6. Mollie
CHAPTER 6
Mollie
COME ON, SNAKES, LET’S RATTLE
Green.
It’s everywhere. In the canopy of giant oaks that border either side of the ranch’s entrance and in the grassy stubble that covers the ground. Green cacti, shaped like enormous ears, spike up from the pale-yellow earth. Even the letters and logo stamped in the massive beam overhead are green: Lucky Ranch Est. 1902.
Considering how barren the landscape has been for the past two hundred miles, all this green is a shock to the senses.
A pleasant shock. But a shock nonetheless.
Lucky Ranch is a literal oasis. How? Why? And why does the sight of the simple but lovingly tended entrance, its stone supports weathered with age, cause a strange stirring inside my chest?
I don’t remember the ranch being this green or the oaks this grand. Then again, it’s been twenty years since I stepped foot on this land. A lot has changed since then.
Taking the right, I pass underneath the arch and continue down an unpaved but tidy road. My tires crunch on the dirt and gravel. This is Hill Country, so the road climbs and dips often. It goes on for longer than I remember, hinting at the grand scope of the property.
It’s beautiful. Meadows open up on my left, and I slow when I see a pair of deer there, their ears perking up as I approach. After staring at me for a long beat, they merrily leap off into the trees, light as feathers on their feet. Hooves. Whatever.
Gnarled oaks and sycamores provide a canopy of much-needed shade overhead. I crest a big hill, a canyon yawning into view on my right. The breath leaves my lungs as I take in the vista: pastures, woods, the green glimmer of a distant river.
“Wow,” I breathe. I definitely don’t remember the ranch being this beautiful. Granted, I was a kid the last time I saw it. I don’t think I would’ve appreciated it then.
Now, though? It’s pretty enough to make me stop at the top of the canyon to gawk the vastness of the property. The unspoiled wildness of it all.
For a split second, I’m gripped by the image of a blue-eyed cowboy on horseback galloping across the meadow below. He’s in jeans and a hat, strong arms filling out the sleeves of his Western blue-and-white striped button-up. He moves gracefully with the horse, his big body undulating in time to her strides.
My pulse skips a beat.
I’m fantasizing about Cash. Jesus .
As if my stomach weren’t already in knots. I’m back on the ranch my estranged father left me for God knows what reason. I have no idea what—who—I’m going to find here or how long I’m going to have to stay. What if Mom’s lawyers don’t come through? What if I’m stuck here for twelve months instead of one?
It doesn’t help that I’m fantasizing about how well asshole cowboys ride things. Cowboys who, in all likelihood, live right here on the ranch .
Cowboys whose help I’m going to need running this place.
Maybe Mom was right to freak out when I told her I was returning to the ranch. “Nothing good happens in Hartsville,” she’d said.
She begged me not to make the trip. But I’m out of options.
Shoving the image of Cash and his stupid hat aside, I continue down the road. About a mile or so in, my heart skips a beat when I see buildings come into view.
I remember the first house we lived in here on Lucky Ranch. It was small and simple—a white clapboard farmhouse my great-grandfather built. Then Dad struck oil, and he built Mom a modern stone mansion with huge windows and a metal roof.
We didn’t live there for long. Less than a year after construction wrapped up, my mom and I left Hartsville for Dallas. Little did I know then that I wouldn’t lay eyes on this land again for two decades.
I see the stone house first. It’s bigger than I remember. More beautiful too. I breathe a silent sigh of relief. At least I’ll be comfortable there.
Beyond the house, there’s a landscaped yard with a pool. Further back, I glimpse a pair of barns, a silo, and a corral.
My pulse skips another beat when I see cowboys on horseback by the corral, kicking up dust in the mid-morning heat.
There’s a lot of them. Way more than I’d anticipated. Ten cowboys? More?
I know nothing about ranching. Less than nothing about ranching on this scale.
I slap my hand to my forehead, feeling sick. I want to fire Cash Rivers the second I see him. But I don’t see how I’m going to run this place without the help of Lucky Ranch’s foreman. A quick Google search told me that foremen are a ranch’s go-to guys (and girls)—the people who oversee pretty much everything.
I glance at my rearview mirror. I can just see the road through the cloud of dust behind me. It’s not too late to turn back.
Maybe Mom’s lawyers are close to convincing a judge that Dad’s stipulation is stupid and ultimately unenforceable.
If not, I could always ask Mom for a loan against my inheritance? But she’s already made an investment in Bellamy Brooks, and again, she made it clear that’s the only investment she’ll make. Being the people-pleaser I am, I don’t want to overstep or stress her out. I know she’s working hard right now, trying to sell her client’s estate. I know she has lots of money tied up in other projects too. I don’t want to pile on to her problems.
