Chapter 3
three
Gage
Red is already raising hell when I swing my boots onto the floor. The rooster’s crow cuts through the dark like a warning, sharp and unforgiving, and I welcome it. Mornings don’t wait for comfort around here. Neither do I.
If Sloane Carter thinks she’s easing into ranch life at her own pace, she’s dead wrong.
I pull on my jeans and head downstairs without bothering to check the time. Ranch life doesn’t run on clocks—it runs on discipline, habit, and consistency, whether you feel like it or not.
The house is quiet when I hit the kitchen. Too quiet. Not surprising.
I start a pot of coffee, black and strong, and take the stairs two at a time. Silence on a ranch at this hour usually means one of two things: trouble or someone who hasn’t learned the rules. I stop outside Sloane’s door and knock once, firm.
Nothing.
I open the door and peek inside. The bundle under the covers and the dark hair spilling over the pillow confirm it. I cross the room and tap her shoulder. She groans, swatting at me like I’m a bad dream she doesn’t want to wake up from.
“Little missy,” I say evenly, already reaching for the light switch, “I know you’re not used to early mornings, but it’s time to get to work.”
The light clicks on. She groans louder, rolling onto her back and glaring at me like she’s plotting murder. Honestly, it doesn’t faze me. I’ve survived worse mornings than this.
“What time is it?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.
“Four-thirty.” I push off the doorframe. “Get dressed. We’ve got chores to do, and I’ve got coffee started.”
I leave her to it and head back down, pouring myself a mug—black, no nonsense. Coffee doesn’t need assistance doing its job. As I take the first sip, footsteps pound down the stairs behind me.
She appears in the doorway wearing tight jeans, boots that cost more than they should and have no business anywhere near manure, and a blue plaid shirt she probably thinks makes her blend in. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, eyes still heavy with sleep.
I grab another mug and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she mutters, still half-awake.
I should feel bad. She isn’t used to this life. But sympathy doesn’t keep animals fed or fences upright. If she’s part owner, she’d better learn fast.
She pours her coffee and sighs. “This is probably a long shot, but do you have creamer?”
I smirk behind my mug. One raised eyebrow is enough of an answer.
“Great. Sugar, at least?”
She reaches for the cabinet, stretching onto her toes like she has something to prove, and it sets my teeth on edge. Mornings on a ranch aren’t about comfort. They’re about order—about knowing your place in the chain and honoring it.
Uncle Sam drilled that into me long before I was big enough to swing a hammer straight.
He used to say the day tells you who a person really is by how they show up before dawn. Anyone can work when it’s convenient.
Anyone can talk big once the coffee kicks in. But four-thirty in the morning, when your bones ache and the world’s still dark—that’s when you find out who’s worth keeping around.
That’s what I’m watching for now—how she handles her first full day out here.
Not whether she complains. Not whether she stumbles. But whether she adapts.
This place doesn’t bend. It doesn’t care about titles or inheritance paperwork. The land rewards consistency and punishes indecision, and every hand on this ranch learned that the hard way—including me.
If Sloane Carter thinks owning half the deed means she gets to set her own pace, she’s about to learn how wrong that is.
She scoops sugar into her mug, then reaches for the milk when I open the fridge for her. Watching her make her coffee tells me more than yesterday ever did—her habits, her rhythm, the way she assumes the space will bend around her.
I finish my cup before she even takes her first real sip. I don’t stand around when there’s work waiting—animals don’t care if you’re caffeinated.
“Finish up.” It isn’t a request. It’s an order.
She looks at me like she’s debating whether to push back.
Too bad.
She’s here now, and she’s going to follow the same rules as everyone else. I don’t care how much stake she thinks she has, nor what paperwork says her name belongs beside.
Paper doesn’t run a ranch. People do.
“I’ve barely opened my eyes, Gage. Can you go a little easier, please,” she asks. Her tone isn’t threatening—measured, even—but it doesn’t move me. Feelings don’t feed livestock. Routine does.
“No,” I say flatly. “Finish up or take it with you. Either way, we’ve got work to do.”
I head for the door. The screen slaps shut behind me.
A second later, it slaps again.
Her boots crunch over the gravel as she hustles to catch up, mug in hand. I clock it instantly and shake my head.
Damn city folk.
