Chapter 15
Fifteen
THIS IS ABOUT TO GET REAL UGLY, REAL FAST.
WYATT
You'd think having Kinsley on the ranch would make taking her on rides through the mountains and watching the sunset on her porch swing easy, but that woman's got more energy than a bronc fresh out of the chute.
Either she's holed up with Mom, making battle plans to save our hides, or she's running that mare around barrels until they're both lathered up, or she's working the phones to keep our world from falling apart.
Yesterday, when she waded through government red tape like it was nothing, all I could think about was pinning her against that kitchen counter and showing her exactly what her beautiful brain does to a man.
I'm going soft for her, and that's a problem I can't ride my way out of.
Not that I'm sitting around waiting for her to notice me.
I rode out with Dad to the eastern fence line on Ace, same as I have every fall since I was big enough to handle the job.
The sun's climbing toward noon, and everything about this feels like I never left—which makes the need to get gone itch worse than wool against bare skin. When I’m with Dad, I’m nothing more than a ranch hand—one who works for free.
My shoulder's nearly right again, just a catch now and then when I move wrong. I’ve taken off all the tape and done the exercises Doc texted me as if they’re my religion. This weekend's sponsor event is still on, and after that I'll be back to what I do best.
Just got to keep my head down and my hands busy until then.
"Post's loose here," Dad calls out, dismounting to test a cedar that's been fighting the wind for three winters straight. His gelding, Tucker, stands without moving—ten years old and so devoted to Dad, he'd follow him across three states without so much as a lead rope.
I swing down from Ace and walk the wire, testing tension with my gloved hands.
"Been meaning to get out here and reset this whole section," Dad mutters, pulling tools from his saddlebag. "Winter was hard on the east slope."
We work in silence. Dad's always been better with his hands than his words. Out here, we speak the same language—the language of wire and wood, of land that needs tending whether you're in the mood for it or not.
We mount back up and ride over the small rise that leads down toward Willow Creek. Something bright catches my eye and I ride over for a closer look.
Survey flags.
Stabbed into our pasture and marking territory that ain't theirs to mark.
I curse.
The flags run in a neat line from the creek bottom up toward the road—exactly through the section Maxwell Whitmore so generously offered to buy from us.
"Those dirty snakes," I breathe, and the rage that builds in my chest is white-hot and immediate. "Who do they think they are?"
Dad's already dismounting, his boots hitting the ground with the kind of force that means someone's about to get hurt. He strides toward the nearest flag like it personally offended his mother and yanks it from the earth.
I dismount and follow him as he works his way down the line, ripping flags from the ground using the language of a man who's reached his limit. Each flag he pulls makes the knot in my stomach tighten another notch. This isn't just trespassing—this is a declaration of war.
"Gritstone Ranch," Dad spits, reading the marking on one of the stakes.
The sight of those flags on our land hits me harder than I expected.
This pasture, this creek bottom—I learned to ride here.
Spent summers moving cattle through this grass, winters checking on pregnant heifers when the snow got deep.
Kit caught her first fish in Willow Creek right over there by that bend where the cottonwoods grow thick.
This isn’t, nor will it ever be, Whitmore land.
"Thirty-six flags," Dad says, his voice deadly quiet as he finishes his count. He looks at me, and I haven’t seen that expression on his face since the haystack burned ten years ago—arson, though we never did find out who struck the match. Pure, righteous fury.
Before I can stop him, he's swinging back up onto Tucker. "Time someone reminded Maxwell Whitmore where the property lines are."
"Dad—" I start, but he's already spurring his horse, his temper flying behind him like smoke from a pistol.
Shoot. This is about to get real ugly, real fast.
I vault onto Ace and kick him into a run, trying to catch up with Dad before he does something we'll all regret. But Tucker's younger than Ace and Dad's riding with the kind of purpose that eats up ground.
The only thing to be grateful for right now is that Grandpa isn't here.
We tear into the barnyard, throw our reins to Billy to cool down the horses, and I barely slide into Dad's truck before he sprays gravel. I gotta ride along to make sure he doesn’t get himself shot. He’s got the pedal to the floor and I’m holding onto the O.S. bar like my life depends on it.
In a blink we're tearing up the drive to Gritstone Ranch. Even in all the hurry, I’m blown away by the raw power of this place.
Stonegate is a working ranch wealthy, but Gritstone is a whole other animal.
