Chapter 20 Clint
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clint
The day’s still early, but the heat’s already starting to creep in. I’m pulling up to the sheriff’s office, my truck’s engine humming low beneath me, the tires crunching against the gravel.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with that dry, dusty air, and I can feel the past few weeks giving me the worst headache of my life.
Things haven’t been right at the ranch. Too many little incidents, things that don’t add up. But what the hell do I do about it?
The only thing I can do right now is talk to Hank—get him to listen, and maybe he’ll take me seriously.
I get out of the truck and slam the door behind me. I stand there, my boots sinking into the gravel, just trying to steady myself. This damn place, this town, has a way of making you feel everything’s connected. You can’t escape, no matter how far you run.
And I’ve been running from something lately.
Inside, Sheriff Hank Miller’s got his feet kicked up on his desk, sipping on what’s probably his third cup of coffee. He looks up when I walk in, squinting at me over his mug, trying to decide whether I’m here for a friendly chat or to cause trouble.
“Clint,” he says, setting the mug down with a thud. “What brings you in today?”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “We need to talk about what’s been going on out at High Ridge. Again.”
Hank raises an eyebrow but lowers his feet from the desk, the chair creaking as he shifts forward. “More issues with the kids causing trouble?”
I grunt, shaking my head. “It’s more than that, and you know it. I’m still being targeted, and I need you to start investigating this time.”
Hank takes a slow sip of his coffee. He’s got a filter in his brain that keeps him from worrying too much about anything that doesn’t immediately jump out at him. “I have been investigating.”
I stare him down, hard. “I don’t think you’re taking me seriously at all, Hank.”
Hank rubs the back of his neck, giving me a tired look. “I asked for proof. You got me proof?”
I fight the urge to slam my fist down on his desk. “What do you want, Hank? Someone to get hurt before you take this seriously?”
“I’m not ignoring you, Clint. But without something concrete, there’s not much I can do. You’re asking me to chase shadows. You’ve got to give me something solid if you want to move on this. I told you that.”
“So you still think I’m making this up?”
Hank leans forward, palms flat on the desk.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m saying we can’t act like vigilantes.
Give me something concrete, someone you saw, a tire track, a person on the property, anything I can take to the DA.
Otherwise, all I’ve got is your gut. I’ll take a look, but I need more from you too… ”
“My gut’s not going to show up at county court in a suit, is it?” I say. “You’ve got to go look. Walk the northern fence. Check the posts near the creek. There’s been more than luck out there, Hank. I know it.”
He stares at me for a long beat, then sighs. “Okay. I’ll send a deputy out this afternoon. But Clint—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me,” I cut him off. “I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m looking for action.”
Hank’s jaw works. “I’ve said I’ll take action. But I need more to work with here.”
We sit with it then. The kind of silence that means two stubborn men have exhausted themselves trying to move the same immovable rock.
I can see Hank’s point; I can also see how this has been happening in small escalations, almost like a test. Whoever’s doing it wants to see how far they can push before we push back.
“I’m going,” I say finally. “I can’t stand here and talk it to death.”
Hank nods once, reluctantly. “I’ll have a cruiser make the rounds.”
I leave before he can say anything else. The door slamming behind me is louder than it should have been.
My mind is racing the whole ride back to High Ridge, the sun pitched down in a hard glare that makes the fields shine.
The barn comes into view, weathered boards, the sag in the middle of the roof that no one can fix without money, and something hot and hollow opens in my chest.
On the porch of the office, an envelope waits on the old milk crate I use for a table. White paper, clean fold. My name is printed in a polite, serif font I’ve seen on way too many forms. Buck Realty.
A letter from Thomas Buck himself.
My hands go cold. Inside, a letter. Three paragraphs of corporate courtesy, two lines of offer.
“We are prepared to purchase High Ridge Ranch and associated assets… to be settled within thirty days…”
It’s laughable. An insult boiled down into numbers. The offer isn’t just low; it’s strategic. Barely enough to pay the back taxes, not enough to make walking away survivable.
I crumple the paper in one motion, breath rasping through me. Thomas’s name is a bruise. He’s pushed before. Sly calls, “unfavorable reports” slipped to the bank. But never this bluntly. This is a test to see whether I’ll fold.
Anger seeps into my bones. Not the quick, blind kind. This is slow, measured fury, the kind you get when someone keeps taking what’s yours and smiling while they do it.
Thomas has money and lawyers and a smile that can cut. I have a ranch that’s been in my family for generations and men who still show up at dawn to mend fences and feed calves.
I stuff the letter into my back pocket and walk through the office. The walls are plastered with faded rodeo posters and a tack room inventory board full of penciled-in notes. Sawyer’s laptop sits asleep on the counter, and Rover’s collar lies by the door.
“What’s up with you?” Sawyer calls from the adjoining tack room, looking up with that worried crease at his brow.
“Letter from Buck Realty,” I say. “They offered peanuts for all of High Ridge. As if I haven’t already told him no. This place is my home. My family’s home. He needs to seriously back off.”
Sawyer’s shoulders sag. “Thomas doesn’t give up, does he?”
“He offered an insult,” I say. “And he wrapped it in a deadline.”
Reid appears at the stall door, just beyond the tack room, with a saddle over one shoulder, dust on his boots, and that easy grin that normally makes things feel lighter. It doesn’t reach his eyes now. “What’s wrong?”
I pull the letter out and flatten it on the counter so they can see. The guys read it, each of them processing the same quiet horror I’ve felt.
“You can’t sell it,” Reid says. “Not for that.”
“No,” Sawyer agrees. “Not for that. Not at all.”
An idea starts to form then. Not one I’d shout about, but one that smolders under my skin. Thomas wants to make us sell on his terms.
Maybe he’s trying to push us into a corner, into panic. Maybe he’s hoping we’ll make a mistake.
I crumple the letter again, this time with purpose. “He thinks if he waves enough cash, the town will let him take what he wants.” I jam the letter back into my pocket. “I’m going for a ride.”
I walk to the tack room, fingers already finding the worn leather of Maxie’s bridle. From her stall nearby, she whickers when she hears me, that impatient, familiar sound settling something in my chest.
I throw the saddle up, cinch it low, and swing into it with the ease of habit. We head out through the back door, the horse moving under me like a second heartbeat, sure and steady, and the world narrows to the rhythm of hooves and breathing.
We cut through the lower pasture, past the sagging fence where I’ve been meaning to replace posts, the heat rising off the grass in waves. The wind is thin, but it does something to my head. Peels the edge off the anger, makes room for thought.
I let Maxie pick her way toward the ridge, ignoring the ache in my shoulders, letting the land answer back in its old, honest way.
From the top, the ranch stretches out like an old map. Patches of brown, the creek slivering silver, the distant line of pines that means town. My jaw works around the problem, turning it until the shape of it shows.
Thomas isn’t just buying land; he’s trying to buy people. He’s testing us to see who cracks. Whoever he’s hired to nudge fences and spook calves is playing for time, and he’s betting on fear.
I pinch the reins and let Maxie slow, letting the stillness press in. Determination threads through my anger now. Plan what’s next, talk to the bank, trace his buyers, tighten the fences, bring the town in when the time is right.
This isn’t something I handle with fists or accusations. It’s something I handle with proof and patience and stubbornness passed down to me by men who wouldn’t sell the dirt under their boots.
The sun drops a little; the heat loses some of its bite. I feel steadier. I sit up straight and look at the ranch as if I can lay claim to every threat and every solution at once.
Then I nudge Maxie and head back down the slope, the work waiting and the letter burning in my pocket as a reminder.
This fight’s not over.