Chapter 2
two
Sloane
As the city limits disappear and give way to open range and tumbleweeds, I realize just how much of a mistake this might be.
I’ve built my life around environmental studies—understanding how things grow, how ecosystems survive—but agriculture? That’s a whole different world. One I’ve only ever studied from the outside.
I came because my father promised this would be good for me.
And the thing about Dad? You don’t question his reasoning. Not because he’s a tyrant or anything like that—he’s actually the opposite.
He’s the kind of man who genuinely wants what’s best for everyone, but only as long as it aligns with how he sees the world.
His way. His timing.
Which is how I end up heading toward a random town I’ve never even heard of, in the middle of nowhere, Texas. He says it will be good for me, and I listen because he’s Dad, and because some habits are harder to break than others.
Our relationship has never been perfect. He’s a good man; I’ve always known that. He would take the shirt off his back for anyone who needed it. But all that generosity comes with a price.
He prioritized everyone else over his family, and while I like to think I’ve forgiven him for that, it still stings. Especially now. When he tells me about an inheritance I’ve received from some landowner in Bell River—a man I’ve never met, in a town where I don’t even know a single person.
It doesn’t matter now. I’m already driving the two-and-some-change hours it takes to get there, the road stretching ahead of me with no convenient exits. No turning back.
The longer the miles drag on, the tighter my shoulders get, like my body knows before my brain does that this is going to be a trial.
As the town limits finally appear, my anxiety only tightens. This is one of those towns—the kind with a single stoplight before you’re through the center and back on the open road again.
Mom-and-pop shops line both sides of the street, and maybe half a dozen people wander the sidewalks like time moves slower here. The place is quaint, all things considered. Quiet. Self-contained.
And absolutely nothing like home.
Austin has been my home my entire life. I like options—late dinners, live music, places that stay open past sunset.
Places like this? They run on a different clock.
And I’m not sure I belong anywhere near it.
“Dad, where the hell did you send me?” I mutter to myself as I drive past the edge of town, my GPS cheerfully guiding me deeper into open pasture like it’s leading me to a spa retreat instead of my potential undoing.
Once I leave downtown, it’s actually… pretty. The land stretches out in every direction, wide and open, dotted with cows, Longhorns, and the occasional horse like something pulled straight from a postcard.
The countryside rolls on and on, and I have to admit—it could be much worse. I could be trapped somewhere bleak and uncomfortable.
I turn onto a dirt road, and my car immediately starts protesting. It shakes over uneven patches as my tires crunch over gravel, every bump sending a jolt straight up my spine. God. This is so uncomfortable.
At this rate, I’ll have whiplash before I even reach Hollis Ranch. My sedan is absolutely not built for this kind of terrain, and I dread what my bumper already looks like. If it falls off, I’m blaming Texas.
I pull up to a closed gate, the name Hollis Ranch worked into a metal arch that somehow manages to look both welcoming and intimidating at the same time. I stop at the entrance, debating whether I’m supposed to honk, call someone, or just sit here until I turn into a cautionary tale.
I don’t have to wait long.
A scruffy, dark-haired man in a plaid short-sleeve shirt steps out of the main house and starts walking toward me, and something in my chest tightens—not nerves exactly, but awareness. As he gets closer, I take him in properly.
His beard and hair are threaded with gray, his clothes dusty from the land he clearly works, his boots scuffed and worn. His eyes look tired. Hard. Like someone who hasn’t had the luxury of sleeping in or taking days off in a long time.
He looks exactly like what I expect a rancher to look like.
Annoyingly… he’s attractive.
Not polished. Not clean-cut. There’s nothing refined about him. It’s all rough edges and sun-worn strength, the kind of presence that feels earned instead of styled.
The kind of man who doesn’t ask for space—he takes it.
And for some reason, that makes my pulse trip in a way I absolutely do not appreciate.
Which is irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. I’m not here for that. I’m here to make the most of this insane situation.
I have a life waiting for me. A career. Just because my work centers around the environment doesn’t mean I want to own a ranch with a stranger. I have no use for it, and I don’t know the first thing about ranching.
I can’t milk cows—or handle the kind of large-scale operations that don’t pause just because someone’s learning on the job.
I can’t haul hay bales.
I can’t ride a horse to save my life.
