Chapter 2 #2
Why didn’t my dad mention the small detail where I’m legally required to uproot my life and camp out on a ranch with a man who clearly despises me? This cannot get any worse.
Gage sighs again and holds his hand out. I stare at it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with that information, until his fingers flex impatiently.
“Give me your bag,” he says, the words sounding like they cost him something.
I hand over my computer bag and nudge the suitcase toward him. He takes both without comment and turns toward the house.
I follow, taking in the ranch as we walk—hands moving with purpose, boots in dirt, labor happening without pause, systems running on schedules I don’t recognize yet.
No one stops to watch the new arrival for long—work keeps rolling, like the ranch doesn’t care who owns what on paper.
Everything moves with intention.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just a steady rhythm that doesn’t stop for anything—or anyone.
It’s not chaotic like I expected. There’s no scrambling, no shouting, no sense that things might fall apart if someone misses a step.
It’s controlled.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because it means this place doesn’t need me.
And judging by the way Gage hasn’t looked back once since grabbing my bags, it doesn’t want me either.
A few ranch hands glance my way, curiosity flickering across their faces before they look back to what they’re doing.
Based on my warm welcome so far, I’m guessing I won’t be invited to any barbecues.
Inside, the blast of air conditioning feels like mercy. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, which is not ideal for someone whose idea of hard labor usually involves a laptop and strong coffee. Still, Gage carrying my suitcase feels like a temporary truce. Not peace. A ceasefire.
We climb the stairs, and he pushes open a door at the end of the hall. The room inside is bare-bones: a bed, a dresser, a night table with a single lamp. No frills. No personality. It will have to do.
I silently hope the mattress isn’t older than I am.
He sets the suitcase down and leaves without a word.
Well. So much for polite conversation.
I step inside and close the door, leaning back against it as I stare at the room that will apparently be my home for the next six months. Six months. The number echoes in my head, heavy and unreal. And underneath it, the real weight: if I bolt, he could lose everything.
Six months.
The number settles heavier the longer I sit with it.
Six months away from my office. My routines. My life. Everything I’ve built with careful, deliberate choices suddenly put on hold because of a decision I didn’t make.
This isn’t a visit.
It’s a disruption.
And worse… it’s one I can’t walk away from without burning everything down behind me. But, what about my work? My clients? My office? If I’m stuck here, I can’t exactly pop back to Austin whenever I feel like it.
Okay. Breathe.
This is legal. Technically. My job can’t fire me over something like this. And if I’m trapped, the least I can do is make sure this arrangement doesn’t derail everything I’ve built.
Not that I care what Gage Hollis thinks of me.
…Okay, maybe I care a little. Not because his opinion matters—because I want this to be survivable. If I can prove I’m competent, if I can actually contribute, maybe he’ll stop looking at me like I personally declared war on Texas ranching.
But first, I need answers.
I shut the bedroom door and pull out my phone.
“Good afternoon, Sloane. Did you make it to the ranch all right?” Terrance Gerald answers, his voice bright—too bright.
Something isn’t right. I can feel it coiling in my gut.
“Yeah, I did,” I say, keeping my voice level, “but I think you forgot to inform me of a fairly important detail.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“You knew I had to stay here for six months before I could sell, didn’t you?” I ask.
He exhales. “Your father told me to leave that part out. He knew you wouldn’t go if you had all the information up front, but now that you’re there, everything is set in motion. It’s only six months. Try to look at it like a vacation.”
“A vacation,” I repeat flatly. “A vacation is lounging on a beach, drinking mojitos, not relocating to Bell River to work on a ranch with a bunch of men I met less than an hour ago. You’re lucky these people don’t look like serial killers.”
Terrance laughs, completely unbothered. “Your father would never have let that happen. He knew Samuel Hollis well enough, and Samuel stuck his neck out for his nephew. You’re in good hands.”
That only makes my stomach twist.
And what else is tucked away in my father’s mental file drawer labeled Things Sloane Doesn’t Need to Know Yet?
I roll my eyes and start pacing. “At least give me some advice. I can’t sell because of the six-month contingency, but why can’t I leave?”
“Because that’s what Samuel asked for,” Terrance says. “He wanted to know that the people involved were serious about the ranch. Gage’s life revolves around that land, but there are things Samuel didn’t tell your father—or us lawyers.
The important thing is this: you need to stay put and be smart.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress squeaking softly beneath me.
So Samuel Hollis was hiding things. From everyone. That means there has to be records somewhere—notes, logs, something he didn’t trust anyone else to interpret.
If I stay, I might be able to find them. If I leave… I don’t even want to think about what that costs.
I rub the back of my neck. “Terrance, just answer me this. If I leave before the six months are up—would Gage lose the ranch entirely?”
The silence stretches. Long enough that my chest tightens.
“Yes,” he finally says. “There is a risk that Hollis Ranch could be forfeited if the inheritance conditions aren’t fully met.”
I drop my head into my hand and groan. “This is an utter nightmare.”
But it also answers everything.
I may not like Gage Hollis—okay, I actively dislike him—but I’m not cruel enough to be the reason someone loses everything his family built. Especially when he never asked for me to be part of this mess in the first place.
So, playing nice it is.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can get him to meet me halfway and not treat me like an enemy force. Step one: prove I’m not some delicate Austin ornament he can bully into submission. Step two: pull my weight. Step three: survive the next six months without committing ranch-related homicide.
Starting tomorrow.
Who knows.
Maybe it won’t be a disaster.