Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
stetson
Present Day
“See what happens when you let the small man speak?”
I glance to my left. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“You get results, my brother. Big wins that make money. And money is wealth. There ain’t nothin’ like it.”
I know he means well, but these are the moments I wish Clay would read the room and grant me some space. Peace. Silence. Any will do at this point. I just want to relax in the comfort of my jet and make this layover by nightfall. Being home as soon as possible is my only priority.
I’ve got no energy left in me but to nod, reassuring him I’m just as pleased with the results of today. Leaning back on the headrest, I close my eyes and listen to Clay give me the status report of our current tenants. I hired Clay nearly five years ago as just a simple helper.
Hell, I needed it. Still do. But he’s taken on a much bigger role at Coleson Ranch than I bargained for, even with his dirty blond hair neatly styled in a way that irks me. But frankly, I couldn’t do it without his lanky ass.
Despite how much his need to ramble and fill the silence pisses me off, the guy knows business, and I needed someone to be the other half of my brain. That’s why we’re thirty-thousand feet in the air right now after a long day of wheeling and dealing with a cattle farmer on the West Coast.
I’ve been fighting tooth and nail to get Waylon McGuire to bite at the chance to lease my remaining acreage. Everything else is being utilized, and my hope is to make a profit with the property I have left to delegate.
I need to rebuild infrastructure, among other things.
And that’s where the funding for this comes along.
Every dollar of business revenue goes toward something, but leasing these acres can help me more than others ever have.
This deal means less land for me to tend, but builds up my wallet enough to maintain the heart of the ranch.
Watch it flourish with my own two eyes. That’s what’s most important to me.
That’s also as long as Waylon holds his end of the contract. And trust me, it’s in his best interest, or I’ll waste no time suing him.
Although nothing will stop me from farming my own land. It’s about the only thing I’ve got that I can still call mine. In every sense of the word.
I intend to invest in Coleson Ranch mentally, physically, and financially until my dying breath. I wouldn’t be true to myself otherwise.
“I say once we get back to Texas, we put an ad out for interviews. See if we can hire a few ranch hands to put in some extra hours. Give the boss man a much-needed break.”
That puts me on high alert. “I like working,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Doesn’t mean you should do it,” Clay tells me.
“And why’s that?”
“Hate to say it, but you’re getting old, Stetson. And besides, what’s the point of having all this money without anything to show for it?”
“Not this shit again,” I groan.
Over the years, Clay has been adamant about encouraging me to hire a full staff. I don’t need a large number of employees. I don’t want it. I just want to live a simple life, tend to my ranch, raise healthy cattle, and not have to ask anyone for anything. Nothing more.
Having the wealth I do ensures freedom. I know I sound like an old fuck just saying that, but it’s true. I can do whatever, go wherever, and see whoever I want without apologizing or money being an issue.
That’s what the hustle has given me. And I’ve worked sunup to sundown over the last twenty years to make Coleson Ranch everything it is today. For ten years, I got to do it with my pops by my side.
“Guess I need to remind you again,” Clay sighs.
“Purely for shits and giggles, please remember you own eight hundred thousand acres, a massive ranch home, horse stables, now three open leases, cattle out the fucking wazoo, a workhouse for the two ranch hands you already have, lakes, crop fields…Should I keep going?”
I really hate it when he gets like this. Thinking that reminding me of my success will make me want more.
“What happened to contentment, Clay?” I ask him directly, and he looks at me like I have two heads. “Eventually, I don’t want to have to think about all this shit. I’m almost fifty. Enjoying the life I’ve built for myself sounds pretty nice right about now.”
Clay claps his hands like he agrees with me, but I think he missed the message. “Great. That’s what I like to hear. Now, let’s hire some more guys so they can do it for you.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Anyone else would have knocked him out by now.
But I’m one of the only people in Clay’s life who can call him out on his bullshit and get results from it.
“Not happening. We’ll hire one more ranch hand.
Put him up in the house with Granger and Creek.
Train him to rebuild fences, plow hay, and work with the new tenants in a respectable manner. I’ll handle the rest.”
Before he has a chance to argue, the flight attendant appears between us, summoning our attention with the clearing of her throat. “Gentlemen,” she presses.
“Apologies,” Clay mutters, situating himself in the expensive black leather seat.
He looks like a bank teller in his full suit and tie.
