Chapter 2 Cormac Madsen
CORMAC MADSEN
Exhaustion weighs on my chest like a thousand-pound horse as the shrill bleat of my alarm signals another early start to a busy day. I sigh then roll into a sitting position.
We’re at the tail end of winter, which means the weather will soon change and bring with it an uptick in corporate retreats—part of a model the ranch shifted to after my dad died three years ago.
To remain profitable, and prevent the Rocking M from falling into disrepair like a lot of surrounding ranches, we transitioned from a true cattle ranch located at the base of Black Mountain to a rustic playground for wealthy guests.
It was my younger brother Connor’s idea, since he’s in charge of the ranch’s finances, and so far, his business plan is working, but that doesn't mean I love the necessary decision.
Scrubbing a hand over my tired eyes, I stand and groan at the slight ache in my back. Jesus. Sometimes I feel a century older than my forty-three years.
And it’s not just because my job is physically taxing. I’m used to hard work; it’s been my constant since I was old enough to follow Dad around the Rocking M.
No, it’s more than the routine of the ranch.
“It’s my fucking life,” I say aloud to an empty bathroom suite. The sparse counter and shower shelving perfectly illustrate my point as water spits from the showerhead.
Despite the two-sink vanity and oversized walk-in shower, it’s obvious only one person uses the space. Two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Bar soap and washcloth.
Utilitarian and lacking a woman’s touch.
Like me.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt anything more intimate than a handshake or brief man-hug from my brother or best friends.
At this rate, I’m going to die grizzled and alone after a lifetime of manual labor. No woman to call my own. No kids to teach about the ranch like my father taught me.
“Shit… It’s too early to be this maudlin.” But more and more lately, it’s been difficult to stop my thoughts from straying toward a pathetic future barreling at me.
Buttoning a flannel shirt over a white tee after my shower, I head downstairs where the smell of breakfast hangs in the air.
“Morning, Fancy,” I say as I walk straight for the pot of coffee on the counter.
“Good morning! Everything’s laid out in the dining room. Connor and Deacon are already there.” Fancy uses her spatula to point toward the other room then flips another flapjack on the griddle.
Sixty-three and spry as ever, she used to own her namesake, Fancy’s Diner, in downtown High Ridge—otherwise known as Main Street like every other small town in America. Officially, Fancy retired years ago after leaving the diner to her niece, but retirement got boring real fast, apparently.
So, when the Rocking M began searching for a chef to cater meals to ranch staff and guests, she’d offered her services, and I’d happily accepted the help.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.” Connor grins from his seat at the head of the table.
“Let’s switch places, and we’ll see how fast you move,” I retort, sitting beside Deacon with a plate full of eggs, bacon, and Fancy’s flapjacks.
When Dad died, he left the ranch to both of his sons in an even split. Fifty-percent to my younger brother. Fifty-percent to me. It just so happens that my share encompasses more of the manual labor required to keep things running, while Connor’s focuses on the financial side of the setup.
Not that I begrudge our roles. Connor is a whiz with numbers, and he’s used his business school contacts to grow Rocking M’s reputation as the perfect place for a corporate retreat.
“Sitting behind a desk all day has made him soft.” Connor scoffs at Deacon’s bemused assessment.
Patting his flat stomach, my brother shakes his head in denial. “Lies. Your old age is showing Deac if you’ve already forgotten how I helped you with those barn roof repairs yesterday.”
The two devolve into a duel of playful barbs—similar to almost every other day at meals—and again, my thoughts drift toward a different kind of life.
One where the dining table is fuller.
One where my dream girl is cozied into my side, sharing my amusement at Connor and Deacon’s antics, while our children chirp from the sidelines.
One big, happy family.
And a fucking pipe dream.