Rivals at Hollis Ranch (Hollis Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

one

Gage

Ialways knew there would come a time I’d have to say goodbye to Uncle Sam, but no amount of preparing makes you ready when it happens.

Uncle Sam wasn’t just my uncle; he was like a father to me. He taught me everything I know about the ranch—his livelihood, and eventually, mine.

I learned to ride before I could properly read.

I learned the weight of a fence post, the sting of barbed wire, the smell of rain rolling in over dry pasture.

Uncle Sam used to say the land remembers who works it, who bleeds for it. That if you show up every day and put your back into it, the ranch will give back tenfold.

Standing here now, waiting on paperwork instead of sunrise, I can almost hear his voice telling me not to let anyone take what we built. Not over his dead body.

I drive all the way to the lawyer’s office and have been waiting in this stuffy room for the last thirty minutes.

Seriously, where the heck is this guy? I’ve got things to do.

The longer I sit and stare at the same burgundy carpet, the more sure I am that my eyes are going to see red the rest of the day.

The door finally opens, and bigwig Monty Langford comes waltzing in like he hasn’t taken his damn time getting here.

Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s the only decent lawyer in our tiny town of Bell River, I’d hope that Uncle Sam would have picked someone better, but that isn’t the way of it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Gage. I know you’ve got places to be,” he says, holding a manila envelope in his hand before taking a seat across from me.

He places it on his desk, the string tightly fastened, locking Uncle Sam’s will inside.

It feels surreal to know that, in a few short moments, I’ll be taking ownership of the ranch, officially.

Monty looks me over and shakes his head.

Something tightens low in my gut. Monty doesn’t usually hesitate. He’s the kind of man who talks first and thinks later, especially when it comes to paperwork. The pause, the way his fingers linger too long on the envelope, sets my nerves on edge.

“What?” I say.

He chuckles, his beer gut shaking like a loose gate in the wind, but his hand stays tight on the envelope. “You’re the only guy I know who would waltz up in here for a will reading dressed like he's been doing chores,” he says, his smile never leaving his round face.

He isn’t looking to offend, quite the opposite. Around here, they call that small talk, but frankly, after waiting this long, I’m not interested in it.

“Last I checked, I’m here to see about my ranch.” I point to the envelope. “Surely, you know ranching doesn’t stop, not even for a will reading,” I reply, adjusting in my seat.

He chuckles again. “Yeah, don’t I know it.” He leans forward, grabs the sealed will, and unravels the string. He opens it and pulls the contents out, placing them on his desk.

“Alright, it says—‘In light of my death, all material assets should be henceforth evenly distributed to my ranch hands, as follows: I give Hank Doyle, my most loyal friend, my prized belt buckles from the state fairs. Now you can lie about your winnings, you old nut,’” he begins, and I roll my eyes and laugh.

Great, Hank has been eyeing those for at least twenty years.

He continues. “I give Jesse Reynolds all my tools and my favorite pocketknife. No one deserves it more than you. And finally, to Mason Landers, I give my hats and boots. You’ll be a fine cowboy yet.”

Monty looks up from the will and then passes sealed letters to me. “He wrote specific letters to them detailing the significance of each asset distributed,” he explains, and I take them, standing just enough to slip them into my back pocket.

He clears his throat again and returns to the will, but as he’s about to continue, he stops suddenly.

“And the ranch?”

Monty looks up, uncomfortable. “Ah… well.”

There it is again—that hesitation. My jaw tightens as a warning pulse starts behind my eyes.

He looks nervous.

Why the heck is he nervous?

“Spit it out, man, what about the ranch?” I ask, already frustrated.

He looks down at the will and reads—“‘And finally, I, Samuel Hollis, bequeath Hollis Ranch to my nephew, Gage Hollis…and…’

And? Who else could possibly be getting my family’s ranch?

“…and Sloane Carter. There shall be a fifty-fifty asset split between the two parties along with all associated assets, including but not limited to the main house and the materials inside.”

The name lands like a punch to the sternum. Sloane Carter. I don’t recognize it—and that alone feels wrong. Every person tied to this ranch, every neighbor, every hand, every creditor—I know them all. This name doesn’t belong here.

Hollis Ranch has been a part of my family for generations.

