Chapter Thirty-One – Wes
Chapter Thirty-One
Wes
T he realtor's sign went up yesterday. Clean white against Montana dirt, red letters sharp as judgment. For Sale. Like you can put a price on generations of blood, sweat, and tears. Like you can measure a legacy in acres instead of memories.
The coffee maker gurgles—the same sound it's made every morning for years, but different now that there's no one stealing my mug or critiquing my brewing technique. Force of habit has me making enough for four. Turns out, muscle memory's harder to break than pride.
Emma's door hasn't opened yet. She should be down here by now, plotting schemes with her barn cats or explaining Bernard's latest theatrical crisis. Nowadays, she stays up there until the last possible minute, protesting against changes she shouldn't have to face.
"Morning." Jake's boots crunch on the hardwood floors. "Developer called. Says he'll be here by ten."
I grunt in acknowledgment. The developer. Clean boots, pressed jeans, probably never mucked a stall in his life. Coming to turn our working ranch into someone's idea of an authentic experience.
"Could be worse." Jake helps himself to coffee, careful not to use the blue mug that sits untouched on the highest shelf. "At least they want to keep some of the operations running. Maybe even expand on our tourism ideas."
The irony of it sits as bitter as old coffee. Tourism. Authentic ranch experience. Exactly what Paisley came here to write about. What she found, then lost, because I was too stubborn.
"Denver money's still money," Colt adds from the doorway. Always the practical one. “It would set up Emma's college fund properly. Maybe even allow us to keep some of the breeding stock."
My fingers tighten around my mug. The ceramic's worn smooth from years of quiet contemplation. Lately, those prayers have gotten shorter. It’s harder to ask for guidance when you're not sure you deserve it.
Bernard's morning proclamation splits the dawn, his imperial disapproval carrying across frost-touched grass. Even the goose knows something's wrong.
"Uncle Wes?" Emma's voice comes quietly.
Emma stands on the stairs, Sarah's quilt wrapped around her shoulders like a shield. Dark circles under her eyes tell me she's been up most of the night again. My chest tightens at the sight.
“Is the developer coming today?" Her voice carries that careful neutrality she's learned too young.
"Yeah, kiddo." I try to keep my voice steady. "Around ten."
She nods once, clutching the quilt tighter. "Can I stay at Sarah Beth's?"
Her request is brutal. Emma's never run from anything. Not thunderstorms, not Bernard's tantrums, not even her own grief. But this, watching strangers walk through our home with price tags in their eyes, is too much for her—for all of us.
“Of course, you can." Jake steps in smoothly, reading the struggle on my face. "I'll drive you over before they get here."
Emma's relief is palpable as she disappears back upstairs.
“She's not the only one running," Colt says quietly once she's gone.
I set my mug down harder than necessary. "Don't."
"Someone has to say it." He meets my eyes steadily. "You're letting fear of losing something stop you from fighting to keep everything."
"The papers are signed." The words taste like defeat.
"Papers can be unsigned." Jake leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Deals can change. Unless you're too proud to admit when you're wrong."
I exhale slowly, staring into the depths of my coffee like it holds answers I already know but don’t want to hear.
The truth is, I don’t know if I’m wrong. I just know I’m tired. Tired of fighting battles I keep losing. Tired of holding together something that keeps slipping through my fingers like dry Montana dust.
Jake and Colt don’t push. They just stand there, letting the silence settle thick between us. Letting me wrestle with my own thoughts.
Outside, Bernard honks again, louder this time, full of righteous indignation. Probably because Emma forgot to refill his water. That goose never misses an opportunity to remind us of our failures.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and push back from the table. “I need to check on the livestock before they get here.”
Jake doesn’t argue, just watches me like he’s waiting for something more. Colt shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about stubborn old fools.
The screen door slams behind me as I step onto the porch. The air is sharp with the bite of coming winter, the sky stretching wide and empty over land that isn’t really mine anymore. I drag in a breath, filling my lungs with the scent of frost, horses, and hay.
I should be grateful. Should be relieved that Emma’s future will be secure, that some version of this ranch will still exist, even if it’s not in the way I want.
But all I feel is hollow.
My boots crunch against the frozen dirt as I make my way to the barn. The horses shift in their stalls, ears flicking toward me, sensing the weight in my steps. The barn cat, a scrappy thing Emma named Pickles, weaves between my feet, tail high, demanding attention.
“Not now, bud,” I murmur, giving him a quick scratch before heading toward the tack room.
The ranch has always been work. Always been long days and sore muscles, hands raw from rope and weather. But it’s also been laughter in the kitchen, Sarah singing while she burned breakfast, Emma’s giggles echoing through the fields. It’s been something worth breaking myself over.
