Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Jasper
It’s barely seven-thirty in the morning, and I already regret this with every fiber of my being. Chesney got here forty-five minutes ago, and having him here, existing on my ranch again, is too much. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make it through this.
When I woke up and made my way into the kitchen for my morning cup of coffee, I was already glancing out the window to see if his truck was parked outside yet.
The problem only got worse when I meandered outside shortly after and found it parked beside the equipment barn exactly where I expected it to be.
Like part of me knew he’d show up. Like part of me was waiting for it.
Get a fucking grip, Smith.
He’s here because of the will. Because of the money.
Because both our families are desperate enough for us to attempt to make this work.
That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. My jittery pulse as I lead him up the rickety old stairs inside the barn means nothing.
After Chesney showed up at my front door and agreed to this, he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the ranching side of things.
If I had to guess, it probably drags up too many bad memories.
We agreed that he’ll handle the financial stuff instead—managing expenses, looking for areas we can cut costs, or maybe even ways we can increase income.
Apparently, part of his job at the garage in Honey Creek is doing this kind of stuff.
And he actually seems like he enjoys it.
Fine by me. I hate paperwork.
The office up here is tiny, and the close proximity is suffocating.
Especially when all I can smell is whatever fresh-scented body wash he uses.
I hate how much I like it. Chesney’s dressed in a dark-gray t-shirt, a worn pair of jeans, boots, and a backward ball cap.
Used to be, the only hats he would wear were cowboy hats, but it looks like years and distance have changed that.
Out of the now-three times I’ve seen him in the last few months, I haven’t seen one on his head even once.
I stop behind the desk, resting a hand on the back of the chair, and for the first time since he got here, I look Chesney in the eye.
Something uncomfortable and oddly nostalgic unfurls in my chest, but it’s gone nearly as quickly as it came, when a moment later, he looks away, taking in the absolute mess that is this office with a furrow to his brow.
Good. It’s probably safer, and smarter, if we limit the amount of eye contact.
“Holy shit. Is this what I’m supposed to be going through?” he asks, voice rough, like it’s the first time he’s used it this morning.
I wince.
The office is bad. Really bad. Boxes stacked from floor to ceiling and old filing cabinets filled with three decades’ worth of shit—receipts, invoices, tax records, equipment purchases, insurance documents.
Not to mention, all the pictures and keepsakes that belong to my family. It’s a complete disaster.
“No.” Tipping my chin toward the small stack of boxes beside the desk, I say, “This is all the paperwork you’ll need to go through. All this other shit dates too far back. Dad was an old-fashioned man when it came to keeping books.”
“It looks like a tornado blew through here.”
I rub the back of my neck and force a small laugh. “You’re not wrong. I’ve been meaning to go through all this stuff for the last year, but I’ve been putting it off.”
Chesney turns slowly, taking it all in. “You’ve been managing finances out of this?”
I nod. “More or less. Only for the last year or so, though.”
He brings his gaze back to me, and I swear his eyes soften when he must realize why.
My father always handled the books. As he got older, and mobility became an issue, this was his thing.
I’d handle everything outside, while he kept us running from in here.
I had a good start on everything for a week or two, but keeping cattle alive quickly became more important than paperwork when I realized I couldn’t do both.
Then suddenly, more than a year disappears, and the office became… this.
To be fair, it was already bad before he died, but I didn’t make it any better.
Chesney whistles. “Might need an archaeologist.”
That almost sounds like a joke. Almost.
I snort. “Good luck.”
He shoots me an unamused look, and I have to bite back a smile. Gesturing toward the desk buried beneath folders between us, I say, “That’s yours.”
His eyebrows lift. “My very own mountain of debt. Lucky me.”
“Congratulations,” I tease. Something about this exchange feels unexpectedly easy.
I don’t quite know what to make of it because Chesney and the word “easy” haven’t been in the same sentence for far too long.
I clear my throat. “You good to get started? I gotta head out there, or the place might fall apart.”
“Yeah.” He nods, then looks around again. Heaving a sigh, he says, “I’m going to hate this.”
Shrugging, I say, “Yeah. Probably.”