So I park in front of the house and pray like hell my stay here is only temporary.
The front door opens, and Goody emerges onto the front step, waving at me as I climb out of my car.
“Mollie! You made it.”
I called her yesterday when I decided I’d be returning to Hartsville. She said she’d meet me at the ranch “to help smooth the transition.”
I didn’t tell her I have no intention of living here longer than I have to. Mom employs the best of the best when it comes to lawyers. Surely, they’ll have straightened out this whole mess by the end of the month.
“How was the drive?” Goody asks. Her bolo is taupe today. Same as her suit and matching boots.
“Hey, Goody. It was fine.”
“I’m so glad you changed your mind about returning to the ranch.”
I paste on a smile, already starting to sweat. It’s hot as hell out here. “It’s what Dad wanted.”
“Come on in. Everyone is eager to meet you. ”
A bloom of anxiety takes root in my center as I climb the limestone steps leading to the front door. The regret I feel over not visiting Dad on the ranch takes on a vicious edge. What must the ranch’s employees think of me? I’m Dad’s only child, but I rarely called and never visited. They must’ve known we were estranged. But do they know why?
My cheeks burn. Will they resent me for treating the man they apparently adored so poorly? I sure as hell would.
Nothing I can do about that now, except show them the character I (hopefully) have now that I didn’t back then as a hurt, headstrong kid.
I’m hit by the homiest, most delicious smell ever the second I step through the house’s massive door. It’s sweet, and it’s savory, and good Lord am I hungry.
Goody smiles at the audible rumble of my stomach. “I’m glad you arrived early. Patsy’s lunch spread is not to be missed.”
“Patsy?”
“Lucky Ranch’s chef, and dare I say the best cook in Hart County.”
The house is cool, but not at all quiet. Voices ramble down the long, wide hallway ahead. I follow Goody toward it, taking in the house as we go. It’s huge, and it’s got Mom’s fingerprints all over it. I recognize the twelve-foot ceilings from the house she built in Dallas. The iron light fixtures, exposed stone walls, and enormous windows too. Even the furnishings look like items she would’ve picked out: antique chairs, neutral upholstery, lots of pillows.
I frown. Everything is in pristine shape. No way Mom picked it all out twenty-plus years ago?
Goody must read my mind, because she says, “Recognize any of this?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Your dad didn’t change a thing after you and your mom left. To be fair, he didn’t live here for very long after that either. He preferred your grandparents’ place.”
“He moved back to the farmhouse?”
Goody dips her head. The voices get louder. “He did.”
Huh. Dad must’ve really hated this house if he preferred a tiny, hundred-year-old clapboard spot instead. Did he hate it because it reminded him of Mom and me?
Or did he hate it because he hated her? She sure as hell did not like him.
My stomach twists. Growing up, all I wanted was a normal family. One where my mom didn’t despise my dad. Seeing my friends’ parents flirt, or kiss, or even just sit at the dinner table beside each other always felt so special.
Now that I’m an adult and I understand the complexities of adult relationships, I know there were good reasons why my parents split. But it never stopped hurting like hell when Mom would talk shit about Dad or when I’d convince myself that Dad hated me, too, because I was on Mom’s side, and that’s why he never brought me back to the ranch. I didn’t mean to pick sides. It just kind of happened. And then years passed, and resentments grew, and…yeah, now I’m here, ready to burst into tears at any moment.
“The kitchen is really the only part of the house people regularly use,” Goody continues. “It’s the only place big enough for us to sit down and eat. Of course, when your dad entertained guests, they’d stay here. I imagine you’d like to stay here as well? The primary bedroom is lovely.”
I nod, pulse drumming as we approach the kitchen. I tell myself not to be nervous. I own the ranch now, which means I own this house and employ all the people I’m about to meet. Maybe they’re nervous to meet their new boss too.
I’m still downright nauseous as I follow Goody through a large doorway on our right. I bet Cash isn’t the only one who hates me.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen has generous proportions. There’s a massive table at the far end, which is simply but beautifully set with cream plates and light-blue glassware.
A commercial-style range with two ovens and more burners than I can count occupies the center of the room. Mom definitely picked that out, along with the bleached oak cabinets and soapstone countertops. The vibe is luxe rustic, with an enormous island dominating the space.
But it’s the spread set out on that island that makes my eyes bulge. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so much food. There are several platters of what appear to be chicken-fried steaks, smothered in thick white gravy. Sweating jugs of tea and lemonade sit beside them. There’s a huge bowl of green beans and two bowls of the most delicious-looking potato salad. Then a tray of brownies, each one slathered in white frosting and drizzled with more chocolate.
