Chapter 12 #2
Standing by the tailgate with his back to me, he looks massive against the peeling paint of the house. His heavy canvas jacket and mud-dusted boots only add to the imposing silhouette.
I cut the engine and grab my coffee cup, stepping out into the crisp air. Wellsy bounds out, barking at a butterfly.
Rhett turns at the sound. He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. His face is a mask of stoicism, his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.
“Saramaria.” It’s a greeting, but it lacks warmth.
“Rhett,” I reply, walking toward him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He reaches into the bed of the truck and pulls out a heavy, expandable file box. It’s bulging with papers. “I came by earlier to drop this off. You weren’t here.”
I stare at the box. “What is it?”
“The ranch documents,” he says. “Financial records, tax returns, lease agreements, operational logs. Everything you asked for.”
I’m surprised. After the stonewalling, after the evasion, I didn’t expect him to just hand them over. I reach out and take the box from him. It’s heavier than it looks, and my wrist feels it. “Thank you. I... I appreciate it.”
He shrugs, a minimal movement of his shoulders. “You asked for them. I’m not going to hide them. We have nothing to hide.”
“Where are Boone and Knox?” I ask, looking around the empty yard.
“Boone took Midnight down to the lower pasture to check the water lines. Knox went into town to meet with Gary. They’re trying to figure out a strategy for the season with... everything going on.”
I nod. That makes sense. The scandal is affecting everyone, even those not directly involved.
Rhett checks his watch, a bulky, practical thing on his wrist. “I have to head into town. I need to pick up a load of feed before the supply store closes. Winter’s coming, and we need to stock up.”
I want to ask him why. Why give me the documents now? What changed? Was it just Boone’s influence? Or did they realize that fighting me on this would only lead to a lawsuit they can’t afford? I open my mouth to probe, to ask a dozen questions that are bubbling on my tongue.
But he doesn’t give me the chance. He doesn’t wait for a response. He just tips his hat—a curt, respectful gesture—and turns back to his truck.
“I’ll be back later,” he says, opening the driver’s side door.
“Rhett,” I say again.
He pauses, one foot on the running board. He looks at me, his expression patient but distant.
“Why now?” I ask. “You’ve had these all along. Why give them to me today?”
His gaze flicks over my face, as if he’s searching for something. For a second, I think I see a crack in the armor. A flash of something that looks like weariness. Or maybe respect.
“Because you’re right,” he says simply. “It’s your property. You have a right to know what’s happening here.”
Then he climbs into the cab and shuts the door. The engine roars to life and he backs up, turning the truck around. I watch the taillights recede down the driveway, disappearing into the dust.
I stand there for a long moment, clutching the heavy box of papers. The wind tugs at my hair, and I shiver.
I carry the box into the house. It’s cold inside, the air stale. I haven’t been staying here much, preferring the discomfort of the cabin to the memories of this place. But today, I need a table. I need space.
I set the box down on the dining room table. The surface is scratched and faded, bearing the scars of decades of family meals. I pull out a chair and sit.
Wellsy curls up under the table, resting his chin on my foot. I take a deep breath and open the box.
The smell of old paper hits me immediately. Dust, ink, and time. It smells like my grandfather’s study.
I pull out the first stack of documents. They are held together by rubber bands that are brittle and cracking. I slide them off and lay the papers flat.
Financial records. I scan the columns of numbers. Income from cattle sales. Expenses for feed, vet bills, equipment maintenance. It’s a mess. The handwriting changes over the years—sometimes neat and precise, sometimes hurried and messy.
I flip further back. Five years. Six years. Eight years.
My grandfather’s signature is on everything. Anthony Cruz. The script is firm, authoritative. It’s the same signature that was on the will that left this place to me.
But these aren’t just standard ranch records. As I dig deeper, I find the lease agreements.
My breath catches in my throat.
There’s a contract dated eight years ago. Just months after I left. It’s a land use agreement between Meadowlark Ranch and Reyes Enterprises.
Boone.
It grants Boone permission to build a cabin on the south ridge and to utilize the south pasture for his own cattle herd, in exchange for a percentage of the profits and labor on the main ranch. The rent is nominal. A dollar a year.
I flip to the next one. Dated two years later. An agreement for Knox Wilder. Permission to build a second cabin and use the north pasture for training and rehabilitation of bulls. The terms are similar. Labor for land.
And then, one from last year. Rhett Calder. Permission to take over management duties and utilize the west pasture for his own horses.
I read them over and over, my eyes blurring. The dates are significant.
Eight years ago. I had just left. I was in Denver, drowning in grief, trying to figure out how to be a chef. My grandfather was here, signing over sections of his land to the ranch hand.
