Chapter 2
restless
DUKE
The animals have been riled up for days. The weather hasn’t shifted from its sunny, calm state, and yet, the horses seem especially agitated. Even Jameson, my lazy English bulldog, is more active than usual.
Should’ve known they were sensing the storm before I did.
Another sleepless night has me yawning as I descend the stairs of my house to the kitchen, where I make my usual breakfast.
Cup of black coffee.
Eggs. Hash. Bacon.
I feed Jameson, who grunts into his slow-feeder bowl long after it’s empty, and then I head to the office where my stepfather Rusty sits at his desk as he does every morning, checking emails.
“Mornin’,” I say, handing him a fresh cup of coffee before sitting down to the pile of papers overtaking my desk. “Did you see the text from Mom? Looks like she’s staying with London a little longer in New York.”
Rusty squints and leans toward the laptop screen even though his readers are on. “Sounds like your sister’s divorce is getting nasty.”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Twelve years down the drain, and he blindsided her with the papers. She’s still trying to keep it together for Byrdie.”
Rusty shakes his head. “Damn shame.”
“Hoping Mom’ll be home soon,” I say, taking another sip of coffee. “Jameson has been impossible without Mom here.”
“Everyone is impossible without your mother here.”
I scan the heap of statements and bills in front of me, but my eyes drift back to the letter from Veterans Affairs that has been sitting on top since last week. The words stamped in blaring red ink penetrate to my core every time I see them.
Notification of Funding Termination—VA Grant #73921
I don’t bother to read the rest.
“You need to file that letter,” Rusty says. “What’s done is done.”
“Sixty days—the end of August,” I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “We’ve been receiving this grant for the past five years, meeting their criteria, changing lives, and just like that, they pull the plug.”
“That’s what happens when the government gets to reallocate funds.”
I scoff. “Absolute bullshit.”
“Throw it away.”
“What if …” I stare at the letter, so close to crumpling it up. “I mean, how many appeals go through?”
Rusty is quiet for a beat. “Less than one percent.”
“That’s what I thought.”
It isn’t fair.
My parents and I rebuilt Firebird Ranch, turning it from a sprawling estate a movie star no longer wanted, into a safe haven for those at the end of their military careers.
Veterans who come through our gates are broken, hopeless, and desperate for a second chance and the help they need to get back on their feet.
Veterans like me.
And now the government is washing their hands of us like we are nothing more than a line item in a budget cut.
My fingers curl into fists. “I’m not sure what the hell we’re going to do, but at least I have a little time to think of something.”
I glance up and meet Rusty’s gaze.
He’s calm, too calm.
“We might have a solution,” he says, running his fingers over his silver beard.
I tilt my head. “We?”
“C’mon.” Rusty pushes up from his seat and motions for me to follow him. “I’m going to have Topper tell you.”
“Tell me?” I set my coffee down and follow him. “Tell me what?”
Rusty opens the front door. “It will soften the blow if it comes from him.”
“Wait, what? Soften what blow?”
He ignores me and strides out toward the north paddock where Wyatt “Topper” Westin is mucking a stall in the main barn.
Topper runs point on the day-to-day, handling everything from horse rotation and supply runs to keeping the ranch running.
If something breaks, he fixes it. If someone needs to talk at 3 a.m., he’s there.
My best friend since boot camp and one of the only people I trust to call me on my shit.
“Old man!” I shout while Jameson barks and laps at my heels. Rusty says nothing and straightens his Stetson.
“Topper?” I yell as I approach. “You have something you need to tell me?”
Even the elevation of my voice doesn’t get his attention, and as I near, I see he has earbuds in.
“Hey, hello?” I say, waving my hands in front of his eyes once I reach the stall.
“Oh, hey,” he says, tugging his earbuds out.
“What’s going on?” I insist.
Topper’s smile dissolves when he sees my expression.
Rusty clears his throat as our therapy horse, Goose, bobs his head from behind his stall door.
Topper’s eyes flick to Rusty and then back to me. “Oh boy, is this the part where I’m supposed to tell you what Rusty doesn’t want to?”
