Chapter 15
aria
Idreamt of Maverick.
The man was fucking with my head. Big time!
If I didn’t doubt his agenda, which I do, the deal he’s proposing is an extremely generous one, and I should grab it with both hands.
I probably will.
No, I definitely will.
I’ve done the math.
I need fifteen to twenty thousand for cattle upkeep—feed, vaccines, and transportation. Ten for a part-time ranch hand ‘cause we can’t do this on our own.
Another twenty for equipment maintenance, hay, fuel, and fixin’ the broken fencing.
That leaves just enough to patch together a barely-working operation, and maybe, if luck stays on my side, carry us through until the fall apple harvest. If we can move cattle at the Gunnison sale and keep the orchard profitable, I might actually pull this off without selling another acre.
Might.
Selling thirty acres on the south ridge could net me about thirty of that, if Maverick pays fair market value.
I have twenty-five in savings that I can liquidate now, and possibly another twenty if I cash in part of my 401(k) early, although the penalties will sting.
But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Yeah?
With all of this, if Celine says, ‘Fuck no. Sell everything, and no way can you put money back into the ranch,’ I’m up shit creek without a paddle.
She and Hudson sat me down last night, told me I was being selfish.
“Mav is ready to pay twelve million for the ranch and the house. After paying the Federal estate tax and the debts, you walk away with a cool four million.” Hudson’s eyes are full of dollar signs, and his breath is loaded with bourbon fumes.
Five million, I calculate, but then who’s counting?
“We can give you an extra two hundred thousand for the ranch house,” Celine offers.
I look out of the living room window into the darkness. The mountains are still standing, even if I can’t see them. They give me comfort.
“At the height of operations just eight years ago, Longhorn was worth nearly thirty million, and Papa pulled in close to two million annually, after expenses. Between the cattle, the hay, the orchard, and a lease on the west side for seasonal grazing, it worked. We had a balanced operation. It wasn’t flashy, but it was sustainable. ”
Hudson scoffs, arms folded, smug. “Yeah, and now it’s worth maybe half that. Debt’s chewing it alive, the market’s changed, and we’re bleeding cash. You think you can fix that with two ranch hands and a dream?”
“Three ranch hands,” I counter laconically. “I’m a ranch hand, too.”
“It’s still not enough, Aria.” He flings his arms up in exasperation. “Why the fuck are you so stubborn?”
Celine gives me a withering look. “Just like Papa. He should’ve sold it before he died.”
“I think I can rebuild what matters.” I rotate my neck. It was my first day working on the ranch, and I could feel every muscle in my body. “We need stability. Steady revenue from beef, apples, and hay. We’ve got water rights. We’ve got soil. We’ve got land people would kill for. I just need time.”
Hudson shakes his head. “You’re romanticizing this place. The math doesn’t lie. Sell now, and we split a decent payout. Hold on, and we both drown.”
My jaw tightens for an instant, and I force myself to relax. I won’t give these two the satisfaction of seeing me lose my temper. They’ll see it as a weakness, just like Papa did.
“I’m sure that if I fail, Maverick will be happy to buy the place.”
“Then why waste time?” Celine cries out.
“I said if I fail, not when,” I murmur.
“Buy us out,” Hudson challenges. “You want to play rancher, fine. Buy us out.”
“I don’t have to,” I remind him. “The will is pretty clear. Consent is only needed from both of us to sell, not to keep the ranch operational.”
“Aria, we need the money sooner than later,” Hudson mellows, as if he’s talking to someone who’s having trouble grasping the basics.
I arch an eyebrow, my glare dripping with disdain. “Owe the wrong people money?”
Hudson shoots me a venomous stare.
“Isn’t that why we’re in this shithole to start with ‘cause Papa had to pay your bills so the men you owed money to wouldn’t break your kneecaps?”
“Leave the past where it belongs,” Hudson threatens, his eyes red-rimmed, more with anger, right now, than alcohol.
I rise and look down at them both. They’re sitting on a fucking white leather couch. This is a ranch, and we have dainty Goddamn furniture everywhere. When I have money, I’m going to go back to making this place functional.
“This isn’t just land. This is my legacy. This is generations. I won’t cash it out for a quick check, and if that means your kneecaps, Hudson, then so be it.”
I could hear them shouting at one another all the way from my room. I meant it when I said I didn’t care what happened to Hudson.
It looks like he didn’t learn his lesson after Papa all but stripped the ranch for him.
“Morning, boss,” Tomas calls from the chute, already elbow-deep in iodine and patience.
A young Hereford calf bawls, flanks trembling, head caught in the head gate as Earl prepares the vaccine.
“You beat me to it.” I slide on my work gloves.
“You’re late,” Earl grunts without looking up, and it’s not an accusation—it’s a welcome.
“Only by five minutes.” I had a crappy night.
“In ranch time, that’s fifteen,” he mutters. “Grab the clipboard, would ya?”
Damn! When I can afford it, we’re going to start doing this online and not on freaking paper. But I know that Earl would rather dance naked on an anthill than use technology, so maybe I’ll have to get used to the impractical clipboard.
The offensive object is hanging on a bent nail by the squeeze chute, covered in Earl’s almost legible scrawl.
I scan it.
Tag numbers, weights, health notes, due for booster shots, deworming, and hoof checks. This is our second big push—culling what’s not breeding, sorting out who’s ready for sale.
