Chapter 4 - Sierra
I am absolutely not game.
My legs are shaking, my arms ache from waving them around for the past hour, and I'm pretty sure I just breathed in at least a pound of dust. But Wade is watching me with those sharp brown eyes, clearly waiting for me to fold, and I will walk into a pen full of angry bulls before I give him that satisfaction.
"Show me what to do," I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Mason jumps down from the fence with the kind of easy athleticism that comes from years of physical work. "We'll start with the vaccinations. Wade will hold the calf steady, I'll administer the shot, and you'll mark which ones we've done. Simple."
Simple. Right. Because nothing about the past hour has suggested any of this is simple.
Wade leads a calf into a narrow chute that holds it in place. Not tightly, but enough that it can't thrash around.
"It's okay, baby," I murmur without thinking. "It'll be quick."
"They're livestock, not puppies," Wade says, but his voice is less sharp than before. "Don't get attached."
"I'm not getting attached. I'm being compassionate. There's a difference." I move closer, watching as Mason prepares the syringe. "What are we vaccinating for?"
"This round is for respiratory disease and clostridial infections," Mason explains, swabbing the calf's neck. "We do it in stages as they grow. Some at birth, some at weaning, some now. Keeps them healthy, reduces loss."
"Loss meaning death?"
"Yeah." He administers the shot quickly, and the calf barely reacts. "Ranching's not for the faint of heart. You lose animals sometimes, no matter how careful you are. Disease, predators, accidents, difficult births. It's part of reality."
Wade releases the calf, and it bounds away to rejoin its mother in the adjacent pen. I mark it on the chart Mason hands me—number 127, vaccination complete.
"Next," Wade says.
We fall into a rhythm. Wade secures the calf, Mason vaccinates, I mark the chart.
Occasionally Mason points out something—a calf that's smaller than it should be, one with early signs of illness that we'll need to monitor, one that's particularly strong and healthy.
I try to absorb everything, writing quick notes in the margins of the chart.
By the twentieth calf, my hand is cramping from gripping the pen. By the thirtieth, I've stopped noticing the smell. By the fortieth and final one, I'm running on pure stubbornness and what's left of my morning coffee.
"All done," Mason announces, putting away the vaccination supplies. "Good job, Sierra. You kept up."
"Barely," I admit, flexing my sore hand.
"Better than some people I've worked with." He glances at Wade. "Remember that college kid who came out here for a summer internship? Lasted two days."
"He was useless," Wade says, stripping off his gloves. "Spent more time on his phone than working."
"Not everyone's cut out for this life." Mason starts loading equipment back into his truck. "But you did alright today."
The praise, coming from Mason's matter-of-fact delivery, means more than it probably should. I'm twenty-six years old and feel ridiculously pleased that I impressed a ranch hand with my ability to mark a chart and not faint around cattle.
But I'll take the win.
"What's next?" I ask, even though what I really want is a shower, food, and possibly a nap.
Wade looks at me, and I swear I see something like respect flicker across his face before his expression hardens again. "Lunch. Then afternoon chores if you're still standing."
"I'm still standing."
"For now."
We walk back toward the main house, Colt peeling off toward the stables and Mason heading to his truck to return the vaccination supplies. That leaves me alone with Wade.
I should probably say something professional. Thank him for the opportunity to learn, maybe, or ask intelligent questions about cattle management. Instead, what comes out is: "Your horse is beautiful."
Wade glances at me. "Ranger?"
"Yeah. The way he responded to you in the pen… You two obviously have a strong bond."
"Been riding him since he was two. Frank taught me to train horses, said it was about trust and consistency. Same principles that apply to everything on a ranch, really." He pauses. "You ride?"
"No. I mean, I went on a trail ride once in high school, but that was just following the horse in front of me in a line. I don't actually know how to ride."
"Might need to learn if you're going to be here regularly. Fastest way to check the back pastures."
Is that an offer? Or just an observation? I can't tell, and I'm too tired to parse Wade's constantly shifting moods.
We reach the main house, and my stomach growls loudly, reminding me I only had airport coffee and a granola bar this morning.
"Who’s cooking?”
"Rhett probably ordered pizza from town. Gets here faster than anyone can cook, and he's too busy with the books to care about impressing anyone." Wade holds the door open. "Don't expect gourmet."
