Chapter 14
fourteen
Gage
The full severity of what I’ve done presses on my chest like a five-ton anvil. Not just the afternoon at the barn, but all of it—the months of dismissing her, the reflexive anger, the way I shut her down before she ever had a chance.
I see the pattern clearly now, and that might be the worst part.
Is this what I’ve conditioned myself to be?
This lonely rancher with no hope of being anything more than that.
Truthfully, what am I even holding on for anymore?
A legacy that will stop at me? I don’t have children to hand the ranch off to when I’m too old to run it.
And I never will if this is the man I keep choosing to be.
I took the log to my room and promised myself that once morning came, I would finally check everything for myself, but for tonight, I reviewed everything she documented instead.
The log I’d already seen because of Jesse, but I dismissed it as nothing more than a dry spell. Now, seeing how all the numbers stack up, the pattern is impossible to ignore—water levels dropping even in the winter months, when cooler temperatures should have kept them steady.
That was right around the time that stupid developer across the way started breaking ground for those new condos.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself, flipping the papers over, reading through the documentation Sloane put together. It’s like an entire dossier of evidence, methodical and precise, built to expose an entire operation.
She even documented switching the line behind the house to the old main so our water levels could return to normal. Everything I refused to listen to her about now stares back at me, undeniable, and I’m left with no one to blame but myself.
Morning can’t come fast enough, and the second it does, I’m out the door, itching to check everything for myself.
Starting in the forest, I follow the map she printed from the appraiser’s records so she could document each site exactly, and damn it, I find myself more than a little impressed by how detailed she is about it.
I reach the water main. It’s a rusted-up thing, but the low hum tells me everything I need to know—Sloane did, in fact, get it up and running, re-hooking the pipe that was initially meant to feed into the water supply.
I make a mental note to compliment her on the work. I’ve never known a single woman willing to get her hands that dirty, let alone know how to fix a water main, but I’m starting to see just how much I don’t know about Sloane.
She didn’t just patch it. She understood it.
The reroute is clean, intentional—done by someone who took the time to learn how this place breathes. The realization sits heavy in my gut. I didn’t just underestimate her. I dismissed her outright.
I head back up the hill and walk behind the house to the other water main.
Sure enough, she cut it off and rendered it unusable.
If she’s right—and all signs point to that—then she just saved the ranch from thousands of dollars in losses.
Between hydrating the animals and keeping our equipment running, the damage would have added up fast.
I follow the pipe and head down the line. Granted, I don’t need to—its location is clearly marked on the map—but following it lets me see exactly how far it goes with my own two feet.
I can only go as far as the fence line, but I can see the pipe continues through the tall brush just beyond it.
The only reason I never noticed the damn thing before is that it’s buried on our side of the fence, hidden beneath dirt and grass, but the rest of it sticks out like a sore thumb once it crosses over—running straight through the tall grass toward the construction site.
Those good-for-nothing suits.
I walk up the hill and head straight for my truck just as Mason, Jesse, and Hank come out of their cabins. Mason rushes over to the gate and pushes it open so I can zip out without slowing down.
I press the gas harder than I probably should, intent on proving whether Sloane is right. I saw the pipe from the property, but if I can reach the exterior side of it, then I can see exactly how far it leads.
I turn onto the grass, my truck bumping hard as the tires crunch over rocks and God knows what else. The ranch fades behind me in the distance, and all I have to do now is cross over the boundary.
When I reach the property line, I kill the headlights and slow down, following the faint rise of ground where the pipe is laid out on the surface.
The farther I go, the more pissed off I get.
If this thing leads straight to the developer site, I swear I’ll find those suits and make them kiss my fists.
I stop short at the construction site. I don’t need to go any farther—the pipe disappears underground here, just like it does on our land.
Those pieces of shit.
I slam my hands against the steering wheel and shout into the empty construction site.
The sound goes nowhere, swallowed by darkness and silence, and that only makes it worse.
Every frustration I’ve bottled up over the last few months spills out all at once, but there’s no one here to hear it—no one to blame but myself.
Because the truth is, I’m a complete jackass.
This entire time, Sloane tried to warn me. From the very beginning. She told me strange things were happening, pointed out the inconsistencies, and went out of her way to check every lead herself because she knew I wouldn’t believe her.
And she was right not to trust me to listen. Now I see it all, clear as day, and I screwed up—badly.
To make it worse, I handed her the land with the lien on it like it was nothing—like it wasn’t the very thing those suits have been circling for years.
The first chance they get, they’ll snatch it up, and once they do, the ranch won’t just lose water. We’ll be boxed in by concrete and condos, sunrise and sunset swallowed by someone else’s skyline.
Maybe I deserve that.
Maybe this is the price I pay for every bit of pain I’ve caused her. She’s only ever cared about doing what’s best for the ranch—about protecting something she didn’t even have to defend—but all I’ve done is make her life harder.
Every accusation. Every doubt. Every time I shut her down instead of listening.
If I go to her now, it won’t be to stop the sale. Whatever she’s already set in motion, I don’t get to undo with a last-minute apology. I know that. But I still need to make this right, even if fixing it costs me everything else.
I need to stop hiding behind anger and pretending this was about control, pride, or frustration. She stayed. Through all of it. She could have walked away a dozen times, but she didn’t.
She fought for this place—and for me—long before I deserved it.
And I won’t be a fool any longer pretending I don’t see what’s right in front of me.
I back the truck up and head toward the ranch, dust kicking up behind me as I drive faster than I should. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I get there—or even how I’m supposed to say it—but I know I can’t keep doing this.
Hiding. Avoiding. Letting things rot until it’s too late.
I need to do better. If not for Sloane, then for myself. This version of me—the one who’s always angry, always shutting down, always convinced the world is out to take something from him—that isn’t who I want to be anymore. It isn’t who I was meant to be.
