Chapter 30
Thirty
"YOU MAGNIFICENT, RUTHLESS CREATURE," SHE SAYS WITH OBVIOUS DELIGHT.
KINSLEY
I wake to mountain sunlight streaming through my windows and muscles that ache in all the right ways. The hay harvest left its mark—sore shoulders, callused palms, the kind of tiredness that comes from hard work. My hands are rough and raw; this valley is claiming me, one blister at a time.
Coffee fills the cottage with its rich aroma, a small comfort when everything else feels uncertain. Outside, cattle call across pastures that roll toward the mountains, the sounds of the ranch coming to life.
I can’t believe Wyatt flew home for one day just to see me. I’ve never had someone put that kind of effort into me. It’s overwhelming in the best way.
It's been less than twenty-four hours since he left for Calgary and missing him lives in my chest like hunger.
His scent still clings to the blanket draped over my porch swing.
I don't have time to think about how much I miss him right now though I’d love to wrap up in that blanket and relive his kisses.
Within twenty minutes, I'm headed up to the main house. Light spills from the kitchen windows, and I can smell the coffee before I even step inside. This kitchen always feels like command central—the place where real decisions get made.
"Good morning, darling," Sarah says. "Good news! Brook called, the stop work order was lifted. She says we might actually pull this miracle off. And, she said to tell you she decided to put a feed order through today." She lifts an eyebrow. “Do I want to know what that’s about?”
I grin. “It might be better if you didn’t.” I settle into the chair across from her, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug she slides toward me. "That's great news about the work order though.”
Sarah nods slowly. "I've been thinking," she says, lifting papers that hold the power to reshape our world. "The Whitmore's will try to undermine us again. I don’t want to be caught unawares.”
The mention of the Whitmores makes me cringe. Between the harvest and Wyatt’s surprise visit, I almost forgot about coming clean about my bloodlines. "Sarah," I begin, "there's something you need to know. About Ford." I clear my throat that is suddenly thick with dread.
She gives me her complete attention.
"Ford is my father." The confession tastes like every childhood wound that never quite healed.
"I know, honey," she says with such grace that I’m shocked. "I've known since before I came to see you in Cheyenne."
Heat floods my face, shame burning like a brand. "Please don’t think I’m like him.”
"What I think," Sarah says, reaching across to cover my hands with hers, "is that your character, Kinsley Rose, speaks for itself."
The words are an absolution I never dared hope for.
“Thank you.” I glance down at the table. “It’s strange. The day of the stop work order, Elenor showed up at the job site. It’s almost like she wanted to see us fail.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Yes, but there’s a shadow in all this.” I wave my hand across the table. “I can’t quite place everything on the Whitmores because this feels bigger than them.”
Sarah’s expression hardens. "Do you think there’s someone else involved?”
I take a sip of coffee and think about her question.
In politics, there are often back-room meetings and handshakes that can decide policy.
Scratching someone's back earns you a vote later on.
The thing is, as wealthy as the Whitmore's are, and they are incredibly wealthy, they haven't been playing this game like they're the movers and shakers.
They seem to be taking advantage of a situation instead of calling the shots.
"There's a bigger fish in this pond," I admit, feeling the truth of it roll through me.
Sarah stands up to top off her coffee. "How do we bring them into the light?”
“If they’re working with the Whitmores…” I trail off. Oh, the ideas. I steeple my fingers and look at the shadows from several different angles. When I settle on a plan, a shiver races over my skin.
What I'm about to propose feels like going all in at the poker table without looking at my cards. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for the guest list.
"I have an idea that might sound like madness," I say.
Sarah's coffee cup hovers halfway to her lips.
"We invite the Whitmores." The words fall between us like pistols drawn at high noon. Facing Brittney with Wyatt has made me believe in this strategy. Already I feel like I’m more in control of myself and our relationship. I’ve had several texts from her over the last two days and not once has my stomach twisted. Maintaining the power is the key.
Sarah sets her cup down so hard that coffee splashes, but her focus never wavers. "Kinsley,” she says my name as a warning.
"Hear me out. If we bring all the players together, they may tip their hand and reveal who is really behind this." I lean forward. "We invite them to what they expect to be our funeral and force them all out in the open."
Sarah stares at me like I've just proposed we dance with the devil, and maybe I have.
"That's either the most brilliant move I've ever heard," she says slowly, "or the most reckless."
"Maybe both," I admit, pulse racing as the danger of inviting our known enemy into our most important evening stares me in the face. "But think about it—they won’t be able to refuse.” I saw the hunger for victory in Eleanor’s eyes.
“If there’s even a chance we’re going to fall on our faces–they’ll have to be there to witness it. ”
She leans back, the gleam in her eyes alive with possibilities.
"They'll expect to see us grovel and beg for their help.” I continue, gaining momentum. "Instead, they'll be forced to smile and applaud when we win the day. And they’ll see their hopes of getting your land go up in smoke."