The barn’s already alive when we step inside—metal clanking, hooves shifting, low voices carrying through the wide space. Hay dust hangs in the air, warm and familiar, the kind of smell that sinks into your clothes and doesn’t leave. This place hums with purpose.
“First rule,” I start, not slowing my stride, “no touching the equipment. It’s expensive, and you haven’t been trained. Do us both a favor and leave it alone.”
She takes a long sip of coffee, eyes narrowed at my back. Annoyed.
I don’t care.
“I run a tight operation,” I continue. “And I won’t change my ways for someone who just showed up from Austin.”
I hear her exhale, sharp and controlled, but she keeps pace. I’ll give her that.
“Next,” I add, “no interfering with ranch business. I worked too damn hard fixing the books to have them screwed up again.”
She smirks. “Except it is half my ranch, so I should be able to see the books whenever I want.”
That hits closer than it should.
My jaw tightens. I scrape my teeth along my bottom lip and rub my forearm, irritation crawling beneath my skin. The books were a mess when Uncle Sam left them behind. Worse than a mess—quietly bleeding. And I fixed them alone. Night after night.
Those numbers aren’t just ink to me—they’re the difference between keeping this place whole and watching it fall apart.
“Relax,” she adds, as if she hasn’t just thrown a match. “I’m not laundering money. I want to check land records and water systems—make sure everything’s viable for grazing.”
Right. The environmental angle.
Annoying—but possibly useful.
“Fine,” I say, pointing at her. “Land and water. Stay out of the finances.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender, mouth twitching like she’s already filed that away for later.
“And lastly,” I add, stopping short as we reach Hank brushing Mabel, “don’t talk to my hands without me present. They listen to me. Not you.”
Hank turns, drops the brush into the bucket, and grins like he’s just walked in on something better than his morning coffee.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “I was wondering when you’d bring her around.”
He sticks out a hand. “Hank Doyle.”
“Sloane Carter,” she replies, shaking it with an easy smile—too easy for someone who just got told she doesn’t have a voice here.
That smile she gives Hank is warmer than any she’s ever given me—easy, unguarded. Like she isn’t standing on land that feels like a battlefield to me.
I tell myself I shouldn’t care.
I don’t entirely believe it.
“Carter, huh?” Hank asks, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
She nods. He hums low in his throat, but doesn’t say anything else. Whatever he’s clocked, it hangs there between them, unspoken. I don’t miss the way Sloane notices it too. Neither of us calls it out.
“Well,” Hank says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “I do hope this fella here is taking good care of you.”
Sloane’s smile tightens as she looks at me, eyes narrowing just enough to challenge me—like she’s daring me to contradict him in front of everyone. Instead of saying a word, she keeps whatever sharp comment she’s brewing locked behind that polite expression.
“It’s been a tough situation for us both,” she says evenly. “But we’re managing. I’m looking forward to learning the ropes and pulling my weight.”
Then she lifts her mug. “If you’ll excuse me, I just need to bring this back to the main house.”
I watch her walk away longer than I mean to. Long enough to notice the way she moves like she’s already mapping the place.
Once she’s gone, Hank turns back to me with a knowing grin. “Oh boy,” he says, laughing. “You are in trouble.”
“Come again?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.
“She’s a spitfire,” he says. “All polite now, but give her time. She’ll be running this place better than you before you know it.”
I snort. Hank’s been here longer than I have—might as well be family—but that doesn’t make him right.
“Sounds like your age is catching up to you, old man,” I mutter, brushing past him.
His laughter follows me out of the barn.
There is no way in hell Sloane Carter is running this ranch.
Not now. Not ever. Not while I still draw breath.
I agreed to let her see land and water information because she needs to understand it if she’s staying. Truth is, I’ve wanted a deeper handle on it myself—but wanting something and having the time to chase it are two different things.
Still—that doesn’t give her permission.
I head for the back office and stop short when I see the light on.
The door’s unlocked — like it always is during the day — and she’s already inside.
She’s already inside.
Anger hits like a strike. She was supposed to meet me back at the barn so I could put her on chores and keep her out of my hair. Instead, she’s made herself comfortable in my space.
My office.
“Do you always make a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, jaw tight.
She barely looks up.
Unfazed. Calm. Like she belongs there.
She turns back to the document in front of her.
“You did say I could take a look at the land ledger and water usage documentation,” she says, eyes still on the page.