Decades of acquiring property and wealth, through oftentimes, unspeakable means, makes them one of the wealthiest and most notorious families in the western states.
The private road alone stretches for nearly two miles through pastures—not a weed in sight, not a fence post out of line. Even the asphalt under our tires is smooth as silk.
Dad drives right up to the front steps like he's delivering a warrant, hops out the truck and stomps up the wooden steps. He pounds on the door with enough force to rattle the windows.
I reach the bottom of the porch when Maxwell Whitmore opens the door, smug satisfaction giving way to surprise and then calculation. He's dressed like he's heading to a board meeting—not a speck of honest dirt anywhere on him.
Dad hurls the crushed survey flags at Maxwell's feet like he's throwing down a gauntlet. "Stay off my land."
Maxwell looks down his nose at the flags. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Oscar.”
"You dirty, trespassing liar." Dad takes a step closer, anger radiating off him like heat from a branding iron. “Next time you're trying not to get caught, you should check for your brand, idiot."
Maxwell steps right up in Dad’s face like he's about to start something he has every intention of finishing. "That's quite an accusation. You sure you're not seeing things? Stress can do that to a man your age."
Family loyalty kicks in and I'm charging up the steps before my brain catches up to my boots. Nobody—and I mean nobody—gets in Dad’s face like that.
"Back off," I snarl.
Maxwell glances at me and something cold flickers behind his eyes. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal son."
I'm three steps away from showing him exactly what I think of his smart mouth when a woman's voice comes from inside the house.
"Maxwell? What on earth?" Eleanor Whitmore appears in the doorway, calm and collected.
"Don't," she says. "They aren’t worth it." She hooks her nephew’s arm, pulling him back into the house with surprising strength for such a small woman. That or Maxwell isn’t as strong as he pretends to be.
His eyes are hollow and there are dark circles underneath.
His evil plotting must be keeping him up at night.
Dad growls and I put out my arm to keep him from charging into Maxwell like a brahma bull. I haul him off the porch before this thing escalates past the point of no return. He's still vibrating with rage, but he lets me guide him toward the truck.
"This isn't over, Whitmore," Dad yells.
Maxwell straightens his shirt. His hands shake just slightly. "No, Oscar. I don't believe it is." He slams the door shut.
We ride in silence for the first quarter mile, and I can feel the tension building between us like a bull pushing on the gate. I’m so ticked off right now. Of all the stupid, impulsive…
"I wonder where Kit gets her temper from," I snap.
Dad pulls the truck over, then wheels around to face me with fire in his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?" If he can’t fight Maxwell, then he’ll fight me. Fine. I’m here and I have something to say.
"It means you drove over there like some teenager who caught some guy kissing his girlfriend." The vein pulses in Dad's temple. "We don’t need an assault charge right now, Dad.”
"What was I supposed to do? Sit back and let them stake out our property like they own it?"
"You were supposed to think!" The words come out harder than I intended, but I can't stop them now. "You see red, and you charge, consequences be hanged. Just like Kit."
He stares me down hard. "Must run in my blood because the apple didn't fall far from the tree, son."
He’s right. I didn’t think, just reacted when I charged Maxwell myself, but that’s not the point. Not right now anyway.
"Yeah, and it all starts with you, Dad." I lean in, meeting his glare with one of my own. "You’re the problem."
"I do what I have to to protect this land.”
"Yeah, and you’re doing a bang-up job of it too," I shoot back. "That's why we're fighting off government rezoning and Whitmore land grabs, right? Because your way's working so well."
Dad's face goes red as a brandin' iron. "You don't get to criticize how I run things. You gave up that right when you chose rodeo over family."
That’s bull. "As if you ever listened to me. I wasn’t good for anything around here but hard labor. Everything's gotta be done your way, on your timeline, with your temper calling the shots."
"Because I can’t trust you to stick around when it matters!”
We stare at each other, both breathing hard like we've been throwing punches instead of words.
"Don't know why I bother talking," I say finally, my voice raw. "You’ll never listen. Never have."
Dad hits the road again. "Hard to take advice from someone who's got one boot out the door." He turns up the radio and Chris LeDoux fills the silence.
Dad parks at the horse walker where Billy set up Tucker and Ace. He bee-lines for his horse and heads for the hills. He's goin’ up toward the high country where he can ride off his anger.
Stubborn old fool. Can't listen to reason, can't think past his own anger,
I can’t wait until this weekend. I need to get off Stonegate land—now.