We’re polar opposites in every sense of the word, but I think that’s what makes our team dynamic work.
I prefer to be casual while he enjoys being stiff, possibly with a sharp stick up his ass.
I own the damn jet, and you’d be lucky to ever catch me in formal wear.
“What appetizers can I get started for you this afternoon? Any drink requests?” the flight attendant asks. “I know I’m not your usual attendant, Mr. Cole, so I do apologize for any inconvenience I may cause by asking.”
I wave her off, not at all concerned about her thoroughness. It’s actually kind of nice to have options. Alyssa, my usual flight attendant, knows what I like, so I typically don’t have an option. She serves me without even asking.
This is refreshing.
“It’s no problem at all—” I wait for her to tell me her name.
“Cove,” she responds, and her name strikes me as something different. I take in her long raven curls and light skin alongside the navy and red flight attendant uniform and decide right away that it fits her.
“Cove,” I repeat. “Please don’t apologize. I’m happy to have you aboard. I’ll take a scotch on the rocks. Johnny Walker is just fine.”
Clay rears his head. “Johnny Walker, seriously?”
“Are you gonna order for yourself, or would you like to know my underwear preference, too?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, he directs his attention back to Cove, and I swear I hear a laugh under her breath. “I’ll take whatever the locally brewed IPA is and an order of hummus and pita, please.”
I belt out a dry chuckle. “Fucking IPA and hummus.”
“I’ll have that right out for you, gentlemen,” Cove comments amid my dig at Clay before returning to her section of the cabin.
“If you weren’t technically my boss and the guy who writes my checks, I’d have something terribly smart to say,” Clay tells me before busying himself with work.
I send him a blank stare. “I don’t write checks, and you’re overpaid.”
“I retract my statement, then,” Clay dismisses.
I don’t get to utilize the Challenger jet often, but when I do, I appreciate the luxury more and more. As much as I love my ranch, it’s nice to disconnect. As we wait for our drinks—and Clay’s hummus—I enjoy the view from the sky, my eyes catching curious glances at the woman preparing them.
“What happened to Alyssa?” I ask Clay, quietly enough so Cove can’t hear me.
“Got sick. Seascape almost canceled the flight, but evidently, Cove is on the backup call list. Worked out for us.”
I nod, silence stretching between us again as I examine Cove’s steps. There’s no doubt she’s likely half my age, but fuck, she’s pretty.
Tall and slender with legs for days. A navy blue pleated skirt and stockings to match. Black curls falling effortlessly down her back.
The flight attendant’s presence reminds me of the woman currently warming my bed. The same one I’m finding it really fucking difficult to tell I’m no longer interested in doing whatever it is she thinks we’re doing.
I’ve been dodging her calls all week, actually.
Clay and I are in the middle of discussing plans moving forward with Waylon and his team when Cove appears, drinks in hand. “Local IPA for you,” she tells Clay, handing him his beer and turning toward me. “And Johnny Walker scotch for the boss.”
“Oooo, she called you boss, Stetson. Must mean business.”
I lift my head to Cove, curious about her reaction. A playful smirk greets me and only me, drawing my eyes to the dusting of freckles across her cheeks.
“He is the boss, is he not?” Cove counters to Clay, but her eyes pin to mine. Clay is nothing but an outcast in this moment, and frankly, he put himself there all on his own.
Clay makes a tsking sound with his mouth. “Ah. She’s witty, I see. I know women like you.”
“Clay,” I bite out, refusing to let him start something with her.
That’s when Cove turns toward him, giving him her undivided attention. “You did ask for pita and hummus, correct?” Her tone is calm and collected, like she knows men like him.
He really is a good guy, just puts his foot in his mouth far too often.
“I did.” Clay nods, and I can see the panic settling in. He knows he spewed word vomit, and he’s about to be put in his place. “Still waiting on you to get on that, actually.” He smiles, and I know his sarcasm is not something that will be translated to her.
Again, foot, meet mouth.
With her arms crossed, drink tray dangling at her fingertips, Cove tells him confidently, “Then how about you worry less about what kind of woman I am, and more about being the respectful gentleman I’m sure you lead women to believe.
After all, I am the one preparing your food.
I would hate to see something terrible happen to it. ”
And she spins on her heels, leaving Clay to eat his own words, and a new interest stirring inside of me.