroy what’s left of this place.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill down my spine. He knew something—something he wasn’t telling me. But before I could press him, Maverick’s voice drifted through the window, calling to one of the horses. Porter’s expression shifted, something like guilt flickering across his features.

As he reached the door, I called after him. “Porter?” He paused but didn’t turn. “Get those burns looked at. We can’t afford to have you sidelined by infection.”

He nodded once and was gone, leaving me alone with the ghost of my father and the sickening feeling that I’d just made either the best decision of my life or my worst mistake.

I turned to the window, watching him cross the yard, realizing I’d never signed the forms the sheriff needed. I went outside and walked over to him. On the way, I caught how the rising sun cast Porter’s shadow long across the snow—a dark line cutting through the pristine white, like a divider between past and future. Like the one I’d just crossed by letting him back into our lives—into my life.

Dad’s voice seemed to whisper from the corners of the office: “Trust your gut, little girl. But remember—sometimes the truth isn’t what we think it is.”

I wished I could decide which truth to focus on—the one about Porter Wheaton or the one about why he and Mom had really died that night. I couldn’t shake the fear the two might be more connected than I wanted to know. Was that the real reason he was here? Did his guilt run deeper than the accident with my brother? Had he played a role in my parents’ death too?