Chapter 53
EMMA
Two hours later, I'm showered, dressed, and sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and my laptop open. My Zoom call with the gallery in Jackson Hole is scheduled for ten, and I need to focus. I have a career. A talent. A future. I need to find a balance between that and being with Jake.
The gallery showing is important. I’ve been thinking I want to travel less, to go on fewer assignments, and that’s only punctuated now that Jake’s here.
I want to continue with my photography—it feeds my soul—but I also want a home life, which is impossible when you travel so much.
I don’t know how this thing with Jake will turn out, but I’m going to do everything to make it successful.
The meeting goes great. The gallery director is a fan of my photography and wants to give me a one-woman show in the summer to capitalize on the tourist trade.
I agree without any need to think it over.
Her gallery attracts collectors from across the country, making it a great opportunity for exposure.
We talk for another ten minutes about logistics, timelines, and promotional materials. When the call ends, I close my laptop and sit back in my chair.
A gallery show in Jackson Hole.
I have three months to get ready—tight, but not impossible. Given how much money I stand to make, I’m going to make it work.
Which leads me to my idea for Blackthorn Ranch. I head upstairs to Dad's private office.
I pause in the doorway, looking in, almost expecting my dad to be sitting there, his feet propped on the desk.
I haven't been in here since before he died. I tell myself that I haven’t had the time to clean up his things, but really, I haven’t had the heart.
When I need to go over the books or talk to Jim, I do it in the formal office downstairs.
But I have a goal now. I’m going to give Blackthorn Ranch some horses.
The room smells like old leather and pipe tobacco. Dad’s desk is exactly how he left it—papers stacked neatly, pens in the holder, reading glasses folded on top of a notebook.
I sit in his chair, running my hands along the leather armrests, and my chest tightens.
I miss him. We weren’t close, but the possibility of getting closer died right alongside him in the car crash.
Now isn’t the time for grief. I need to find the paperwork for the horses—the herd Dad kept on the north section of the property. Bills of sale, pedigrees, anything that proves ownership.
I want to give them to Mason and Blackthorn Ranch.
It feels right. A gift that's mine to give. A way to help them find a purpose.
I start with the desk drawers.
Bills. Ranch records. Nothing unusual.
The filing cabinet is next. I pull open the top drawer, flipping through folders labeled with mundane things—taxes, equipment receipts, veterinary records.
Then I see it.
A folder marked Turner.