Chapter 10
Ten
WHO INVITED THE RIFFRAFF?
WYATT
It took everything I had to walk out of that barn and leave Kinsley sitting there, but I was trying to be a gentleman.
She's strong and stubborn—two qualities I apparently find irresistible in a woman. If I hung around too much longer, I might’ve tried to show her just how tempting she is.
Tonight though... tonight at dinner is a different story.
Give me a few hours and I’ll make her forget all the reasons she thinks she shouldn't want me.
The screen door slams behind me as I step into the main house, and the scent of coffee and leather polish wraps around me like an old coat and for just a second, I think I’m a kid again.
The house has changed over the years. Dad knocked out the walls and added support beams to create a more open space than the original log cabin allowed.
From the doorway, you can see into the kitchen, dining room, and family room—one flowing expanse held up by massive timber beams separated by floor-to-ceiling windows.
The kitchen centers around a granite island that could seat a dozen people, with professional-grade appliances that Mom loves to use. Her collection of copper cookware hangs from wrought iron hooks, polished to a warm glow that reflects the pendant lights overhead.
The dining room flows right into it, anchored by the oak table that's hosted every important conversation this family's ever had—the kind of furniture that gets passed down because it's too well-made to ever wear out.
Beyond that, the family room spreads wide around a stone fireplace built from river rock, with leather furniture positioned to catch both the warmth of the fire and the view of the mountains.
"Hey," Mom offers me a quick nod from the table, her laptop open and papers scattered around her. Grandpa's in his spot by the fireplace, reading glasses perched on his nose as he studies something that's got his jaw working.
"Beef prices are holding steady," Mom says without looking up from her screen. "Finally, some good news in this mess."
"For now," Grandpa grunts, setting down whatever he was reading. "Markets can turn faster than a green horse in a thunderstorm."
I'm about to ask what they're working on when the sound of tires on gravel fills the air. Not the familiar rumble of a ranch truck or the drone of a feed delivery—this is something else entirely. Something that doesn't belong on our land.
I step back to the door to peer through the screen, and my blood turns to ice.
A black Mercedes SUV rolls up the drive, all polished chrome and tinted windows.
"Who invited the riffraff?" I call back into the room, not bothering to hide the disgust in my voice.
The scrape of chairs tells me Mom and Grandpa are already moving. They know that tone, know what it means when that particular brand of trouble comes calling. By the time they reach the door, I'm already holding it open for them.
We file out onto the wraparound porch. The boards creak under our boots, solid timber that's weathered every storm this valley could throw at it.
Mom settles into one of the wooden chairs, her movements deliberate and controlled. Grandpa takes the other.
I pull the door shut behind us and lean against the frame, crossing my arms.
The SUV's doors open with the soft thunk of German engineering, and Eleanor Whitmore steps out into the Colorado sunshine like she's walking onto a movie set.
The old woman's got to be pushing eighty, but she moves like she could still outrun half the county in her white linen suit and high heels.
Quick as a rattlesnake and twice as mean.
Her hair's gone silver-white, but it's styled like she's heading to some fancy dinner instead of standing on a dusty driveway.
And those eyes—pale blue like winter sky—they don't just look at you.
They size you up, figure out what you're worth, and decide whether you're worth the trouble.
She's not alone.
The man who emerges from the driver's side is tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair beneath his black cowboy hat and the kind of calculated presence that marks him as a man comfortable with violence, even if he keeps it leashed most of the time.
Ford is Eleanor's right hand, the Gritstone Ranch foreman and the muscle the Whitmore's keep on the payroll.
Eleanor's heels click against the stone steps. "Sarah, Levi," she says, "How lovely to see you both. And Wyatt—my, I didn’t expect to see you here. What a lovely surprise." The words are honey over broken glass, sweet enough to fool someone who doesn't know better.
But we all know better.
"Eleanor," Mom replies, her tone perfectly polite and completely cold. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Oh, you know how it is," Eleanor says, leaning against the porch railing like she belongs there. "Neighbors looking out for neighbors. Especially in times of trouble."
Grandpa's knuckles go white where they grip the arms of his chair. "Trouble has a way of following certain folks around."
Eleanor's laugh is like wind chimes in a graveyard—pretty enough until you realize what's underneath.
"Now, Levi, there's no need for unpleasantness.
We're all facing the same challenges these days.
Government overreach, environmental regulations that make no sense to anyone who actually works the land. "
I make eye contact with Ford and hold it. He hasn't said a word, just stands there like a loaded gun in an expensive holster.
"We heard about your little problem with the Forest Service," Eleanor continues, her tone shifting to something that might pass for sympathy. "Such a shame when bureaucrats who've never seen a cow try to tell ranchers how to manage their land."
"Funny how these problems seem to target certain families and not others," Mom says, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair. "Almost like someone's got their thumb on the scales."
"Oh my," Eleanor presses a perfectly manicured hand to her chest in mock surprise. "Surely you're not suggesting that anyone would use environmental regulations for personal gain? That would be terribly unethical."
The woman's got brass, I'll give her that. Standing on our porch and playing innocent about the knife she's been twisting in our backs.
"What do you want, Eleanor?" Grandpa's voice cuts through the false pleasantries like an axe through kindling.
Eleanor's smile sharpens. "Direct as always, Levi. I've always admired that about your family. No time for games when there's work to be done."
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a folder, thick with documents that probably represent months of planning and legal maneuvering. "We'd like to make you an offer. A fair offer for the eastern section of your property. The part that's closest to town is perfect for development."
"Development," Mom repeats, and there's enough ice in her voice to freeze July.
