Chapter 20
twenty
Gage
The sound of Sloane’s sedan roaring to life cuts through the yard as I step out of the barn, sharp enough to make me stop short.
I stand in the doorway and watch her back out, Mason already opening the gate like it’s just another task on the list. I don’t move as she pulls onto the road, my boots rooted to the dirt like I’m waiting for something to change.
Letting her go feels easier than asking her to stay—less risky, less exposed. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, again and again.
What she does with her shares can make or break everything I’ve built—but forcing her into a decision would only make it uglier, and I’m already standing in the fallout.
Whatever this was between us couldn’t stay contained forever. Nothing ever really does.
Mason shuffles up to me with a grin. “Guess since the boss lady’s gone, we can let loose, right?” He’s a kid—doesn’t know when to shut up, or when to read the damn room.
That’s always been my job. Reading the room. Carrying the weight.
“Oh, you think she’s hard on you, huh?” I ask, eyeing him carefully, daring him to answer wrong.
“How about you unload the feed that’s been sitting on the truck bed for over a month.”
His smile slips as the weight of my request sinks in. The feed is heavy. He knows it. That’s why we usually let it sit and unload a little each day—but today, I’m not having it. Today, something has to give.
“Alone?” he asks, hesitating just long enough to piss me off.
“Why?” I say. “You not strong enough to handle a couple of bags?” I’m already done with the conversation and need him moving.
Jesse watches the whole thing unfold from nearby, pretending to stay busy with inventory. He glances up at me, then back at his clipboard, keeping his opinions to himself—but I know he’s got them, and that only fuels me further.
“You got something to say? Say it.”
Jesse looks up, then shakes his head. “It’s nothin’, Gage.”
He goes back to work, but honestly, I want him to say it—anything at all—so I’ve got something solid to push against. I’m tired of people swallowing their opinions.
I’m tired of this place only running smoothly with Sloane in mind, like I wasn’t holding it together long before she ever showed up.
She’s about to sell her damn shares to the devil, and they still look at her like she’s some walking saint? Nah. That’s not going to fly anymore.
“No,” I say. “Say what you want to say.” I watch him freeze mid-writing before he lets out a long breath.
He looks up under the brim of his hat. “I just think you’re being a little hard on him. I get you had an argument with Miss Carter, but that’s par for the course.”
His words land harder than they should because, despite how little he talks, Jesse’s observant as hell.
He must’ve been close enough to hear Sloane and me earlier, which makes me wonder how much he caught—and whether he was listening on purpose or if I’m just hunting for another excuse to be pissed.
“Did anyone ever tell you to mind your business and not listen in on other people’s conversations?” I ask, stepping toward him, ready to remind him exactly where the line is.
A teasing crack from a young guy is one thing, but a grown-ass man sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong is something else entirely—and I won’t tolerate it.
Jesse straightens and meets me halfway, like he’s testing my authority. The nerve of him, standing tall like he’s forgotten exactly who signs the checks around here.
“You’re still my boss,” he says evenly, “so I’m gonna say this respectfully—you’re grasping at straws, trying to find anything that makes this hurt less.”
“I didn’t listen in. I was working the horses. You two were loud enough that anyone nearby would’ve heard.”
He pauses, sliding the clipboard back into its slot with deliberate care. “I’m going to help Mason unload that feed.”
He walks away, leaving me seething, my hands curling into fists before I even realize I’ve done it.
I scan the ranch, my eyes landing on Hank perched on the barrel he likes to nap on. I shake my head and stomp over, already knowing I’m looking for another outlet.
I always hated it when he did that—acting like there wasn’t work to be done, like the ranch ran itself without anyone riding it.
I kick the barrel hard, the metal ringing out as Hank snorts awake.
“Listen here, old man,” I snap. “If you can’t get work done, I’ll find someone who can. You got it?” I tell him as he fixes his hat, slow and deliberate.
“Now I don’t know who you’re talking to, Gage Hollis,” Hank says evenly, “but I know you ain’t talking to me.” The tension stretches tight between us.