“Guess so,” I say, putting my hands on my hips.
Topper stretches his neck and sets his pitchfork against the wall. “So, remember how I told you I nominated Firebird Ranch for a contest Uncharted TV and World Explorer magazine are running?”
My heart thuds in my ears. “I’m not aware of this, no.”
“Right,” Topper says, with a nervous chuckle. “That’s because I neglected to tell you.”
I slam my eyes shut. “And why did you not tell me this?”
“Because I knew you’d be boilin’ mad.”
“I see.”
“And are you boilin’ mad?”
“I think you know the answer.”
“See!” Topper slaps his hands together. “I was right.”
“Why the hell did you nominate us for some dumb contest?”
“For starters, if we win this dumb contest we could get fifteen million.”
My eyebrows tent. “That’s a ridiculous amount of money. What kind of contest is this?”
“A contest the billionaire owner of Uncharted TV is putting on. He wants to highlight hidden gems in America that have helped others and now need help themselves.”
“That money would save the ranch if we win,” Rusty adds.
“No shit,” I say. “Wait … if we win?”
“There’s a chance we won’t,” Topper says. “But we will if we show the people from World Explorer magazine how special this place is.”
I rake my hand through my hair. “And how are we supposed to do that?”
“Can I interest you in a scotch or two or twenty before I tell you the rest?” Topper asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“It’s 7 a.m.”
“But it’s 4 p.m. in Germany, soooo.”
“Git to it, Topper,” Rusty shouts as he strokes Goose’s forehead.
“I am!” Topper barks. “A team from the magazine—a writer, production manager, and cameraman—are staying here …”
My eyes widen.
“For the summer …” Topper continues.
I clench my teeth.
“To embed themselves in our lives and decide if we’re worthy of the prize.”
I scoff. “So they’ll be disrupting our lives for the entire summer and there’s a chance they won’t think we should win?”
“Well … yeah, but—”
“Call this off.” I throw a glare over my shoulder to Rusty, who remains unfazed as he feeds Goose a slice of apple he had in his pocket.
“Can’t do that, D,” Rusty says.
“We can’t have people with cameras here,” I say. “We’re a refuge for vets, not a reality TV show.”
Rusty nears and puts his arm around me. “We’ve had an NDA and all the other pertinent agreements drafted. They’ll all sign it before they even start. They’ll know where they can film and who they can talk to.”
“And if they don’t respect it? What if some vet opens up and then regrets it? What if these World Explorers ask questions that make one of our people uncomfortable?”
Rusty drops his head while Topper glances away. They both know who I’m referring to.
“We set the rules, we set the boundaries, and we’ll have the paperwork to make sure these people stay in line.” Rusty offers. “Son, you’ve been putting your heart and soul into Firebird for too long at the sacrifice of your own well-being. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”
“I’m fine.”
“Says the man who never sleeps,” Topper says.
Rusty adjusts his hat. “The financial situation of the ranch is more dire than we realized, and you can’t keep writing checks and eating through your savings to help keep it afloat.”
“I’ve got enough to get us by,” I add.
“And you’ve already done that,” Rusty says. “Now, I’m done arguing with you, son. These people want to help us. Let’s let them do it.”
“I want no part of this, and I’m still going to work on another way to get funding.”
“Probably best if they avoid you anyway,” Rusty says, giving Goose another apple slice.
“How much time do I have before this all starts?” I ask.
“I guess since you’re already boilin’ mad, I might as well tell you the even worser news,” Topper says. “Yes, I know worser is not a real word, no, I don’t care.”
I put my hands on my hips. “All right, how does this all get worser?”
“This team from World Explorer will be arriving later today from New York. They’re already in the air.”
My throat feels like the dirt road leading back to the main lodge. “You’re fired.”
Topper folds his hands across his chest. “You know, when you tell me that every day, it loses all significance.”
“Fine, but after this is over, I get to punch you in the face,” I say, pointing my finger at Topper. Jameson barks in solidarity, causing Goose to whinny.
“Duke, my friend, when this is all over and we win fifteen million, then I will gladly let you punch me in the face.”