Chapter 6
Six
I NEVER SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF MY TRUCK.
WYATT
The scent of grilled steak and garlic butter welcomes me home. My stomach growls, proving that some part of me missed this place.
I sit in my truck outside the Timberline Tavern for a beat longer than I need to, engine ticking as it cools, watching families drift toward the entrance.
The parking lot is weathered and uneven, and I could probably walk across it blindfolded. The heavy wooden door gives under my hand.
Inside, locals pack into red vinyl booths, couples share garlic fries, old-timers sit at the bar talking cattle prices and weather like gospel. The scent of char-grilled meat winds through the air, rich and honest.
The hostess—blonde, maybe twenty-two—practically floats over. She takes in my new Cheyenne Frontier Days' Champion belt buckle, then my face.
"Well, if it isn't Wyatt Halloway." Her voice has that breathless quality women get around rodeo cowboys. Like I'm somebody special instead of a man who spends most nights sleeping in my truck. "Table for one?"
"Yes, ma'am. Somewhere I can keep my back to the wall, if you don't mind." In Gritstone, generational rivals run as deep as the Bluestone River with grudges just as wide.
She leads me to a corner booth, and I slide in. My shoulder flares—a burn that's become familiar over the last week. Doc's warning voice echoes between the heartbeats: Two weeks of rest and you might dodge surgery.
Surgery at this point could ruin my run for Vegas. I can’t afford to take six weeks off. I finished out Cheyenne with a chunk of change in my pocket. I need to patch up and disappear again before the land starts whispering things I don't want to hear.
The waitress swings by. Jenny, according to her name tag. "Can I get you something to drink? Our IPA's fantastic tonight."
"No thanks." The answer is automatic. "Just water." I can still taste the regret from pills chasing each other down my throat and making my world tilted sideways. Whatever happened that night, no one contacted me again, so I stuffed it into the past and left it there.
I order a bison burger with onion rings.
Jenny nods and heads off to put my order in.
The door opens and the air shifts.
I glance that way and groan. "They say every bull rider runs out of luck sometime," I mumble as I rise to my feet to greet my parents. Mom's in tailored denim and turquoise earrings. Dad's in weather-worn boots and a stare that could stop a charging bull.
I meet Mom halfway across the room and fold her into a hug. She kisses my cheek like I'm still eight years old, which I don’t mind. “What are you doing here?” she asks as she looks me over. “Is everything ok? I didn’t expect you home for at least another month.”
“Yeah, it’s all good.” I smile. Dad doesn't slow down on his way to the table. "Son," he says. That's it. Whatever.
They slide into the booth across from me and Jenny reappears. “Hi Oscar, hi Sarah, what can I get ya tonight?” she asks.
"I’ll take one of what he’s eatin’. But can you load it up on that big ol' belt buckle he's so proud of? Should be big enough." Dad gripes to Jenny.
I smirk. "You want a trophy, old man, I'll get you a participation ribbon."
“Sure thing.” Jenny laughs nervously and disappears fast. Smart girl.
"Are you back for good or passing through?" Mom asks gently.
"Just a short break in the season. I'll be on the road again soon." I don't say more. Don't admit the ache that shoots from collarbone to rib every time I breathe wrong. I'll never tell them about the pills. About waking up in a strange room with nothing but guilt and bruises.
Dad leans back. "The ranch could use more boots and less excuses."
"Oscar," Mom cuts in. "Let's not make the Timberline our battlefield."
Dad grunts.
She turns to me, serious in a way that makes my stomach clench. "It's a good thing you're here now. We've had an issue come up that I didn't want to discuss over the phone."
I arch a brow. "Only one? Must be a good week."
Mom doesn't smile at my sarcasm which tells me this is serious. I can usually charm her into laughing with me. "The Forest Service sent us a letter. They've designated our land as part of a new High Fire Hazard Zone. We've been ordered to remove all cattle and fencing within ninety days."
I freeze as my head wraps around all that this would mean for the ranch. "That's not just fencing," I say slowly. "That's water lines. Grazing rotation. It's half the ranch's operational system."
"We filed an appeal," Mom continues, her tone edgy, "and already had a reply. Which is very fast for a government agency."
Dad's jaw works like he's chewing gravel. "Dismissed. Post-haste compliance expected."
I lean back, trying to keep the fury off my face. I don't want to care about this crap but somehow, I do. And that makes me just as angry as some pencil pusher telling us what to do with our land. "Why don't we just donate to whatever group dreamed this up? Buy them off?"
"Because we can’t find them. Whoever started it is sneaky. I hired a consultant," Mom says. "She'll be arriving soon to help us strategize."
My stomach churns. Hollaway's have run cattle on that land since 1901 and not once has a wildfire broken out. "Anyone with half a brain knows cattle eat underbrush and that keeps fire hazards down. They should be begging us to graze on their land."
Dad's phone buzzes. He checks the text, grunts. "Sheriff. Kit's in holding again."
I blink. What the heck? "What happened? What do you mean again?"
Mom sighs, already gathering her purse. "That girl will be the death of me."
"What's going on with Kit?" I demand. My baby sister’s in jail and they’re acting like she snuck out to go to the movies.