I barely know how to drive a stick shift—and yet here I am, standing on a ranch I somehow own fifty percent of with the man now stopping a few feet in front of me.
I smooth my clothes, paste on a polite smile, and hold my hand out. “Gage Hollis?” I ask, not eager to insult him by mistaking the owner for a ranch hand. I can only imagine how well that would go over.
“That’s me. And you’re late,” he says, taking my hand.
The handshake isn’t friendly. It’s firm. Purposeful. His palm is warm, calloused, the grip just shy of painful—like a warning delivered through skin.
Not friendly.
Not welcoming.
Measured.
Intentional.
Like he already knows exactly what he thinks of me… and he’s not planning to change his mind.
Well.
So much for Southern hospitality.
I mentally curse myself, digging into my purse for my phone. It’s only five minutes past twelve. I told him I’d be here by noon. “Only by five minutes,” I say, holding the screen up like evidence that should matter.
“First thing about ranching—if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. If you’re five minutes late,” he says, already unlatching the gate, “well, hell, you may as well pack up.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Is he serious?
“The longer you stand there,” he adds, swinging the gate open, “the more of my time you waste.”
Oh. He’s serious.
What the hell did I walk into?
I turn back to my car and climb inside, starting the engine and easing forward onto the dirt driveway. Gravel crunches beneath my tires as he closes the gate behind me, the metal clanging shut with a finality that makes my stomach dip.
For a split second, it feels less like an entrance and more like a lock clicking into place.
A scenic one. But still.
I park and get out, heading for the trunk to grab my bags. I pop it open just as he turns and starts walking away, leaving me to deal with my luggage on my own. To be clear, I don’t need a man to do anything for me.
I’ve taken care of myself my entire life—especially without my dad around enough to demonstrate that good men don’t come with conditions. Still, this is rural Texas. Cowboys are supposed to be chivalrous, right? Rough around the edges but secretly sweet.
Gage Hollis is apparently here to shatter stereotypes.
Frankly, he's awful.
“Wow,” I mutter, wrestling my suitcase free, “thanks for the help.”
“If you can’t handle a suitcase and one bag, you’re never gonna make it out here.”
I look up. He’s turned around, watching me now. So he heard that. Good. Maybe we should get this out in the open. I don’t want to be here any longer than he wants me here, so maybe honesty is the fastest way out of this mess.
“I don’t know what I did to you,” I say, setting my computer bag on top of the suitcase so I can stand a little taller, “but you clearly have an issue with me. So let’s clear this festering wound you call an attitude.”
His eyes—gray as steel, darkening like a storm that’s decided to roll in—drag over me slowly before he scoffs.
“You tell me,” he says. “You’ve got some claim to my family ranch. The ranch that rightfully belonged to me.” He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“God, you city folk are all the same. You want the land so you can slap townhouses on it. Maybe a resort. Am I right?”
The proximity is deliberate. Intimidating. And annoying—because it works just enough to rattle me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap.
“I’m an environmental consultant. I literally help make existing land thrive. I don’t care about hotels or high-rises—that’s what cities are for. And I’m not na?ve enough to think every place in the country needs to look like a metropolitan nightmare.”
I lift my chin, refusing to give ground.
He studies me like he doesn’t buy a word of it. “Then why do you want my ranch?”
I shrug. “I don’t. My dad told me I had a fifty–fifty inheritance at Hollis Ranch and said I needed to show up to secure it. But honestly?” I gesture between us. “After meeting you, it doesn’t seem worth the hassle.”
He laughs, stepping back—but there’s nothing amused about it. The sound is sharp. Derisive.
Ugh. I loathe him.
I hold up my hand. “Forget it. Where do I sign to get out of this? This is a waste of gas.” I turn toward my bag, already digging for a pen.
“You can’t sign away anything.”
I stop and turn back to him. “What do you mean, I can’t?” I just offered to hand him full ownership of the ranch on a silver platter, and now he’s acting like I’ve suggested something illegal. Or offensive. Or both.
“There’s a six-month stipulation,” he says. “You have to stay for the full turnover. Otherwise…” His voice trails off as he drags a hand over the back of his neck.
“Otherwise…” I prompt.
He exhales. “Otherwise, it isn’t gonna be good for either of us.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the sun beats down on us, heat pressing in from every direction. Great. No—fantastic. I’m trapped.