Chapter 13
aria
“Ican’t live like this,” Celine snaps the moment I step into the kitchen.
She’s sitting at the island on a barstool, a cup of tea in front of her, apparently, waiting for me.
I am shocked to see her.
First, it’s six a.m., and she usually strolls into the dining room around ten for breakfast, from what I have noticed.
Second, she’s in the freaking kitchen, a place she doesn’t usually step into.
Third, Celine’s not dressed up. She’s in a silk robe, barefoot, hair tousled, and she doesn’t have a lick of makeup. Might be the first time I’ve seen her without any since she first picked up an eyebrow pencil when she turned fourteen.
I walk to the coffee pot, which has been turned on.
Bless Nadine!
“Then don’t.”
I fill a cup and savor the first sip.
It’s gonna be a long day, and I know I should get some food into my body so I can do the arduous work needed to keep the ranch running, to turn it around, to save it.
“I own half of this ranch, Aria. You can’t just throw me out,” she says belligerently.
Any minute now, she’s going to either hold her breath or stomp her feet like a toddler.
“What on earth are you talkin’ about?” I rest my hip against the kitchen counter and eye her carefully.
“It’s half mine,” she screeches.
Not the house, I want to retort, but that’s not who I am.
I know how it feels to be kicked out of a place you think of as home. As much as Celine has taken from me, I won’t let her influence my values. I will stay true to myself. I won’t let the past make my present and future bitter.
I’ve had plenty of therapy—in fact, I still have monthly calls with my therapist, though I probably need to increase the frequency, considering the shitshow my life is—and I’ve done the work to know myself.
I’m not the person Celine wants me to be, a reflection of herself. If she’d gotten the ranch, my ass would’ve hit asphalt within minutes.
I set my cup down. Last night, she cornered me as I was heading to bed, and we ended that confrontation with her saying she hates it here, and me telling her that if it’s so awful, she’s free to leave.
“Celine, you said you don’t like living here. I told you to stay in Aspen if it makes you happier. No one’s chaining you down here.”
She folds her arms, her mouth tight. “That’s just another way of asking me to leave.”
“No, that would be me askin’ you to leave direct and straight,” I reply. “You can stay here for as long as you want. I’ll never ask you to leave your home, Celine. You’re my sister.”
Her expression twists in puzzlement.
“I remember the day you came home from the hospital,” I say quietly. “I was a baby myself, just two. Papa let me hold you in the rocking chair in Mama’s room. You were wrapped in a white blanket with tiny pink roses. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious of sentiment.
“I loved you.” I smile sadly. “God, I loved you so much. Still do. You’re my baby sister. No matter what.”
Celine’s mouth trembles, but she forces a laugh. “Don’t do that. Don’t play this poor-me-I-loved-you crap. You’re just as selfish as anyone else in this family.”
“Celine—"
“Congratulations.” Her voice is bitter. “You won. You got Papa’s love in the end. You got the house. You get to be the good daughter now. All I want is to sell this damn place and move on with my life.”
“You want money,” I correct her. “Let’s not dress it up.”
She takes a breath like she’s resisting throwing something at me. “You don’t understand what it’s like. You have no idea what Hudson and I have been through—”
“No,” I cut her off, “I don’t, and honestly, I don’t care to know. You want to move on with your life, then leave and let me do what I need to in peace. But don’t act like I’m the reason you’re unhappy.”
“We need to sell the ranch, Aria.” There’s desperation in her voice.
“I’m not selling it.”
“I’ll take you to court,” she warns.
“Knock yourself out.”
“You can’t save this place. We owe so much in taxes and—”
“You need money? Sell the Aspen apartment. It’s all yours. Or some of Mama’s jewelry.”
Something that feels a lot like guilt shifts in her eyes, but she reels it in.
I pick up my coffee again, lukewarm now. Bitter. But I drink it anyway.
The kitchen door opens, and Nadine comes in with a basket of vegetables, which she probably picked in the back garden. She looks from me to Celine and then to me again, as if checking to make sure no one is physically injured.
“Vera is home today. Benji’s running a fever. So, I’m cookin’, and we’re having pancakes,” she announces, and because Celine snorts, she adds, “Not for you, Celine. I’ll make you an egg-white omelet when you’re ready. Hudson is on his own, not that he eats much for breakfast.”
Subtext: He starts drinking early.
Celine glares at me for a long moment, then turns on her heel and storms out of the kitchen, the hem of her robe flaring like a warning flag.
“Was it somethin’ I said?” Nadine murmurs, watching Celine’s retreating form.
“No, something I did.”
It’s been less than an hour since I woke up, and it’s already been a day!
After a breakfast of half-decent pancakes—Nadine is an okay cook—I go outside.
The wind bites through my jacket, the one I used to wear through the winter before I left Wildflower Canyon.
I walk the perimeter of the south field, boots sinking half an inch into the thawing mud. I pause near the edge of the alfalfa stand, crouch down, and run a hand over the soil.
Cold. Damp. Promising.
We won’t be cutting until May at the earliest, but prep starts now.
Weed control. Soil feeds. Fencing. Water lines. All the invisible things that make or break a harvest.