Six years ago. I was in law school, working myself to the bone to prove I could be something other than an Omega failure. My grandfather was here, giving Knox a home.
Last year. I was making partner at Hartman & Ellis, securing my future in a city that felt like a cage. My grandfather was here, handing over the reins of management to Rhett.
He never told me.
Not once. In all the phone calls, which were rare enough did he ever mention this. He never said, “Oh, by the way, I’ve let Boone build a house on the ridge.” Or “Knox is living here now.”
He made me feel guilty for leaving. He made me feel like I was abandoning him to a slow, lonely death.
All the while, he was building a new family. A pack.
He trusted them. He trusted them with his land. He trusted them with his legacy. He gave them the keys to the kingdom, piece by piece, year by year.
And me? I was just the disappointment. The Omega who ran away. The girl who couldn’t handle the ranch life.
He told me I couldn’t run this place. He told me I didn’t have the experience. He told me I would run it into the ground. He swore that no Omega would ever run Meadowlark Ranch with out an Alpha.
But he never taught me. He never gave me the chance. Instead, he taught them.
I look at the signatures. Boone Reyes. Knox Wilder. Rhett Calder.
Their names are right next to his. Connected. Bound by ink and paper.
I feel a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest that has nothing to do with the bruised ribs or the sprained wrist. It’s betrayal. Pure and simple.
He didn’t just leave me the ranch. He left me a mess that he created with them. He left me a situation where three Alphas have legal rights to live on my land, to use my resources, to be entrenched in a way that makes it impossible for me to just sell.
He tied my hands without even being in the room.
And they knew. They knew I didn’t know. Knox’s surprise when I showed up was genuine, but Boone.
.. Boone knew I had no idea. Rhett knew.
They’ve been living here, building their lives, secure in the knowledge that Anthony gave them this place, while I thought I was coming back to a dilapidated empty shell.
I slam my hand down on the table, making the papers jump. Wellsy lets out a startled yip.
“Fucking Alphas,” I spit out, the words tasting like poison.
It’s not just them. It’s the system. It’s the way the world works. Men like Jack Dalton think they can take what they want because of their designation. Men like my grandfather think they can dictate who is worthy and who is not.
He trusted them more than me. He trusted their Alpha strength, their perceived capability, over his own granddaughter. He saw them as the future of Meadowlark, and he saw me as the past.
I look at the cabin contracts again. They’re detailed. They’re legally binding. There’s no quick fix here. I can’t just evict them. They have rights. Rights my grandfather gave them.
I feel trapped. The walls of the house seem to close in on me. The silence is oppressive.
I gather the papers, shoving them back into the box with rough, jerky movements. I don’t want to look at them anymore. I don’t want to see his signature. I don’t want to see their names.
I carry the box to the hallway closet and shove it onto a shelf, burying it under a pile of old quilts. Out of sight. But I can’t bury the knowledge.
I walk back to the table and sink into the chair. I rest my head in my hands. The anger is still there, burning hot, but underneath it is a profound sadness. I mourn the relationship I never had with him. I mourn the trust that was never there.
And I mourn the illusion that coming back here would give me closure. It hasn’t. It’s just opened a new wound.
Wellsy nudges my hand with his wet nose, whining softly. I stroke his head, his soft fur grounding me.
“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “I know.”
I look out the window, toward the south ridge where Boone’s cabin sits hidden in the trees. Then I look north, toward Knox’s. And finally, west, toward the main road where Rhett disappeared.
They’re everywhere. They’re in the walls of this house, in the ink on these pages, in the very soil of this land.
My grandfather wanted them to have this place. He built a fortress for them, using his own legacy as the bricks.
But I’m the Cruz. I’m the heir. And I may be angry, and I may be betrayed, but I’m not my grandfather. I will not roll over and let them take what is mine just because he said so.
I stand up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I wash my face in the kitchen sink, the cold water shocking me back to clarity.
I have the documents. I have the truth now. And knowledge is power.
They think they have the upper hand. They think they can wait me out, that I’ll get frustrated and sell to them for a fraction of what it’s worth.
They’re wrong.
I’m going to lawyer the hell out of this. I’m going to find every loophole, every missed signature, every breach of contract. If Anthony wanted them to have this ranch, he should have left it to them in the will. But he didn’t. He left it to me.
And I’m not going to let three Alphas—no matter how charming, or how sad their pasts are, or how good they look in jeans—take that away from me.
I dry my face on a rough towel. Wellsy watches me, tail thumping.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go see what kind of damage we can do.”