Chapter Twenty-Nine – Wes
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wes
T he cattle don’t wait for grief. The land doesn’t pause for heartache. Morning chores need doing, same as they always do. The rhythm of work keeps you breathing, keeps you moving, even when everything else inside you feels like it’s caving in.
The bank papers sit on my desk like a confession, signed, witnessed, and heavy as cemetery dirt. Letting go of land is like letting a piece of yourself rot in the ground. Dad knew that. Sarah, too. Guess it's my turn to learn the lesson the hard way.
Emma hasn’t come out of her room. I can’t blame her. She’s lost too much already—her parents, her home, and now Paisley. The girl’s got a way of tucking herself into the corners of your life, making a place for herself without asking permission. And now she’s tearing that piece away. I let out a breath, long and slow. Maybe Sarah had it easier, going quick. It’s better than watching everything come apart bit by bit.
I pause outside Emma's door, the familiar creak of floorboards beneath my boots doing nothing to drown out the muffled sounds of crying from within. Every sob feels like a physical blow, reminding me that I'm failing at the one job that matters most: protecting her from more loss.
"Em?" I knock softly, then ease the door open.
She's curled up on her bed, Sarah's old quilt pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. Ever the guardian, Trouble the cat is pressed against her side, his golden eyes watching me with what feels like judgment.
"Go away." Her voice comes out thick with tears, muffled by the quilt.
“I can't do that, kiddo." I settle on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. "Not when you're hurting."
She peeks out from her blanket fortress, her eyes red and accusing. "You're making her leave."
Her harsh words hurt more than I expected. “Emma..."
"No!" She sits up suddenly, anger burning through her tears. "You're doing it again. You’re pushing people away because you're scared. Just like with the ranch. Just like with everything!"
I reach for her, but she shrinks back. "It's complicated?—"
"It's not!" Her voice cracks with a fury that's pure Sarah. "You're just too stubborn to see it. Paisley makes us happy. The ranch makes us happy. Why isn't that enough?"
"Sometimes being happy isn't enough," I say softly, watching her clutch Sarah's quilt tighter. "Sometimes we have to make hard choices to protect the people we love."
"That's stupid," Emma declares, her chin jutting out in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of Sarah. "You're not protecting anyone. You're just scared."
She's right—I am scared. I’m terrified of losing more than I already have, of watching everything I love slip away again.
"The bank—" I start, but Emma cuts me off.
"Paisley has ideas! Good ones! But you won't even listen because you're too busy deciding everything by yourself." She wipes angrily at her tears. "Mom always said the ranch was about family. About building something together. But you're not letting anyone help build anything."
I reach out again, and this time she lets me pull her close. She smells like shampoo and childhood grief, and my heart breaks a little more.
"I don't want to lose another home," she whispers into my shirt. "Or another mom."
The words knock the breath from my lungs. Because that's what Paisley's become to her—another chance at family. And I'm taking that away, too.
Being responsible feels an awful lot like breaking your own heart.
She burrows deeper into my shirt, her small frame shaking with sobs that feel like accusations. The morning light catches on Sarah's photos on the wall, her smile forever frozen in that moment before everything changed.
"Your mom would have known what to do," I say quietly, stroking Emma's hair. "She always did."
Emma pulls back just enough to fix me with red-rimmed eyes. "Mom would tell you to stop being stupid." Her voice carries that mix of grief and determination that breaks my heart. "She'd say you're so busy trying to protect everyone that you forgot how to let anyone protect you."
The truth of it lands like a punch to the gut. Because she's right. Sarah would have seen right through my careful walls and would have called me out on my stubborn pride.
"Uncle Wes?" Emma's voice goes small, uncertain. "Remember what Mom used to say about broken fences?"
I close my eyes, the memory washing over me. Sarah in her work boots, hands on hips, lecturing us about proper maintenance. “That they’re easier to fix when you’ve got help.”
“So why won’t you let us help fix this?” She sits up straighter, something of Sarah’s fierce determination shining through her tears. “Paisley knows people in New York. Important people. And Uncle Jake’s ideas about tourism—they could work. We could make it work."
"Emma—"
"No." She cuts me off with an authority that would make Martha proud. “You don’t get to decide everything for everyone. That’s not how family works.”
And maybe that’s the real truth I’ve been avoiding—that somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten what family really means. It's not just about protection or responsibility. It's about building something together, even when you're scared it might fall apart.
Through the window, I catch sight of Paisley in the yard, her golden hair catching the morning light as she helps Jake with the morning feed. She moves with the easy confidence of someone who belongs here, who's learned our rhythms and has made them her own.
Emma follows my gaze, something knowing in her expression. "She fits here," she says softly. "Like Mom always said some people would."