The pen in Sarah's hand taps against the table like a war drum. "High stakes," she murmurs. "If they cause a scene—"
"Then they expose themselves and we act as the gracious hosts," I finish. "Either way, we control the battlefield. If they behave, they watch their defeat. If they don't, they reveal their true nature to the most influential people to set foot in Gritstone since its founding."
Sarah studies the guest list and then my face—weighing every risk against the chance for perfect, devastating victory. Slowly, a smile spreads across her features. "You magnificent, ruthless creature," she says with obvious delight.
I grin.
An alarm goes off on my phone and I glance at the reminder. Well, shoot. It’s time to call in another ace, though I’m not as sure about this one. "Excuse me. I have to make a call."
Sarah nods. She begins addressing an invitation to each of the Whitmores in an elegant calligraphy script that is artwork.
I step out onto the porch to have some privacy and dial before fear can steal my nerve.
"Kinsley?” Mom’s voice pierces the hush. "What's wrong?" I can hear horses in the background and her voice echoes like it does off the barn walls.
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, then wince because I sounded defensive. "I need a favor,”
She’s quiet.
“It’s actually an invitation.” I rush on, explaining the event, the scope of what we're attempting, the celebrities and politicians.
I also explain the precedence of having this decision overturned, citing how it would benefit her operation and every rancher, farmer, and cowboy and cowgirl in the United States.
"I know it sounds impossible—"
"It doesn't sound impossible, Kinsley. It sounds desperate." Her disapproval stings.
My throat closes and I can’t talk.
"Why are you desperate?" she asks.
“We’re running out of time and this is our only chance.” Admitting it is difficult—especially to my mom.
“Just so long as you're not desperate for a man,” she says. "I saw pictures of you with the roughie.”
"I—." I gulp at the same time I bristle at having her refer to him as a roughie. As if that term encompasses all that is Wyatt Halloway. "His name’s Wyatt, Mom. He's a bull rider, one of the best in the world," and I'm rambling. I cut off.
“And he’s got buckle bunnies hanging all over him. I saw that too.”
I didn’t know Mom could stalk someone on social media. Props to her for being savvy. “He’s a celebrity. It’s not personal with them.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“That’s what he’s shown me,” I fire back.
She exhales. "You’ve tied up fighting for his land with fighting for him.”
I don't argue. Because she's right. I can't separate the two anymore because fighting for the ranch means protecting Wyatt's future. It doesn't matter that he's not here to fight himself—and I'm not sure why that doesn't bother me. Maybe it should.
"No," I whisper. "I can't."
"Oh, baby," she says, voice carrying years of hard-won wisdom and old wounds that never quite healed. "Don’t risk things you can't afford to lose for people who might not stay when the ground gets rough."
"He's not like that," I say fiercely, surprising myself. "Wyatt's not the kind of man who walks away." Even as I say this, I realize that he's not here and that he's spent years walking away from this ranch. I don’t know if he’d stick around or not—but I’m not the one to ask him to stay either.
"Honey, they're all that kind when the right pressure gets applied." Her voice gentles and I can almost believe that she doesn’t want to hurt me by telling me the truth—or what’s been her truth.
It's not like I wasn't raised on Garth Brooks and the thunder rollin’. I’ve had all these same fears. I don’t want to believe my mother’s truth but what if she's right?
On the other hand, Wyatt keeps doing more for me than I expect from him.
“Wyatt doesn’t sign my paychecks, Mom.”
I hear the sigh that carries a mother's worry.
"Honestly?” I continue, “We don't need you here to pull this off." It's true. With the people Wyatt's lined up, we have enough celebrities. "I’m inviting you because I want you here. I'm proud of you and who you are, and I hoped you'd feel the same for me."
Mom’s quiet for a second. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds smaller.
"Have you seen … him?"
Her question catches me off guard, but I know exactly who she’s talking about. "A couple of times. Neither pleasant."
"I'm sorry you had to face that alone." She clears her throat. "Gritstone... it's been a long time since I've thought about that place. There are memories there. Complicated ones that I buried so deep I almost convinced myself they never happened."
Something cold settles in my stomach. I didn't realize I was resurrecting ghosts.
"Mom—"
"I'll come," she says, cutting me off with a decisive tone.
"But it’s going to cost me. Being in that place again.
.." She trails off, then continues with quiet intensity.
"Just know that what I'm doing, I'm doing for you.
Not for some ranch or some family that hired you or some man who might break your heart the way they all do. "
I'm shocked. I really didn't know what to expect, but that much loyalty surprises me. "Thank you." We end the call, and I'm left with the terrible certainty that my mother carries secrets about this place—about Gritstone—that run deeper than I ever imagined.
It's only now that I realize I didn't tell her that, as of a half hour ago, Ford was on the invite list. I'm not sure how to bring that up or if he'll even come.
Unlike kids who come from healthy divorces, I've never had to navigate my parents' relationship before. I'm not sure what to do with this.
The question is, will we survive when the thunder rolls?