Dad keeps his head down, typing on his phone. I look to Mom for an answer. "That girl's got a wild side a mile wide," she exhales as she rubs her temples.
"You'd know that if you stayed home," Dad grumbles.
"You should worry less about me and pay more attention to what’s happening on your ranch." I jut out my chin. "For all you know Brook’s running a brothel out of the feed store."
Mom smirks. “Thank heavens I have one child I don’t have to worry about.”
That’s fair.
Dad motions to the waitress. "Put his dinner on our tab."
I open my mouth to protest Dad buying me dinner and then snap it shut as Mom kisses my head.
"Love you," she says.
"You too," I reply automatically, still spinning from what just exploded in my life. I want to grab her hand and make her explain what's happening. It hasn't been that long since I was home last but Kit's in jail—again? As in, this has happened before?
And who did Mom hire to help with the fire issue? Mom's been involved in politics since before I was born. She knows her way around the state legislature as well as I do around a bucking chute. Why would Mom need help fighting this?
I sit alone with the weight of everything I just learned. Somehow, in twenty minutes, I've gone from feeling like a conquering hero to feeling like someone on the outside of the fence looking in.
Jenny returns with my burger. The meat looks perfect—charred outside, pink middle—exactly what I've been craving. I bite into it, working off frustration that's been building since my parents dropped their bombshell.
I'm halfway through my meal when Maxwell Whitmore walks through the door. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse. I never should have gotten out of my truck.
Maxwell commands attention without trying. Tall, salt and pepper haired, wearing a suit that’s tailored to his lean and mean frame. He surveys the restaurant, and when his pale blue eyes settle on my corner booth, I stare right back.
He walks straight to my table and I curse under my breath. "Wyatt Halloway." His voice carries old money and older power. "Nice to see you back in town."
I’m sure it is. I set down my burger and don’t get up. "Mr. Whitmore."
"Mind if I sit?" It's not really a question.
He's already sliding into the booth my parents vacated, claiming space like it's always been his. Up close, he looks older than I remember him—lines around his eyes, hair gone completely silver at the temples. But he’s the same as always.
Calculating. I wonder if his aunt is still alive. She's … cold.
"You know, I've been following your career. Top ten in the world standings—impressive for a small-town boy." The words are complimentary, but his tone makes them feel like an insult. Like success outside Gritstone doesn't count.
"I work hard at it."
"Eight seconds at a time." His smile's sharp. "Must be exhausting. All that traveling. Never knowing when you might get hurt bad enough to end your career."
My shoulder throbs like it's answering him, but I keep my face neutral. Whatever game he's playing, I'm not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’s even partially right.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Whitmore?"
"Actually, I think the question is what can I do for you. For your family." He leans forward, voice dropping confidentially. "I hear your parents are having trouble with federal regulators. Something about grazing permits and fire hazards."
I eye him. "Word travels fast."
"Especially about something as important as the future of ranching in this valley.
" His eyes never leave my face, reading every micro-expression.
"You know how these environmental groups work.
File lawsuits, demand studies, tie everything up in red tape for years.
Meanwhile, good people lose their livelihoods. "
"What's your point?"
"My point is that sometimes these situations can be... resolved. With the right influence." He pauses, letting it sink in. "Our ranch has excellent relationships with environmental compliance consultants. We've never had problems with federal oversight."
Because you’re willing to bribe politicians. "That's convenient," I admit.
"Could be convenient for your family too." His voice carries smooth persuasion. "Stonegate Ranch is prime land. Would be a shame to see it... compromised... by regulatory overreach."
The threat's wrapped in silk, but it's still a threat. My jaw clenches. "Speak plain or find your own table.”
"Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to remove it entirely." He spreads his hands like the solution's obvious. "We're looking to expand. If your parents decided to retire, cash out while the market's strong—we'd be very interested in making that transition smooth."
There it is. “I don't think my parents are interested in selling."
"People's interests change when circumstances change." His smile never wavers, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "Environmental lawsuits can be expensive to fight. Time-consuming.”
I really hate this man. "I'll pass along your offer."
"You do that." He stands, smoothing his jacket. "Enjoy your time at home, Wyatt." He tips his hat, leaving me alone with my cooling burger and the taste of something bitter as I curse under my breath.
The man just threatened my family with polite words and a politician's smile, and there's not a dang thing I can do about it. Not while I'm just passing through on my way to somewhere else.
For the first time in years, I find myself wondering what it would be like to bare my teeth and go after the Whitmores and anyone else who thinks they can take our land.
The heat in my chest simmers and then cools. I'm overreacting. Mom's got this. She said she's hired someone. It'll be fine.
I push the burger away, appetite gone. The walls start to close in as a whisper echoes in my head: Stay. Fight. This is your blood, your legacy.
I throw cash on the table for a tip and stand. My shoulder screams in protest, but I welcome the pain. It reminds me that I’m a man who lives eight seconds at a time, not someone who plants roots in soil that's already taken too many Halloway dreams.
The land can keep its secrets. I've got bulls to ride.
But as I walk toward my truck, I can feel something watching me go. Something patient and hungry and willing to wait as long as it takes for me to stop running.
Something that knows I'll be back.