"She does fit here," I admit, the words tasting like ash. "That's what makes this harder."
"Then why?—"
"Because fitting isn't always enough." I stand, needing distance from the accusation in her eyes. "The bank papers are signed, Emma. The land's being divided up next week. Holding on to something that's already gone just makes the losing hurt more."
"Like Mom?" Her voice cracks on the word.
The comparison hits like a physical blow. "That's different."
"Is it?" She clutches Sarah's quilt tighter. "You couldn't save Mom, so now you won't even try to save anything else? You're just giving up?"
"I'm being realistic." The words come out harder than intended. "The ranch is done, Emma. No amount of tourist programs or New York connections can change that. And Paisley..." I swallow hard. "She deserves better than a man who's lost everything his family spent generations building."
"But she doesn't want better!" Emma's voice rises, fierce through her tears. "She wants us! This! Even the stupid parts with Bernard being dramatic and Kevin judging everyone and you being too stubborn to see what's right in front of you!"
"What's right in front of me is reality." I move to the window, watching Paisley laugh at something Jake's saying. The sound carries faintly through the glass, making my chest ache. "And reality is, I signed those papers. The ranch is going on the market. Letting Paisley stay, letting her give up everything she's built for a failing rancher and a piece of land that's not even mine anymore... that's not love. That's selfishness."
"You're wrong." Emma's voice goes quiet, determined in a way that reminds me so much of Sarah it hurts. "Love is letting people choose for themselves. That's what Mom always said."
"Your mom..." I have to clear my throat. "Sarah didn't get a choice. About leaving. About any of it. And maybe that's why this is important—making sure you understand that sometimes the hardest choices are the ones we have to make, not the ones we want to."
"I hate you." The words come out small, broken. Not angry, just... defeated.
"I know." I turn back to her, taking in how young she looks wrapped in Sarah's quilt, how much loss those small shoulders have already carried. "And that's okay. Sometimes loving someone means letting them hate you for a while."
She curls in on herself, Trouble pressing closer like he can shield her from more hurt. "She was going to teach me to ride Athena. And help with my book report. And..." A sob catches in her throat. "She makes you smile. Like Mom used to make Dad smile."
And there it is, the truth that cuts deeper than bank notices or lost land. Because Paisley doesn't just fit here. She makes this broken piece of our lives feel whole again. Makes me remember how to smile, how to hope, how to believe in something bigger than duty and responsibility.
Which is exactly why I have to let her go.
"I'm sorry, Em." The words feel inadequate against the weight of what we're both losing. "Sometimes being the adult means making the hard choices."
"Being an adult sucks," she mutters into the quilt.
"Yeah." I look back out the window, but Paisley and Jake have disappeared into the barn. Already, the space where she stood feels emptier, like the ranch is practicing for her absence. "Yeah, it does."
"What about Christmas?" Emma's voice is small but steady now, like she's gathering strength for one last fight. "She promised to help me make Mom's sugar cookies. Said she had the perfect frosting recipe."
"Emma—"
"And the cats," she continues, that fierce Montgomery determination bleeding through her grief. "She knows all their personalities. Trouble won't even let anyone else brush him. And she was going to help me teach Kevin that new trick, and..." Her voice catches. "She makes everything feel like home again."
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than intended, but I can't let her build hope from ashes. "The papers are signed. The land's being surveyed next week."
"You're not even trying!" She throws off Sarah's quilt, standing with her small fists clenched. "You're just letting everything slip away because you're too scared to fight!"
"I have been fighting!" The words explode out of me, rougher than I mean them to be. "Every day, every hour, trying to keep this place alive. Working dawn to dark, juggling bills, watching the numbers get worse no matter what I do. You think I want to lose the ranch? The only home you've got left? You think this is easy?"
She steps back, startled by my outburst, and shame floods through me. "Em, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have?—"
"You sound like Dad." Her voice catches. "Right before... before the accident. When he and Mom were fighting about money. About changes." She wraps her arms around herself. "He didn't want to listen either."
The comparison hits like a knife between my ribs. Because she's right: Paul had been the same way near the end. Proud. Stubborn. Refusing to see that Sarah's ideas about tourism and diversification might save what traditional ranching was slowly killing.
"Your dad was trying to protect what mattered," I say softly.
"And look how that worked out." The bitterness in her voice sounds wrong coming from someone so young. "He lost Mom anyway. And now we're losing everything else, too."
I reach for her, but she backs away. The distance between us feels wider than just the few feet of bedroom floor.
"I know you're trying to protect me," she says, her voice steadier now. "Like you always do. But maybe..." She swallows hard. "Maybe sometimes protection hurts more than taking a risk."