"I expect food. Anything beyond that is a bonus."
The interior of the house is more crowded than this morning.
Emma sits at the large dining table, coloring in what appears to be a horse-themed coloring book.
Boone's at the kitchen counter, pulling plates from the cabinet.
Tucker's on the phone in the corner, speaking in low tones.
And Rhett's at the table with his laptop, typing rapidly.
They all look up when we enter.
"You survived!" Emma announces cheerfully. "Daddy said Uncle Wade was going to make you work real hard to see if you'd quit."
"Emma," Tucker says, ending his call. "What did we talk about?"
"Not telling people the secret plans." Emma doesn't look remotely apologetic.
I laugh despite my exhaustion. "It wasn't a secret. Wade told me he was testing me."
"And?" Rhett asks, closing his laptop. "How'd she do?"
"She didn't quit," Wade says, which I think might be the highest praise I'm going to get from him. "Helped with the calf sorting and vaccination. Kept up."
"Told you," Tucker says to someone. Maybe all of them. "Give her a chance to prove herself before writing her off."
Wade doesn't respond, just moves to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. I follow his lead, grateful for the chance to scrub off some of the dirt and grime.
The pizza arrives moments later. Five large boxes from a place called Sal's. It's not fancy, but it's hot and it's food, and right now that's all I need.
We eat around the big table, and I'm struck by the family atmosphere.
These men clearly care about each other, tease each other, work together with the kind of shorthand that comes from years of partnership.
Emma chatters about her morning, and they all listen like her seven-year-old observations are the most important things in the world.
This is what Frank built. Not just a ranch, but a family. A home for boys who needed one. And I'm about to buy my way into it with money I didn't earn.
The thought sits heavy in my stomach, making the pizza harder to swallow.
"So," Rhett says, grabbing his third slice. "What do you think so far, Sierra? Is this what you expected?"
I consider the question. "Honestly? I don't know what I expected. Something more... organized, maybe? Everything here feels organic. Like it evolved naturally rather than being planned."
"That's because it did," Boone says quietly. "Frank built this place piece by piece, adding what was needed when it was needed. Nothing fancy. Just functional."
"It shows. In a good way." I wipe my hands on a napkin. "Everything has purpose. Nothing's just for show."
"Can't afford 'for show,'" Colt mutters.
"Can't afford much of anything," Wade adds, and the mood at the table shifts slightly.
Tucker clears his throat. "We should probably talk specifics. Sierra, you've seen some of the operation now. Had a chance to get a feel for how things work here. Questions?"
I have about a thousand questions, but I start with the most important one. "What's your current financial situation? I saw Rhett's initial numbers, but I'd like to understand the full picture. Outstanding debts, monthly operating costs, income streams, that kind of thing."
Rhett opens his laptop again, pulling up a spreadsheet.
"We're carrying about seventy thousand in debt.
Thirty to the bank for a loan we took out two years ago when the tractor broke down and we had to repair it.
Twenty to various suppliers—feed, equipment parts, veterinary services.
The rest is smaller amounts scattered across different creditors. "
"Monthly operating costs?"
"Around twelve thousand. That covers feed, utilities, basic supplies, loan payments, property taxes. We've cut back on everything we can cut. No staff besides the six of us, minimal equipment maintenance, stretching every dollar until it screams."
I do the mental math. "And monthly income?"
"Depends on the season. We sell calves twice a year, which brings in about forty thousand each time if the market's good.
That's our main revenue stream. We've got some secondary income from selling hay, occasionally boarding horses for people in town, and odd jobs.
Averages out to maybe six, seven thousand a month. "
The numbers paint a grim picture. They're barely breaking even, and that's when nothing goes wrong. One major equipment failure, one bad market season, one unexpected crisis, and they're underwater.
"The two hundred thousand I'm proposing," I say slowly. "How would you allocate it?"
"Seventy thousand pays off the existing debts," Rhett says.
"That frees up cash flow since we're not making loan and creditor payments anymore.
Another forty thousand for critical repairs—fencing, irrigation, barn roof, tractor maintenance.
That leaves ninety thousand for operational buffer and strategic improvements.
" He says, pretty much repeating what Wade had told me earlier.
"Strategic improvements meaning?"