I stand, stretch my back, eyeing the cracked irrigation pipe lying like a broken limb in the ditch.
Add that to the list of things to do, Aria.
Five of us. That’s all we’ve got.
Five people to run what used to take twelve, maybe more in peak season. And one of those five is Vera, who keeps the house running like a tight ship but isn’t meant to haul feed, corral cattle, or mend fences.
That leaves Earl, Tomas, Nadine, and me.
Earl’s nearly seventy, though he’d likely kick my ass for saying that out loud. He knows this land like he knows the lines on his hands. Still, his knees aren’t what they used to be.
Tomas is strong and eager, and most importantly, he listens. But he’s inexperienced.
Nadine is the glue holding the emotional wreckage of this place together, but her focus is the farm and orchard.
Which means…most of it lands on me.
My insecurities flare.
Sure, I’ve been running a high-end vineyard with the latest technology and all the resources one could imagine—but here, it’s not going to be like that. This isn’t high-end. This is a mid-sized ranch that has been battered over the years, becoming less than it used to be.
I cross through the orchard gate and pause at the base of the slope.
The apple trees stand bare and bony, their branches silhouetted against the pale blue sky.
I take a breath.
The air smells like damp bark, wet soil, and the first stretch of spring.
Pruning season.
I roll the numbers in my head as I walk the rows.
Thirty-seven acres of apples. Even with focused effort…that’s a few hundred trees. Each one needs attention. Cuts made just so to shape them, thin them, ready them to bear fruit that can actually sell come autumn.
Between Nadine, Tomas, and me, we can get this done in a few days. Tomas hasn’t done this before, but we’ll walk him through the method again tomorrow.
A good clean cut, angled, above the bud. No stubs, no rips. No garbage pruning when you rush the rows.
Then there’s the hay.
If we want a first cut that’s worth the diesel it takes to bale it, I need Nadine to walk the fields with me next week.
We’ll take samples and send them for testing.
Nadine can help me mix a top-dress blend for the fertilizer spreader. We’ll spray if we have to.
The dollar figures go up. There isn’t much cash flow, which means I need to use my savings. And I will. All this will be worth it…if the cattle sale goes well.
Stop that negativity, Aria.
Fine! When the cattle sale goes well.
The calves in their pens are still shaggy with winter coats. We need to get them in shape—dewormed, fed, worked, slicked up for the Gunnison Livestock Auction at the end of May.
That gives me ten weeks.
If I do this right, if I get them to the ring healthy and clean, I can pull premium prices for organic cattle, which Longhorn is registered as.
My eyes scan the bailing machines.
Nadine mentioned that the belts on the machines slip, a truck that won’t hold a charge, and fencing tools scattered across three sheds.
Two generations of chaos.
Fuck!
My phone beeps, and I look at a message from Sanya: How’s it going?
I call her, wanting a friendly voice to ground me.
“Hey, cowgirl,” Sanya’s cheerful voice comes through the miles that separate us.
“Hey, yourself.”
“So?”
I give her the highlights.
“That’s a lot. How can we help?”
I smile. This is what real friendship looks like—people who ask what they can do for you.
“I need my place closed down. I won’t be able to get there until—”
“Consider it done.”
“I know I signed a lease—”
“Don’t be absurd,” she cuts me off again. I’m leasing a cottage on the Knight Estate. “Clayton already took care of that when we knew you weren’t coming back.”
“Thanks, Sanya.”
“Not needed,” my friend says. “You gonna be okay, Aria?”
I take a deep breath and exhale. “Like you said, it’s a lot and…if I can’t make it, I’m going to have to sell Longhorn.” I pause. “I don’t want to sell my home, Sanya.”
“I understand, and you won’t have to. Remember, you’re not alone. You have friends. Look, we can help with money and—”
“No way.”
“You’re letting your pride get in the way,” she scoffs.
“I’m not going to risk our friendship,” I say firmly. “And…it’s going to work out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’ll be hard, don’t get me wrong.”
“How hard?”
“Sanya”—I look up at the mountains, I see the sun rise languidly—“it’s goin’ to be like threading a needle while riding a bucking bronc.”
Sanya laughs. “That’s such a Ransom Canyon thing to say.”
We talk a little more before ending the call.
As I walk back to the house to meet Tomas and Earl, who’ll be there soon for breakfast, I feel better.
I won’t be joining Tomas and Earl on the ranch today, not until later, because I have an appointment with the bank.
I spent the night going through the accounts, and no one was exaggerating the poor health of Longhorn’s finances.
But if I can get the bank to give me an extension, get the government to do the same on the estate tax. Maybe if all the stars align….
I’m not afraid to work. And I know how to do the work.
Before California, before the heartbreak, I lived this life.
I rode fences with Papa.
Branded calves.
Held the light during midnight births.
Won buckles before I knew what taxes were.
I know what this land needs. What this ranch needs.
But I am going to need every drop of sweat from me. Every bit of patience from the universe.
I stop by an apple tree, reach up and snap off a dead twig, roll it between my fingers, and let it fall to the soil.
The sun, thin as it is, feels good on my face.
A new season is coming.
And I plan to meet it head-on.
We survive spring.
We get to breathe.
Then we get to build.