The auction’s in nine weeks. Every pound counts.
“I’ll log the meds,” I say.
Tomas looks up, sweat streaking dirt across his cheek. “Yeah?” I know he hates that shit.
“I can multitask,” I answer, flipping to the next page. “Go ahead with #492.”
We work like that for hours—tagging, vaccinating, running fly checks, and nose ring replacements.
The squeeze chute hisses and clanks. The sound is rhythmic and familiar, almost comforting.
The smell of manure, metal, and cattle clings to everything.
I’m hunched over a clipboard one second, helping Earl ear-notch the next.
“Thought you was a California girl, but you’ve done this before,” Tomas says during a lull, rubbing his shoulder.
“I was branding calves at twelve,” I tell him. “Before Celine had figured out how to sneak off in Daddy’s truck to buy lipstick.”
He laughs.
Earl doesn’t laugh, but his mustache twitches.
By noon, we’re wiped.
Tomas and I collapse into the shade of the barn’s overhang while Earl goes to fetch Vera’s lunch baskets and a smoke.
The barn dogs, Buck and June, flop beside us, panting heavily.
“I’m starving,” Tomas says, then wipes his hands on his jeans. “It’s nice to have you here. I…you’re really good at what you do.”
I glance at him. He’s young—twenty-two. Lean and sunburnt, with a mop of dark curls under his sweat-stained cap. He’s a good hand. Doesn’t balk at hard work. He might’ve slipped through the cracks if not for someone like Earl.
I know some of his story, but not all.
“How’d you end up here?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Foster homes. A couple of jobs. Got myself into trouble back in Cortez. Nothing major, just…bad crowd.”
“And Earl found you?”
“I was sleeping in the hay shed. Had no other place. It was ten below and…I thought he’d shoot me.”
I smile. “That softy?”
He chuckles and nods once. “Said if I could haul bales and keep my mouth shut, I could stay two days. Been here ever since.”
I look toward the horizon, where the ridgeline cuts the sky like a blade.
“My father did the same. Took in broken horses and broken men. If you showed up with a good back and knew when to shut the fuck up, he gave you work.”
“He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he meant it.” He looks at his hands and then at me. “I’m sorry for your loss, boss.”
“Thanks, Tomas.”
I’ve given up asking Tomas to call me Aria. He calls Earl by his name, but he calls me what he used to call Papa.
Earl returns, holding a cooler and two brown bags in his massive hands. “Vera packed too much again.”
“It’s never too much.” Tomas pats his belly. “I’m a growin’ boy.”
“Good,” I say. “I could eat a barn door.”
We sit in the grass and pass around sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, thick with roast beef and horseradish.
There’s a jar of pickled okra, a bag of kettle chips, and three Mason jars of sweet tea so cold the glass sweats.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Tomas mumbles around a bite. “This tastes like heaven.”
Earl shrugs. “Some women are born with it. Vera is. Nadine…is not .”
The cattle mill in the nearby pen, swishing tails and huffing, calmer now after the morning’s chaos.
Lunch is satisfying ‘cause it comes from working your body hard and knowing it counted.
After I finish eating, I lean back, hands locked behind my head, and my hat on my chest.
A hawk circles overhead, silhouetted against the bright sky.
For a moment, the ache in my shoulders and the dust in my eyes fade.
I know with absolutely clarity that this is where I’m supposed to be.
Not Napa. Not California’s glossy wine world with its curated gardens and seven-figure vineyards.
Here. With dirt under my nails and calluses on my hands. Watching the land breathe. Listening to the creak of leather and the lowing of cows.
This place is home.
“You think we’ll be ready in time for the auction?” Tomas asks as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve after finishing his iced tea.
“We have to be.” I straighten, let my hat fall onto my lap. “If we don’t take a clean group to Gunnison, we won’t make enough to buy more feed, let alone cover the note.”
Earl grunts in agreement. “Got three dozen head that’ll bring a decent price if we keep ‘em healthy and bulked.”
“And the other forty?” I ask.
Earl shrugs. “They’re behind—still need time. We might hold those back for the fall sale or keep ’em as replacement stock. Maybe cut back on selling our own hay and use it to bump their ration quality.”
“Good idea.” I nod. “I’ll run the numbers. Maverick’s second-cut alfalfa is higher in protein. If I can get him to cut me a deal, we might finish ’em out just in time.”
Earl chews thoughtfully. “He’s a shark, that one.”
“I know,” I agree. “I can handle him.”
“No doubt about that.” Earl cackles.
Tomas watches me, then says quietly, “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”
“Why?”
“You…ah…you wear perfume but you’re not prissy.” He flushes at the words that just came out of his mouth. “I…I didn’t mean—”
I laugh. “It’s fine, Tomas.”
“And”—he grins now—“you get shit done.”
“My father taught me that if you can’t run your ranch, you’ve got no business owning it.”
I catch Earl nodding appreciatively as he grunts.
The sun climbs higher, pleasant now.
We head back to the pens. There’s still fence mending to do, salt blocks to place, and a sick calf in the east pasture that needs checking.
I pass the mirror in the tack room on my way to grab a fresh vet kit.
Dirt smudges my cheekbone, and sweat’s soaked through the back of my shirt. My eyes are steady. My spine is straight.
I gleefully think that I’ve never looked better.