The petite woman behind the counter is pulling another tray of brownies out of the oven when she turns around and sees us.
Her face splits into a smile. “Well, hey there, y’all! Come on in! Mollie, we’ve been waiting for you to arrive. I’m Patsy. Welcome to the ranch.”
I watch her set down the brownies on top of the oven. My stomach grumbles. I wish I could eat that kind of thing and not be in pain afterward.
Patsy is mid-fifties, if I had to guess, her gray hair neatly parted down the middle and pulled into a low ponytail. She’s got a warm smile and bright, curious brown eyes.
I like her immediately. Or maybe it’s the insanely delicious smell of just-baked goods that I like.
Whatever the case, Patsy rounds the island and immediately wraps me in a hug, ignoring the hand I extend. “It is so nice to finally meet you, sugar. And those boots! Love the purple.”
I don’t know how I feel about being called sugar . But Patsy’s hug is tight and warm, genuine in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. I feel a smidge of relief that she doesn’t appear to hate me.
So I just keep my smile pasted on my face and say, “It’s nice to meet you too, Patsy. Your food looks delicious and smells even better.”
She releases me, putting her hands on my shoulders. “Lordy, you look just like your daddy.”
I want to reply with something like, That’s what everyone says, or, I get that a lot . But no one’s ever said that to me. No one I know, anyway. My life in Dallas was so separate from Dad’s on the ranch—our paths crossed so seldomly—that none of my friends or neighbors even knew who he was. They couldn’t say whether or not I looked like him because he was never around.
My throat contracts. I will not cry.
Swallowing hard, I look away and nod at the food. “So you cook like this all the time?”
“We have lots of mouths to feed here on the ranch. We fit as many as we can here in the kitchen, but the bulk of the ranch hands will eat the food I bring to the bunkhouse.” She nods at the older man standing at an enormous farm sink and a younger one seated at the table with a paint-smeared toddler on his lap. “Mollie, meet my husband, John B, and there at the table is Sawyer Rivers and his daughter, Ella.”
My stomach dips at the name Rivers . Sawyer looks at me, raising little Ella’s hand in a wave, and my stomach dips again at the familiar cobalt-blue shade of his eyes.
No question he’s Cash’s brother. He’s got the same build: big shoulders and broad chest. But unlike Cash, he offers me a friendly smile.
“Nice to meet ya, Mollie. Ella, can you say hi?”
Ella doesn’t say anything, but she also smiles, a mirror image of her father’s, dimples and all.
I wave at her. “Hi, Sawyer. Hi, Ella. How old are you? ”
Sawyer helps her hold up three fingers. “Just had a birthday, didn’t we?”
“Ella get more presents?” the little girl replies.
We all laugh.
“Ella, honey, I think you know the answer to that.” The older man turns around, resting his hands on the lip of the sink behind him. “You’re always getting presents.”
Patsy grins. “How could we not spoil you, sugar? Look at that sweet face.”
“She is absolutely precious,” I say.
“Thank you.” Sawyer smooths back Ella’s baby-fine blonde hair. “But really, y’all, it’s becoming a problem. She’s got so many toys, we’re running out of room.”
John B shakes his head. “Good problem to have. Mollie, welcome to Lucky Ranch.”
“Are y’all cowboys here or…”
“Sawyer is.” John nods at him. “My daughter, Sally, and I provide veterinary care across the county.”
“Best vets in Texas,” Sawyer adds.
Goody nods. “It’s true. The care they provide for the animals is second to none.”
A young woman in jeans and boots strides into the kitchen from what appears to be a pantry, a five-pound bag of sugar tucked in the crook of her arm. “Thank you kindly, Goody. I’ve learned from the OG.”
The woman, who I’m assuming is Sally, goes up on her tiptoes to kiss her dad on his whiskered cheek.
“OG as in old guy?” John B laughs.
Sally smiles. “That, or original gangster. Either way, you’re the world’s best teacher.”
“You’re a mighty fine student, sweetheart, when you’re not being a mighty big pain in the ass.”
Patsy scoffs. “Like y’all aren’t two peas in a pod. Sally, honey, this is Mollie Luck, Garrett’s daughter. ”
“Mollie! Hey! It’s so great to finally meet you. Your dad talked about you often.”
My heart clenches. That answers that question. “Hi, Sally. That’s kind of you to say. I”—my throat tightens, and I clear it—“miss him.”
“Aw, Mollie, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Sally sets down the sugar on the island next to the jugs of tea. “We all miss Garrett.”