I reach for the worn bridle hanging on its hook, my fingers tracing the leather grooves out of habit.
Papers can be unsigned.
Deals can change.
The question is, do I have any fight left in me to change them?
The rattle of an expensive SUV on the gravel drive announces the developer’s arrival. Through the kitchen window, I watch him emerge—crisp suit, polished boots that have never seen an honest day's work. He's got a tablet in hand, probably filled with plans to turn our home into someone else's idea of ranch life.
"Mr. Montgomery." His handshake is firm but soft. City soft. "Beautiful property you have here."
I don’t bother with pleasantries. “Cut to it.”
His smile falters just a fraction before he recovers, swiping at his tablet. “Of course. Our investors are eager to move forward. The plan is to preserve some of the existing structures for historical charm”—he gestures vaguely toward the barn—“but to maximize profitability, we’ll need to clear a significant portion of the acreage.”
My fingers curl into my palm. “Clear?”
“Demolish,” he clarifies, as if I don’t know exactly what he means. “We’d repurpose a small section for high-end glamping experiences—cabins, guided horseback rides, farm-to-table dining. The full Montana escape.”
Jake lets out a low whistle from beside me. Colt mutters something I don’t catch. My ears are roaring too loud anyway.
“You’re talking about gutting the land,” I say, voice even. Too even. “Leveling pastures, cutting down hundred-year-old trees, putting in…” I glance at his tablet, at the digital renderings of sleek, modern buildings with wide windows and wraparound decks. “Luxury vacation homes?”
“Residences,” the developer corrects smoothly. “For a select clientele. High-profile, exclusive. People want the authenticity of ranch life without, well…” He laughs lightly, like this is funny. “Without the mess of it.”
I stare at him. “The mess of it.”
He nods, oblivious. “Precisely. We’ll keep a few horses, of course. Offer guided riding lessons. Maybe even a hands-on cattle experience for our premium guests.”
Colt steps forward, arms crossed tight. “You mean rich people playing cowboy on land they didn’t earn.”
The developer blinks, then pastes on that same well-trained smile. “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity to share the beauty of Montana with those who appreciate it.”
I glance at Jake, who’s gone still. His jaw ticks, but he stays quiet.
“So that’s the pitch?” I ask. “Tear down generations of work and sell it to tourists?”
The developer shifts, sensing the mood turning. “Mr. Montgomery, I understand this is personal for you. But progress?—”
I step in close, and for the first time, his confidence wavers. “This isn’t progress,” I say low. “It’s erasure.”
The wind picks up, cutting through my jacket, or maybe that’s just the hollow feeling settling in my chest.
The developer exhales, like he’s dealing with someone too stubborn to see reason. “I know this is hard for you. But think about what this money could do for your family.”
I clench my teeth.
“Your niece,” he continues, voice gentle now, like he’s the reasonable one. “This is her chance at a future without struggle. A real education. Opportunities beyond this place.” He gestures to the land like it’s nothing but dirt. “And you? You could start over. No more fighting uphill battles. No more sinking money into something that isn’t sustainable. Isn’t it time to let go?”
My stomach twists.
Because isn’t that what I’ve been telling myself for months? That this fight is killing me? That maybe I don’t have it in me anymore?
I rake a hand through my hair, staring past him at the land that raised me. The fences I’ve mended a hundred times, the fields where Emma learned to ride, where Sarah and I used to chase fireflies when we were kids. I see my father’s hands on a plow, my grandfather’s silhouette against a setting sun, Emma's small figure wrapped in her mama’s quilt, clutching whatever pieces of home are left.
And I see myself, empty-handed.
The thought of losing this place—of watching it be torn apart, rebuilt into something polished and soulless—makes my chest go tight. But the thought of keeping it? Of waking up every day, knowing I have to scrape and fight just to make ends meet?
I don’t know if I can do it anymore.
I don’t know if I have anything left to give.
The developer watches me, patient, waiting for my resolve to crack.
A ranch like this used to be built on sweat and callouses, on hard-earned know-how. Now it’s all contracts and bottom lines. And maybe I was a fool to think I could hold on to something that the world doesn’t make room for anymore.
Jake shifts beside me. Colt crosses his arms. They’re waiting, too. But I don’t know what they expect.
Do I fight for this land? For Emma? For some version of myself that still believes we can make it?
Or do I sign the papers and walk away before this place takes what little I have left?
The developer shifts, adjusting his expensive watch like time is on his side. “Think it over, Mr. Montgomery. This deal could change everything for you.”
My pulse pounds against my skull. I don’t need to think it over. I need a way out.