“Yeah,” I reply, folding my arms, “but I assumed you’d wait for me to collect it all for you.”
She lifts her brows. “You know what they say about people who assume.”
I don’t take the bait. She shouldn’t be in here like this—digging through records without me present. It isn’t just business; it’s personal. Years of mistakes, fixes, and late nights laid bare for someone I barely know.
I scoff. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
She leans forward, planting her forearms on the desk, frustration finally cracking through her calm. She looks up at me, eyes sharp, controlled—but burning.
“And what?” she snaps. “You think you’re some saint? Last I checked, you’re the guy who’s been walking around with a stick so far up his ass since I drove up that I don’t think you know how to dislodge it.”
The words land clean.
My jaw tightens. Not because they’re cruel—but because they’re close enough to the truth to sting.
She’s determined—stubborn in a way that doesn’t back down. Still out of her depth, though—and whether she knows it or not is its own kind of danger.
She exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face. “Look, I don’t want to spend the next six months fighting you,” she says. “Let me shadow you during your routine. I’ll learn how things actually work, and I promise I’ll be a valuable asset.”
Every instinct in me wants to tell her to stick to ledgers and spreadsheets. But as much as I hate it, she’s right—if she’s here, she needs to see the work firsthand.
I roll my eyes. “All right. Let’s go.”
She puts the documents away and follows me out. The sun’s already creeping higher, and I’m behind schedule now. Sleep never really caught up with me last night, and it shows. Irritation simmers, tight and familiar, but I force it down. This won’t be an everyday thing.
We head into the pasture, cattle grazing lazily as I hold the gate open and latch it behind us. I walk the line, petting each cow as we pass, grounding myself in the routine.
“What are their typical patterns?” she asks.
I glance at her, skeptical. “It’s a pipeline. The more even we keep it, the better it is for them—and for us.”
She hums, nodding as she reaches out and brushes a cow’s flank. A genuine smile flickers across her face. Probably the first real one I’ve seen all morning.
“And the water maintenance? Is it low or—”
“It’s even,” I cut in. “Everything is even.”
She stops walking. “Seriously? What the hell is your problem?” She throws her hands out. “I’m showing interest in what you do, and I get my head chewed off. If I breathe wrong, I’m worried I’ll get ripped apart. What can I do without you being an ass to me?”
“An ass?”
“A straight-up donkey,” she says, smirking.
I scoff despite myself. “All right,” I say. “Do you even know why I use the pipeline method?”
“Because of several factors,” she says. “First, your water lines don’t extend to the full capacity of the land. It’s an odd setup—but it’s what you’re working with.”
I follow her finger across the pasture and narrow my eyes. My jaw tightens. She’s right. That alone unsettles me more than I care to admit.
“Second,” she continues, “we’re in a heat wave. There’s a conservation order in place. Even though letting the grass drink would help reduce fire risk, you’re boxed in.”
She pauses, then adds quietly, “Honestly? Your cows are the only thing keeping this land from becoming a tinderbox if the worst-case scenario hits.”
The words land heavier than I expect. Not because they’re dramatic—but because they’re precise. She’s reading the land the way Uncle Sam used to, seeing problems before they caught fire.
Truth is, I’m impressed.
I don’t let it show.
“Sounds like you know your stuff after all,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and steps around me. “Where are you going?” I call after her. “We’re not done with chores.”
She turns, walking backward. “I’ll shadow Hank. At least I know I’m wanted somewhere.”
Then she turns and stalks off.
I shake my head and get back to work.
I’m not letting her ruin the rest of my day.
Ignoring her turns out to be easier than I expect. She spends most of the day with Hank, and honestly, that works for me. The less friction between us, the better.
Later, I head into the office to go over expense logs and stop short when my eyes land on the will sitting on the corner of the desk.
I know I’m not doing either of us any favors by being stubborn. But I’ve never been good at bending when I feel cornered.
I tell myself there’s nothing new inside—just the same legal garbage—but my hand moves anyway.
A letter slips out. Uncle Sam’s handwriting stares back at me.
I unfold it.
Gage,
I know you’re probably fuming right now. But trust this process. Lean into the unexpected, like I always told you. You’ll be surprised by what’s waiting for you at the end.
~ Uncle Sam
I snort.
Yeah. I doubt it.
But hell if I don’t wish you were here to explain this mess yourself.