"Starter homes," Ford speaks for the first time. "Young families need affordable housing. It's good for the community."
I snort before I can stop myself. "Like that affordable housing you built over in Cedar Row? The one that turned into a slum before the paint was dry?"
Ford's eyes fix on me with the kind of attention a rattlesnake gives a field mouse. "Every development has growing pains. The important thing is providing opportunities for working families."
Eleanor waves a dismissive hand. "This would be different. Better. A real community that your family could be proud to have as neighbors."
"Our neighbors are cattle and horses," I say, pushing off from the door frame. "They don't complain about the noise, don't leave their trash lying around, and they don't show up unannounced."
Eleanor's laugh has teeth in it now. "Wyatt, dear, the West is changing. You can either change with it or get swept aside."
"Is that a threat?" The words come out harder than I intended, and the tension on the porch ratchets up another notch.
"Oh, heavens no," Eleanor says. "It's reality. The kind of reality that comes with federal deadlines and environmental compliance costs that could bankrupt a family operation."
She leans forward. "We're offering you a choice.
Sell us the eastern section—at a fair price, mind you—and we'll help you navigate this unfortunate situation with the Forest Service.
We have excellent relationships with environmental consultants.
The kind of relationships that could make problems.. . disappear."
"And if we don't?" Mom's voice is steady, but there’s a reckoning building behind her eyes.
Eleanor spreads her hands like she's discussing the weather.
"Then you'll have to handle the situation on your own.
Ninety days to remove twenty thousand head of cattle and all that fencing.
The logistics alone would be staggering.
The costs..." She shakes her head with mock sympathy.
"Well, I'm sure you've run the numbers."
"Do you want to sell part of it," Ford adds, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability, "or lose all of it?"
"We appreciate the offer," Grandpa says finally, his tone nonnegotiable. "But we'll pass."
Eleanor's smile doesn't waver. "Are you certain? This is a very generous offer, given the circumstances."
"We're certain," Moms says, voice carrying the kind of politeness that comes right before a declaration of war.
Eleanor smooths her white suit like she's brushing off more than just wrinkles. "Well then. I suppose we'll leave you to handle your... situation... as you see fit."
Ford follows her down the steps, but not before fixing me with a stare that promises trouble down the road. I match him glare for glare.
They climb back into their Mercedes and roll back down our drive without so much as a backward glance. The weight of their threat hangs in the air like smoke from a grassfire. Some promises don't need to be spoken out loud to be understood.
The three of us stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle over the porch like snow on a dark winter’s night.
"Should we have brought Kinsley up for that?" I ask, glancing toward the barn where I left her nursing a head wound and probably wondering what kind of family she's gotten tangled up with.
"No." Mom's answer comes quick and decisive.
"The longer the Whitmore's stay in the dark about our new consultant, the better.
That's one reason I wanted Kinsley staying here on the property instead of in town—less chance of people talking.
" She glances at me with that knowing look that makes me feel like I'm sixteen again and she's caught me sneaking back from the county fair.
"Maybe she'll find something to occupy her interest here at the ranch—outside of work. Maybe you can show her around."
I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth. "Maybe."
“But Wyatt,” Mom lifts a brow. “If you do take more photos, will you please keep your shirt on?”
Dang, I should’ve known Mom would see that post. “I can try.” I grin, even as my gut churns. I don’t remember that night, and as hard as I try to put it behind me, I’m worried I never will, thanks to the internet.
“Thank you,” her eyes fill with warmth. I’m tempted to tell her about the dinner I've already claimed, but I don’t. Some things are better kept between a man and whatever trouble he's planning to get into.
Mom and Grandpa head back inside, and I follow them into the main room. They settle at the table while I lean against the kitchen counter where I can keep an eye on the drive in case any more unwelcome visitors decide to show up.
My mind drifts to Kinsley. I should have thought to give her something for the headache she's bound to have. At least I know she'll get a good dinner tonight.
"What's the plan?" Grandpa asks, pulling me back to the conversation.
"Kinsley and I will figure this out," Mom replies, and there's steel in her voice. "There are soft spots somewhere. We'll find them."
I half-listen to their planning while my mind wanders to more immediate concerns.
Like what Kinsley's soft spot might be. She's tough as nails but I want to see what she's like when those walls come down.
Really down, not just rattled by a knock to the head or caught off guard by a spooked horse.
I want to see what she's like when she's not thinking three moves ahead.
She didn't pull away when I touched her face in the barn. Didn't flinch when my thumb brushed across her lip. There was heat there. The kind of heat that tells me this thing between us isn't one-sided—.
"Wyatt."
Mom's voice comes through my wandering thoughts, and I realize she's been talking to me.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you'd call on Hank Ouray tomorrow. We need to see if his family will stand with us even though their land wasn't targeted." Her mouth tightens. "Funny how it's just our land that got hit with this designation."
Hank runs the Cornerstone Ranch, just south of Stonegate. They raise cattle and cutting horses. We're about the same age, went to school together before I took off for the rodeo circuit. Good guy.
"Sure," I say. "I'll ride over in the morning."
"Thank you." There's relief and gratitude in Mom's voice. "It'll mean more coming from you."
I nod, though part of me wonders if that's true anymore. I haven’t been around for a few years, and I won’t be here long. This place has a way of sucking me in and I’m doing my best to avoid it. Going over to Hank’s is going the wrong way but how can I say no?
I need a distraction and there’s a real pretty brunette who is full of them.
Six o'clock can't come fast enough. I'm going to figure out what makes Kinsley Rose tick, and we can spend a little time unwinding.