When I reach the ranch, I cut the engine and don’t give myself time to think. If I stop now, I’ll talk myself out of it. I slam the truck door shut and head straight for the house, my boots pounding against the porch steps as I shove the door open hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.
I take the stairs two at a time, my chest tight, my thoughts racing. I slow only when I reach her door, stopping just short of barging in like I have every other time I’ve handled things wrong.
I knock.
Her voice floats back, soft and distant, and it hits me harder than any accusation ever could. I drag in a breath, steadying myself, and push the door open.
The sight stops me cold.
Her suitcase is open on the bed. Clothes are folded neatly inside, others stacked beside it, waiting their turn. Something twists painfully in my chest as the reality settles in—this isn’t a threat or a bluff. She’s preparing to leave.
“You’re leaving,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Yeah, I filed the paperwork last night to place the piece of land on the market. I don’t imagine it’ll be on there for long, so I figured I’d get a head start,” she says nonchalantly, like she isn’t dismantling my entire world with a single sentence.
I sigh deeply and lean against the doorframe. Not just late—too late, the kind of late that comes after damage has already been done and apologies start sounding like excuses.
“You were right,” I say a moment later.
Her hands still, like even hearing it costs her something.
“I followed the pipe to the development site. It goes underground as soon as you reach the start of the construction.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into my voice.
“You were right about everything, actually, and I’m a jackass for not listening to you.”
But instead, she exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath for days.
“I didn’t want to be right,” she says softly, tossing a folded shirt into the open suitcase before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Her shoulders sag, like she’s carrying more than just this decision. More than just the weight of leaving.
She looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. She isn’t relieved. She isn’t vindicated. She’s worn down.
It hits me then that this isn’t the fatigue of a bad night or a hard week. It’s cumulative. Layered. The kind that comes from carrying the same weight alone for too long, from being forced to prove your worth every single day until you don’t have the energy to want anything anymore.
“I know you didn’t,” I reply, my voice quieter now. I look away, shame curling tight in my chest.
“What made you check?” she asks. Her tone isn’t accusing—only tired. Curious. Like she’s trying to understand instead of attack, even now.
“After you told me about your dad,” I say finally. “Something shifted. Hearing it then—knowing what he gave up, what he did for this place—it reframed everything I thought I understood.” I swallow.
“I realized if he could come out here and do all that for my family, maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
She lets out a short laugh—sharp, humorless—and turns back to the suitcase. The sound slices deeper than if she’d yelled.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, genuinely confused, even though part of me already knows the answer.
“No, Gage Hollis,” she snaps without looking at me. “Because you never do anything wrong.”
The sarcasm hits like a slap. It stings worse because it’s earned.
I take a step toward her and reach for her arm, but she jerks away immediately, putting distance between us like I’m the one who might break her. Or maybe like she’s already broken enough.
“Just talk to me,” I say, my voice rougher now, stripped of anything resembling confidence.
She spins around, disbelief flashing across her face. “Now you want to talk?” Her voice cracks despite her effort to hold it steady.
“Where were you when I needed to talk months ago? Where were you the first time you fucked me? Or the second? And don’t even get me started on the third.”
She drags her hands through her hair, pacing now, the words spilling out faster, sharper, fueled by everything she swallowed before. “It’s just so convenient that the moment I tell you about my father, you suddenly decide to listen.”
“I’m just tired, Gage,” she says, her voice breaking as she says it again. “And I’m done.”
She meets my eyes again, and there’s no anger in them now—just resolve.
Not heat. Not fire. Just something firm and settled, like a door closing slowly but decisively.
“I’m done trying for someone who will always think I’m the enemy,” she says, and it lands like the final blow in a something I didn’t even realize I’d already lost.
I told her I see everything clearly now, but she still believes I’ll always see her as the threat. And maybe she’s right.
The realization digs deep, sharp and unforgiving. My feelings didn’t shift because of her—not really. They shifted because of what she told me about her father.
I trusted the story. I didn’t trust her.
Turns out, I was the one playing mind games all along.
Maybe I’ve gotten so used to being alone that it’s easier to let good things slip away than risk believing I deserve them.
I built my life around survival, not connection. Around endurance, not hope.
I’ve spent years convincing myself I earned every bad hand I was dealt—like pain was something to manage, not escape.
The ranch was the only constant I ever had.
And now it’s slipping through my fingers.
But somehow, that doesn’t hurt half as much as knowing Sloane is about to walk out that door.
Not because she doesn’t care—but because she’s finally tired of caring alone.
Isn’t that something?
“I’m sorry for everything,” I say quietly, the words barely more than breath. They feel small. Inadequate. I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to anymore—her, or myself, or the man I could have been if I hadn’t let fear make every decision for me.
That pain settles in my chest again—sharp and unfamiliar.
I didn’t feel it when my exes walked away. I didn’t feel it when I lost Uncle Sam.
But with Sloane… it’s different.
It feels like my heart is being ripped out and crushed beneath the heel of a good pair of cowboy boots—slow, merciless, and thorough.
I turn and walk out of the room when she doesn’t respond, leaving her to finish packing. The door clicks shut behind me, final and hollow, and I stop short, my hand still hovering near the frame like I might change my mind.
On the other side, I hear the quiet sound of her sobbing.
And it guts me.
Because that sound isn’t anger. It isn’t manipulation.
It’s grief.
It’s loss.
And it’s mine to own.
This can’t be the end.
I don’t have a plan—but I know I have to fix this. Not with words. I’ve already wasted too many of those.
With actions.
I need to be the man she needed months ago—not the one who finally showed up after the damage was done.
And as much as it terrifies me, it means tearing down the walls I’ve spent a lifetime building.
Because keeping them intact will cost me everything that actually matters.