Chapter 1 #2
Feed costs hadn’t spiked. Contracts were steady. Labor was consistent. On paper, the ranch should’ve been solid. Instead, accounts drain faster than they should, like someone has quietly pulled a plug I didn’t know existed.
One line item keeps catching my eye—an old escrow notation tied to an Austin address, dated years before Uncle Sam ever mentioned trouble. Environmental mitigation. Land-use collateral. Legal language thick enough to choke on.
The important thing is finding the answers about who Sloane Carter is, why she has a fifty percent stake in the ownership, and how exactly either of us is going to get through this.
***
I rush into the office not long after I got back to the ranch. I head straight for the bar and pull out Uncle Sam’s favorite bottle of whiskey. After what he’s done, I plan to drink every last drop of it just to piss the man off from the grave.
The glass bottle comes down on the desk with a hard clunk as I start sifting through the file cabinet. I organized it years ago, but something tells me Uncle Sam doesn’t want me to find what I’m searching for so easily.
Sure enough, as I reach the back, I find a whole folder dedicated to documentation for his estate.
I pull out the hefty sucker and place it on the desk, then crack open the bottle. I get to work sifting through the documents, one by one, and it isn’t long before I realize how much he has tucked away.
“Where is it, old man?” I grumble under my breath before taking a generous sip. I drop the bottle back down and shuffle through more pages.
I check the clock. Two hours go by and I’m almost through the file when I stop. My eyes burn and my shoulders ache, the weight of the day finally catching up with me. I pull a document out and look it over.
The address is based in Austin, and I roll my eyes immediately. “Great, just what we need.” Down at the bottom is her name, but her signature isn’t attached to it.
But there it is.
Her name.
Clear as the range just beyond these walls—on the dotted line is Uncle Sam’s signature, and Sloane Carter’s name is printed beside it.
What possessed him to do something so insane? He may as well have sold his soul to land developers. Lord knows they’ve been eyeing this place for decades. But why this?
I lift the bottle of whiskey to my lips and take another generous swig. The sun has set, and all the ranch hands have settled into their beds with their letters, along with the request to leave me be.
Tomorrow’s work is already waiting—it always is—but tonight, I let it sit. They know better than to question it, but it’s late enough, and chores are usually done in the morning and afternoon.
Now, I’m stuck sifting through ledgers and paperwork for any and all dealings Uncle Sam has done under my nose. Every single one of them becomes more confusing than the last. I thought the ranch was doing great after I took over leadership—and I know for a fact it was.
The statements proved that, at least until recently. But all this documentation is older, long before I took over, so now I’m seeing it for what it truly is.
This isn’t about some Austin environmental consultant having a stake in my family’s ranch; it feels like a debt. Like he got conned into putting the ranch up as collateral—and she was part of it.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s easier to paint her as the villain than consider Uncle Sam might’ve had reasons he never shared.
I finish off the last of the bottle, making a point to toss it into the trash can, the glass clinking as it hits the bottom. I lean back in the chair as the ledgers sit open wide.
Maybe he didn’t want to worry me, or maybe he forgot all about it. I guess none of it truly matters now. What matters is making sure I get full ownership, even if it means making Miss Carter’s stay absolutely miserable.
Who knows—maybe she’ll hate it here so much because it isn’t like the big city and she’ll realize it’s not worth the trouble. That seems to be a common theme from what I’ve seen.
City folks come out to rural areas looking for something different, wanting that change of scenery. They start a ranch and realize how much work it truly is. Most can’t hack it, and they sell the darn thing off within six months.
I won’t let that happen to my ranch. I refuse to let anyone go under my nose again after this.
This is the last time someone one-ups Gage Hollis.
I run my hands over my tired eyes, groaning at the oncoming headache, when my phone pings on the desk. I lift it, open it, and it’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Gage Hollis, this is Sloane Carter. You should expect me at the ranch tomorrow at around noon. Look forward to meeting and working with you.”
I scoff, tossing the phone onto the desk. Noon?
The nerve of it. Noon means the workday is already halfway done. Means she doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—how things run out here. And something about that confidence, that assumption she belongs here, twists irritation into something sharper. A challenge.
And what is this formal language? Her whole demeanor reeks of arrogance. She’s probably going to waltz up to the gate dressed in a professional pantsuit or something, and then she’s going to sit back and relax, but that isn’t going to happen.
She will work—I’ll make certain of that—because the faster she realizes she doesn’t belong here, the faster she’s gone.
I close up all the documents and stuff them back in the file cabinet where they were. There’s no use holing up in the office any longer. I found what I was looking for, and now I have a better understanding of what I’m working with.
Tomorrow will be the beginning of the worst six months of my life, but if I’m lucky, I won’t need six months to push her tail out of here. At least I’ll have all morning to figure out my plan for how to make this whole thing difficult for her.
As I lie in bed, sleep doesn’t come easily. My plan to make this difficult still holds, but my conscience nags at me.
I don’t sabotage people. I outwork them. I outlast them. And whatever this turns into, the ranch is still the line I won’t cross. And if Sloane Carter really is as capable as her title suggests, then this won’t be simple. That thought settles in my chest heavier than I like.
Hell, maybe this is a good thing.
Or maybe she’s about to become the biggest problem I’ve ever faced.
Something tells me Sloane Carter isn’t the type who scares easy.
Good.
I’d hate to be disappointed.
Tomorrow, we start.