Growing up, I heard how my great-great-granddad built the place up from a strip of pasture to one of the largest cattle ranches in the Southwest—hell, the whole dang country—and that’s something to be proud of.

Uncle Sam made it something special, and I’m determined to keep that legacy alive.

“Now hold on a damn minute!” I yell, holding my hand up as I shove out of my seat and pace, doing my best to calm the irritation radiating through my body. “Who the hell is Sloane Carter?”

Monty shrugs, looking down at the will. “It says here she’s an environmental consultant.”

“A what now?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know, Gage. I’m not privy to that sorta thing.”

I scoff. “Not privy? Come on.” I place my hands on top of his desk. “Read it again. Word for word.”

“Well, there are stipulations,” Monty says.

Of course there are. My teeth grind together as my pulse kicks up another notch.

“Oh, great, this just keeps getting better and better,” I reply, holding my hand out for him to continue.

He looks back down at the will. “The two parties must remain active on the property for a minimum of six months for finalization,” he says.

I sigh, “Ah hell.”

Monty holds the will out for me, and I snatch it out of his hand. Maybe this old man isn’t seeing right, and he needs better glasses.

But when I look it over, I see it—clear as the blue sky outside this very window.

Black ink. Legal language. No room to argue. Uncle Sam’s signature is right there, bold and certain, like he never once doubted this decision.

What the hell was Uncle Sam thinking? I look back at Monty. “This is crap. I worked hard for that damn ranch. It is my birthright.

I put in the work, not this damn Sloane Carter. I mean, hell, I picked this place up from the ground when it was going under.”

I turn away, staring out the window like the land might explain something Uncle Sam never bothered to say out loud. Six months. Fifty percent. A stranger’s name sitting beside mine like it belongs there.

The ranch looks the same from here. Solid. Quiet. Patient. It doesn’t know it’s been split down the middle by ink and legal language. It doesn’t know I might lose it without ever actually losing it.

Even now, I know the crews are moving without me—fences checked, feed delivered, the ranch carrying on whether I’m ready or not.

That thought sinks deeper than the anger.

“Six months? He must be joking,” I say, and Monty shakes his head, folding his hands.

“That’s right. If either of you doesn’t remain active on the property, all assets are forfeited to the other party.”

“Surely that can’t be legal,” I say, knowing damn well it probably is.

He sighs. “I assure you it is, Gage.” He holds his hands up. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but the same conditions are placed on Miss Carter, should she even show up.”

So there is a chance she won’t even come at all. I mean, where is she even coming from anyway?

“But if she does?”

“If she does, you’ve got to learn to coexist. Think like a marriage,” he says.

I scoff. “There’s a reason I’m not married.”

“After the six months, you can buy her out, sell, or renegotiate. But in the meantime, make it work. Hollis Ranch matters—to your family and to this town.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

There are no other choices but to suck it up. Though if I’m lucky, she won’t come at all.

“Now, if you’ll sign that you understand everything laid out before you,” Monty says, gesturing toward the dotted line.

“Like hell I do.” I walk out of his office door and slam it behind me. This is nonsense—complete and utter insanity.

I have to get to the bottom of this.

I storm down to my truck, the edges dusted with dirt kicked up from the ground, and hop inside. Immediately, as I rev up the engine and pull out, the sound of gravel crackling under the tires comes alive. When I speed out of main street, my contained rage only simmers hotter.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel; any tighter and I’m sure it’d break in my grasp.

I still am in disbelief that this is all happening. Uncle Sam never alluded to there being some type of agreement with this Miss Carter, but then again, there was no mention of me gaining sole ownership either.

I always assumed that it’d be the case simply because of our name. No one else wants to step up for this place under our family name, so why shouldn’t it be me?

The frustration only grows the farther outside the town limits I go.

The ranch is the largest in the county, so it has high supply and demand.

We built it to withstand growth—hence the sprawling acres of pastures, the kind of infrastructure that supports more than one side of the operation year-round.

It was always meant to grow and expand as the town did, but lately there’s been a decline.

I won’t deny it—things were looking good for a while, but when Uncle Sam passed, suddenly, bills began to grow. It was odd because nothing changed aside from who was running the place.

Which makes it worse—because whatever’s bleeding us dry was already in motion long before Uncle Sam ever died.