“If you’re getting too old for the job,” I press, “there wouldn’t be much use for you anymore, would there?”
Hank pushes off the barrel with a burst of energy that has nothing to do with his age. Maybe that power nap did him good—or maybe it’s pure anger hauling him upright.
“Now you listen to me!” he bellows, jabbing a finger into my chest.
“I don’t know what the hell crawled into you between this morning and now,” he says, “but you better fix yourself before you burn everything down.”
The only reason I don’t fire him on the spot is Uncle Sam—their friendship, and how long Hank’s been stitched into my family’s history.
Letting him go would be like cutting out blood, and no matter how angry I am, that’s a line I won’t cross.
He steps back suddenly, really looking at me this time, then scoffs. “It’s the lady boss, isn’t it? She got under your skin.”
My jaw locks, and the silence answers for me.
“By all means,” he adds, shaking his head, “take it out on all of us. Won’t fix a damn thing.” He walks off to find something else to do, leaving me alone in the barn with too much space and nowhere to put what’s boiling inside me.
I pace back through the barn and into Uncle Sam’s office, frustration stacking higher with every step as my thoughts circle Sloane—where she is, who she’s talking to, what she’s already decided.
What if she agrees to it today? What if I’m already too late to fix any of it? The what-ifs stack up fast, tight and relentless, wrapping around my chest until it’s hard to breathe through them.
I bang my fists on the wooden desk, the wood splintering slightly under the pressure. It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do now. Every option feels wrong, and the harder I push at it, the worse it seems to get.
But how did we get here?
For the last month, everything felt perfect—or close enough that I let myself believe it. We were on the cusp of something amazing, and for once, I was actually happy. That should’ve been my first warning.
Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I keep doing this to her? I think I know why. Or at least, I’ve got a dozen excuses lined up.
Because for as long as I’ve been old enough to understand things, I never believed I was meant to be genuinely happy—and that belief sits heavy, settled deep.
If even for a moment I felt an ounce of happiness, something else would come and screw it up. It felt inevitable that a good life—someone I loved, kids, the ranch—was always going to be just out of reach.
Everyone always left, so why would Sloane be any different? She was supposed to be leaving next month anyway, so maybe I just sped it up for both of us—ripped the bandage off before it could hurt worse.
But is that what I want? I don’t know. It’s just what I’ve told myself long enough that it starts to sound like acceptance. For weeks now, the question has burned in the back of my throat—ask her to stay—but how the hell is that fair?
She has a whole life in Austin, and my life is here. Even if she had asked me to follow her, I couldn’t do that. The truth is, I love Bell River and I love this ranch—but every time I try to measure that against her, the scale won’t settle.
Damn it.
She gets under my skin in a way nothing else ever has. Every instinct I have is pulling in opposite directions—hold on, let go, protect the ranch, protect her—and I don’t know which one I’ll regret more.
The old Gage Hollis would’ve never let a woman come between him and his ranch—but somewhere along the way, Sloane Carter walked in and rearranged the whole damn structure.
“Damn it.” I turn the light off in the office and head into the main house for the rest of the day. The work that the guys are doing pours into the next day, and the day is even hotter than it was yesterday.
Sloane’s sedan is back to being parked on the property, and she didn’t come into my bed last night. I didn’t expect her to, but after sleeping beside each other for a month, it feels strange not to be now.
I miss her, and I hate that I miss her.
I don’t see her for the day, which means she’s hiding out in the main house or her bedroom. It’s fine by me as I keep busy with chores and push the guys to do things we often neglect or prolong as a yearly or monthly task.
Who cares if it was just done? Do it again.
I go back into the office and shut myself inside. I swear, I’ve never spent more time in this office than I have now, but for some reason, I always return to the will and all the paperwork. Monty provided a whole folder, and I still haven’t gone through all of it.
With everyone distracted, it seems like a good time as any to get through the rest of it.