Patsy nods as Sally helps her pour an obscene amount of sugar into the jugs. What I would give to be able to drink that stuff without paying for it with a terrible stomachache later.
“He was so good to all of us.”
“Truly the best,” Sally says, grabbing a wooden spoon. She stirs the tea while her mom rolls up the mostly empty bag of sugar.
Watching them work together, I’m gripped by the acute need for my own mother. Mom wouldn’t be caught dead making her own tea, much less with sugar in it. But she’s always been my biggest cheerleader and a constant source of support, even if she is super wrapped up in her work and the Dallas social scene.
That’s support I could really, really use right now. I may be twenty-six years old, but in this moment, I feel all of fourteen, awkward and lost and bursting with emotions I can’t process and don’t understand.
I feel myself tilting into a death spiral of regret and grief. My eyes burn. I can barely breathe around the moon in my throat.
I am in a room full of people who had a closer relationship with my father than I did. And none of them are even related to him.
It makes me feel like absolute shit.
But just as I’m about to actually burst into tears, the back door opens. Sunlight floods the kitchen as a man steps inside, sweeping his sweat-stained hat off his head .
“Ooooo-eeee, don’t that smell good! Y’all got no idea the hurt I’m ’bout to put on this food. Sally, don’t tell me you made your buttercream frosting for those brownies.”
Sally rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Wyatt, you smell atrocious.”
“Eau de horse.” He waves his scent toward her.
She flaps her hand in front of her nose. “More like BO.”
“You’re welcome to hose me down out back.” He holds out his arms and smirks. “You can undress me and everything.”
“Let me get my rubber gloves,” Sally deadpans.
The man coming in the door behind Wyatt roars with laughter. “Dang, Sally, we missed having you around. Someone needs to kick this kid’s?—”
“Children are present,” Sawyer warns, covering Ella’s ears with his hands.
“Sally recently graduated from a veterinary residency,” Goody explains. “She’s been shadowing her dad ever since while she decides what she’d like to do with her degrees long-term. That’s Duke.” She points to the other man. “He’s Sawyer’s younger brother.”
“Ah,” I say, staring at the door as one cowboy after the next wipes his boots on the mat outside before entering the kitchen.
Each one takes off his hat, hair soaked through with sweat. Their faces and hands are deeply tanned, making their blue eyes pop even more.
The men are alarmingly dirty and even more alarmingly handsome, despite the sweat and the dust and the, er, outdoorsy smell that rises off them.
My heart pounds. How many Rivers boys were there? Four? Twelve?
And when is Cash going to walk through that door? Is he going to walk through it? What do I say to him? So far, everyone’s been exceptionally kind to me. I don’t want to break the spell. But I also don’t want to give him any kind of advantage by playing nice.
The last cowboy to enter the kitchen is the tallest. He’s wearing a T-shirt of indeterminate color that’s dotted with sweat. It’s not soaked through, so I get the impression he must’ve changed before coming to lunch. But the shirt still clings to his chest and his stomach, revealing a thickly muscled torso.
His jeans—those cling to him too. Add in the cowboy boots and the wide leather belt and the way he holds his hat to his chest?—
“Cash!” Ella shouts with delight, holding up her arms. “Ella hold you!”
I watch, head spinning, as Cash aims a wide white smile at the little girl before dropping his hat on the table, crown up, and scooping her into his arms. “Ellie belly boo, I missed you! How was school?”
What in the world ? I wonder if Cash has a twin brother. One who has the same name. Because this guy? The one cooing to his niece while he smiles at her like an idiot?
This cannot possibly be the same asshole cowboy I met in Goody’s office last week.
“Ella loves school,” the little girl replies.
Sawyer grabs a cup from across the table and takes a sip of water. “Probably because she’s the teacher’s pet.”
Cash puts her on his hip, arm slung easily underneath her bottom like he’s done this hundreds, thousands of times. “How could she not be? You’re the smartest and the cutest kid in the class, aren’t you?” He tickles her tummy. “Aren’t you, Ella?”
She giggles, a high, happy sound that’s so sweet, I can’t help but smile, even as I continue to stare.
That’s when Cash looks up, and our gazes lock.
My stomach bottoms out. His smile fades, his eyes taking on a hard glint. They flick down my body. Back up. His jaw tics, as if he doesn’t like what he sees.
I blush so furiously, I can feel it all the way in the soles of my feet. Still, I look him square in the eye. Screw him for making me feel off-kilter. Embarrassed, even. He’s the one who should be embarrassed with his sweaty shirt and stupid beard-mustache thing.
Goody smiles at him. “You remember Mollie, Cash?”
“How could I forget?” He says it like a joke. Like I’m a joke. “Hello, City Girl.”