Chapter 6
The quiet that followed Kacey’s departure was suffocating.
I crossed my arms and stared at Ryder. “You could say what you’re thinking.”
“Already did.”
“You don’t want me to sell.”
“No.”
The bluntness of the answer didn’t startle me. That was how Ryder had always been, but it did make me feel some sort of way I didn’t want to name.
“Then why didn’t you argue?”
He looked at me as if the question made no sense. “Would it change your mind?”
I shrugged. “Probably not.” Although, I didn’t know if that was the truth.
“Then there’s nothing to argue about.”
I hated the way that answer made me feel. He didn’t sulk, didn’t try to manipulate me, and didn’t behave as if all the work he’d done gave him any claim over my decision. He simply accepted that I might erase something he wholeheartedly thought was mine and mine alone.
“I should get home,” I said.
Ryder glanced toward the windows. The rain had slowed to a mist, and the sky had lightened enough to reveal the distant ridge.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I can walk next door.”
“Road’s washed out in places.”
“Then I’ll walk through the field.”
“Mud’s ankle-deep.”
I gave him a look. “Do you have an objection to everything I say?”
“Mostly when it’s a bad idea.”
The ride to the ranch took less than five minutes, and neither of us spoke.
When we pulled into the drive, the damage looked worse in daylight.
Water had cut narrow channels through the gravel, carrying debris into the yard.
Pieces of the porch light remained scattered across the boards, and several branches littered the lawn.
The massive tree limb that had crashed through the living room window was still lodged in the frame, glass glittering on the wet porch.
Ryder parked near the house, cut the engine, and was about to climb out of the truck.
“You don’t have to come inside,” I said.
He glanced at me, his expression all business. “I know.” He got out anyway.
The electricity hadn’t been restored yet, and the house felt colder than usual.
The huge hole in the living room window wasn’t helping.
I walked around checking for any other damage while Ryder inspected the breaker box, the remaining windows, and the pipes.
He didn’t stop until he seemed satisfied that nothing else had been affected.
He went outside and, with some effort, managed to pull the large tree limb free from the frame, dragging it off the porch and into the yard.
A few minutes later, he returned with a sheet of plywood and a heavy tarp he must have grabbed from the barn.
Working quickly and efficiently, he covered the opening as best he could, securing the edges to keep any rain and wind out.
“That’ll hold for now,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll come back later and look into getting the whole window replaced properly. Might take a couple of days to get the glass, but it won’t stay like this for long.”
“You always inspect everyone’s house after a storm?” I asked, a teasing note in my voice. The truth was, I didn’t know what I’d do or how I’d handle any of this if not for Ryder being here.
“No.”
“Just mine?”
He glanced back at me. “Just yours.”
The answer was simple, but it settled warmly inside me before I could stop it.
Ryder helped me collect the broken glass from the porch and carried it to the trash bin.
He stayed longer than I expected, checking the roofline from the yard, moving several fallen branches away from the steps, and testing the back door as if he didn’t quite trust the repair he had made a few days earlier.
When he finally climbed into his truck, he lowered the window. “The power has been going in and out, and if it kicks off again, just come over, or call me and I’ll come pick you up.”
I hesitated then gave him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Ryder. For everything today.”
His gaze stayed on mine for a long second. “Never have to thank me, Lila. I want to do these things for you.”
Before I could respond, even if I could have picked up my jaw off the ground, he drove away.
I watched until his truck disappeared beyond the fence line, and only then did I make my way back inside.
Once the door was closed, I stood there staring at the emptiness.
The house felt different when he wasn’t here, and I didn’t want to look too closely at that.
I changed into old clothes and spent the next hour cleaning up after the storm.
After that, I went into my father’s office with the plan of sorting through all of his paperwork.
The room still smelled faintly of stale tobacco and dust. It made me sick, but I powered through it because this shit needed to be done.
Heavy curtains blocked most of the afternoon light, and the dark wood desk dominated the space.
I opened the curtains first, letting the gray daylight push into every corner.
Boxes of receipts and documents had been stacked beneath the desk and inside a narrow closet.
None of them appeared organized. Tax forms were mixed with old feed bills, insurance notices, equipment receipts, and unopened envelopes dating back years.
It was exactly the kind of mess my father would have left for someone else to handle.
I carried everything into the dining room and began making piles. Keep. Shred. Estate. Questions for the attorney.
By late afternoon, my back ached, dust coated my hands, and I was hungrier than hell. But I was determined to finish this shit before I took a break.
I found evidence of unpaid invoices, bounced checks, and more debt than the estate attorney had initially estimated.
There were notices from the county, warnings from utility companies, and invoices for repairs that were more than I’d ever be able to imagine.
The ranch had been struggling long before he died.
That only confirmed selling was the right decision.
At least, that was what I told myself.
I opened another envelope and found a delinquent property tax notice dated nearly six years earlier. A bold red warning stretched across the top of the page.
FINAL NOTICE BEFORE COLLECTION.
My stomach tightened.
I searched through the papers for proof that it had been resolved. The next statement showed the balance carried forward. So did the one after that. Then, abruptly, the account showed it had been paid in full.
I frowned and pulled the attached receipt free.
The county treasurer’s stamp marked the payment as complete.
Penalties, interest, and the original balance had all been covered in a single transaction.
My father’s name appeared at the top of the account.
But it wasn’t his name listed beneath the payment information.
KANE RANCH LLC.
For a long moment, I sat completely still. The amount was more than I made during my first year away from Rootstown Creek. Ryder must have paid the overdue taxes before everything fell apart, quietly keeping the county from putting a lien on the property or starting foreclosure proceedings.
He wouldn’t have let the land go under even if it wasn’t his. I didn’t understand why he’d done that or why he even cared. My father was a piece of shit, an abuser, and deserved no help from anyone.
But Ryder hadn’t mentioned anything about this. Not when he fixed the porch. Not when he repaired the fence. Not when I signed the listing agreement in front of him and made it clear I intended to sell everything he had helped keep standing.
Your land. Your choice.
As I sat there, another memory surfaced. Ryder had always been fixing something. A loose fence board, a broken gate latch, even a roof after a storm. When we were kids, he'd quietly moved through the world putting things back together without expecting thanks for it.
Back then, I'd thought he was simply hardworking. Now, I wasn't so sure. Maybe he'd never been trying to save the ranch at all. Maybe he'd been trying to save a piece of me.
Beneath my confusion was something far more difficult to face. He had paid my father’s debt, and judging from all the paperwork, he’d been doing it long before he knew I was coming home. Long before there was any chance I could thank him. Or repay him. But why?
I looked around the room at the boxes of records waiting to be sorted and wondered what else I hadn’t found yet. I had assumed Ryder was helping because I came home. The receipt in my hand told a different story.
He had been taking care of this place while I was gone.
And for the first time, I began to understand that Ryder Kane might have sacrificed far more for the Shaw Ranch than I ever imagined.