I open the folder and start sifting through it, paper sliding beneath my fingers. Ledgers and land documentation—things I’ve dug through more times than I can count—back when I was hunting for a loophole to get Sloane to leave.
That was before. Now, I’m scanning every line for a reason to keep her—any excuse that lets me undo what I already set in motion.
It’s a mess, isn’t it—me, all of this.
I told her to go make a deal with Horizon if she wanted, then turned around and started looking for ways to fix it anyway.
I’m a ticking time bomb—not just with my temper, but all of it—every thought wound too tight.
Emotionally, I can barely manage a damn thing. I barely understand myself half the time, and to make matters worse, I tell her one thing and then I go ahead and do another.
I’m not trying to be confusing, but she cracked open something in my head I worked damn hard to keep sealed, and now it’s a jumbled mess I can’t shove back down.
My hand stops at a letter in Uncle Sam’s handwriting. It has my name and Sloane’s written across the front. I narrow my eyes, a prickle of unease crawling up my spine.
Why is this the first time I’m stumbling across this? The letter is light in my hands, deceptively so, and as I reach out for the letter opener to unseal it, Jesse comes barging in.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we got some bad news down by the pasture,” he says breathlessly. I sigh deeply, already bracing for how much worse this day is about to get.
I toss the letter and the opener on the desk, the unanswered weight of it lingering as I rush out after him. We reach the end of the property where Mason is standing, grimacing as we get closer to the fence.
It’s clipped again, only in a different spot, straight down the middle.
“As soon as we noticed, we gathered all the cattle back inside. Just lucky none of them noticed it,” Jesse adds as I groan, forcing myself not to lash out at them because, really, they handled it right.
They did exactly as they were supposed to, and everything could be a lot worse, but this is the second time this fence has been clipped.
I look to them both. “Good work, guys. Did you see anything?” I ask, hoping maybe they spotted anything or anyone near the property today.
Yesterday, it was fine. Today, it feels deliberate.
Mason shakes his head. “No, but maybe Miss Carter’s fancy security cameras may help,” he suggests as I look up at the camera nestled at the edge of the house. I hum and shake my head, eyes still on the camera.
“I’ll be damned. She just keeps on saving this place,” I mutter, making my way up the hill, stopping to look back at them like the truth just landed heavier than I expected.
“Repair that, please,” I tell them, nicer this time. If I can find out who did this, then maybe—just maybe—I can put a stop to everything before it costs me more than land.
I walk back into the office and turn on the computer, searching for the recordings facing the pasture. I rewind back to the early morning, and then I see it—the time stamp locked at two in the morning.
I zoom it in closer, and the night vision on the camera captures it all. When Sloane said she pulled all the stops on the security, she wasn’t kidding.
The image pulls up a man I know all too well around Bell River. His name is Fred Geraldson—a contractor, the same one who placed our water main behind the house.
That son of a bitch.
No wonder everything has turned to shit. Horizon Group has had a Bell River source from the very beginning, and the sabotage wasn’t recent—it was patient, deliberate, dating back years.
I make a copy of this video and a screenshot before I text Tommy that I think I found the guy responsible for our break-in, along with the other issues.
Staring at his image only fuels the anger twisting in my gut, but underneath it, there’s relief—because this finally makes sense.
More importantly, it slams into me that this only came to light because of Sloane—because she protected this place in ways I never did.
Without her pushing for security, insurance, and backups without her covering the angles I dismissed—none of this would’ve been possible.
I need to tell her, but at the same time, I know she doesn’t want to see me.
The focus shouldn’t be Sloane right now—even if every instinct in me pulls in her direction. The focus is on getting the ranch back to working order, protected, and, more importantly, no more sabotage.
That begins by calling out Fred and making damn sure he knows my eyes are on him now.
I grab my keys and leave the office, making sure to text Tommy that I will be visiting my new friend if he’d like to stop by later.
I get a text back, my guess is from Tommy advising against me heading out there alone.
We’re in Texas, and guns are a part of our culture, but I’m not afraid of this guy.
But he should be afraid of me now.