“Great.”
The word comes out gruff, and for whatever reason, after a moment, it makes both of us laugh. Then reality returns.
“Well, I’ll be around if you need me.”
He nods once. “Thanks.”
I leave him upstairs and start on the mile-long list of shit I need to get done today.
One of the ranch hands is out, and we’re already running pretty bare boned around here as far as having extra help.
So, in addition to my regular duties, I also have to pick up the slack from his absence, which is pretty hard to do, considering I can’t focus worth a damn.
By the time noon rolls around, I’ve managed to check the same fence twice, walk into the equipment shed and forget why I went in there in the first place, and nearly drive a feed truck into the gate because my brain is somewhere else entirely.
Chesney Jennings.
He’s in the office, going through every bad decision my family’s made for the last decade, finding every mistake, every weakness, and every failure.
I can’t focus, knowing he’s up there. I’m about ready to crawl out of my skin.
Thankfully, I’m able to stay busy enough for another few hours before finally admitting defeat.
The office door is open when I climb the stairs.
Chesney’s sitting behind the desk as I walk in, papers covering almost every available surface.
It doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble focusing, with the way he’s reading through things and making notes.
His brow furrows slightly, and it unlocks a memory of how he’d do the same thing when we were teenagers.
My pulse knocks at the realization. How is it possible that I remember such a small detail nearly twenty years later? I should’ve long forgotten about that, and it feels weird that I’m recalling it now.
Chesney lifts his gaze, and I quickly shove that thought away. “You’re alive,” I drawl.
He huffs a breath. “Barely.”
I drag a chair over, sitting down beside him, but leaving enough room between us. “So, what’d you find?”
His expression changes immediately, and not in a good way. “How much honesty do you want?”
“That’s never a promising start,” I muse, trying to keep my tone light.
“No.” He drops a folder onto the desk. “The ranch is surviving,” he says. “Technically.”
My stomach drops. I knew things were bad. I know this was coming, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier.
“That bad?”
Chesney heaves a sigh. “You’ve got too much money going out and not enough coming in.” Tell me something I don’t know. “The cattle operation can work,” he continues. “But right now, it’s carrying everything by itself.”
Leaning back, I scrub my hand over my mouth. “So what do you suggest?”
His eyes narrow slightly as his jaw tightens. Then he reaches for a folder on top of a small stack in the corner of the desk. At first, I don’t recognize it, but then he slides it across, and my stomach drops for an entirely different reason.
“No.” It’s all I can manage. My heart’s beating so fast I can hear it in my ears.
Chesney blinks. “No?”
“No.”
Because I know exactly what’s in that folder.
Dude Ranch Development—Wind River Ranch Retreat stares back at me from the cover.
Taunting me. That folder contains nothing but a dream—and a dead one, at that.
Blueprints slide partially free as Chesney opens it.
Cabins. Expansion plans. Projected income estimates.
Marketing proposals. All things I haven’t looked at in nearly two years.
“What happened?” he asks softly.
I stare at the papers. The answer is simple. Life happened. Illnesses happened. Death happened. Then responsibilities increased tenfold, and reality kicked in.
“My dad happened,” I say plainly.
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Chesney doesn’t say anything—doesn’t push or ask questions. He just…waits.
Which somehow makes me answer.
“We started planning after Mom died.” My fingers tighten around the armchair. “Dad wanted another revenue stream.”
The cattle market had already started shifting back then.
Margins were shrinking, expenses were growing.
The dude ranch idea made sense—vacation cabins, trail rides, fishing packages.
People pay stupid money for the cowboy experience.
Especially tourists. I loved the idea. We even had the cabins built.
Five of them sit down by the creek next to what would’ve been a dining hall, fully framed and mostly finished. But then…
“Dad got sick.” The words come out flat.
Simple. Because the truth doesn’t need embellishment.
A heart attack arrived and everything else stopped.
The ranch went into survival mode, every spare dollar and hour going toward keeping things afloat, and I took on a hell of a lot more responsibility than I ever wanted.
Dreams became a luxury I could no longer afford, so the plans took a backseat indefinitely.