Chapter 3
Tammy
The Corolla let out a high-pitched, metallic wheeze as we crawled over the crest of the final hill.
I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, bracing for another bone-jarring impact, but then the dense pine forest peeled away on either side, and the sheer majesty of StoneSteel Ranch opened before me.
I completely forgot to breathe.
The valley below looked like something carved from an ancient myth.
Nestled against the base of towering, snow-capped peaks, the main estate sprawled across the lush basin in magnificent defiance of the wild terrain.
The main lodge stood three stories high, constructed from massive, hand-hewn spruce timbers that glowed with deep amber warmth in the fading sunlight.
Dozens of wide glass windows reflected the evening sky like sheets of polished gold, while a colossal covered porch stretched across the entire front facade.
Two massive chimneys crafted from river stone sent ribbons of fragrant woodsmoke drifting into the crisp alpine air.
Beyond the main lodge, a miniature city of agricultural craftsmanship spread across the meadows.
A timber-framed barn the size of an airplane hangar.
Stables with paddocks where horses grazed quietly in the dusk.
Long bunkhouses with dark green metal roofs stood in neat rows, while the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoed from a stone forge near the machine sheds.
Everywhere I looked, the land was alive with cattle. Thousands of dark, healthy hides moved across endless miles of emerald pasture that rolled seamlessly toward the rocky timberline.
More than five hundred thousand acres. Fifty thousand head of cattle.
Reading the staggering figures on an employment contract was one thing, but witnessing the sheer, sovereign scale of the operation made my heart pound against my ribs. This was not a mere livestock ranch. It was an independent mountain empire.
Ripplan's heavy black truck pulled up along the circular gravel drive in front of the main house, crunching to a halt near the porch steps.
I pulled the Corolla in beside his rear bumper, turning the key to kill the shuddering engine.
Absolute mountain silence rushed into the cabin, broken only by the distant lowing of the herd and the whisper of pine needles in the wind.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel, only to find Ripplan already leaning casually against the tailgate of his truck.
His arms were crossed over his massive chest, his jaw set in an infuriatingly smug expression that clearly announced he was enjoying every single second of his victory.
My jaw clenched so hard my molars ached.
The non-jolly green giant had been right, twice.
The first disaster had occurred five miles back, where the county blacktop gave way to an unmaintained mountain logging road.
My poor sedan had slammed down onto an exposed granite shelf with a sickening crunch of metal that vibrated straight through my seat cushion.
When I tried to reverse, the front tires had simply spun uselessly in the loose shale, throwing up clouds of gray dust.
Ripplan had stepped out of his truck, strolled over with maddening calm, and casually gripped the underside of my front bumper with his bare, scarred hands.
With a single fluid roll of his colossal shoulders, he lifted the entire front end of the loaded vehicle several feet off the ground, moving it two paces to the left onto solid rock as though he were setting down a bag of groceries.
The sheer power of the display had left me completely speechless, my mouth watering in shameful appreciation as the thick muscles of his back flexed beneath his canvas coat. Without a single word, he had dusted off his palms and climbed back into his cab.
Two miles later, on a steep, hairpin gravel incline, the Corolla had lost traction entirely, sliding backward toward a sharp ditch.
Before panic could take over, Ripplan had materialized at my rear bumper, placing one enormous hand flat against the trunk and pushing my heavily loaded car up the remainder of the steep grade with effortless, terrifying strength.
Now, he stood on the gravel, looking down at me with those blazing amber eyes.
"Told you so," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a dark, gravelly resonance.
"You certainly did," I said, slamming my car door with unnecessary force. "I hope the satisfaction keeps you warm tonight."
A subtle twitch pulled at the corner of his lips, vanishing before it could blossom into a proper smile. "Follow me. Brylan has been waiting for your arrival."
I followed him up the wide wooden steps. The porch planks were crafted from thick, seasoned cedar, worn smooth by years of heavy work boots. The front door was a massive slab of solid oak reinforced with hand-hammered iron straps and decorative scrollwork that looked ancient and indestructible.
Ripplan turned the heavy iron handle and pushed the door open without bothering to knock.
A wave of comforting heat and rich, savory aromas washed over us instantly.
The rich scent of roasted meat, fresh herbs, and woodsmoke blended with a deep, earthy fragrance that I was quickly learning to associate with the Orcs themselves, something ancient and wild, like sun-warmed stone and rich forest loam.
The front entry opened into a breathtaking great room with a vaulted ceiling supported by crisscrossing spruce trusses.
A massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall, large enough to roast a whole side of beef, flanked by deep leather sectionals, thick wool rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the mountain peaks.
Standing squarely in the center of the archway leading to the kitchen was an imposing Orc woman, glaring at Ripplan with lethal intent.
"You are forty minutes late for supper," she barked, her voice like grinding millstones.
Before Ripplan could draw breath to answer, she whipped her right arm forward.
A dark, heavy projectile tore through the air with a terrifying whistle.
I gasped and ducked instinctively, clutching the back of a leather armchair, but Ripplan did not even flinch.
The object sailed past his left ear and struck the wall with the explosive force of a rifle shot, showering the hallway in fine white dust. A jagged hole the size of my fist appeared in the drywall, and when my gaze dropped to the floorboards, I stared in stunned disbelief at the weapon.
It was a biscuit.
The woman had just embedded a breakfast pastry four inches deep into solid construction framing.
"Thurlee," Ripplan sighed, his tone layered with the weary resignation of a man who had survived dozens of home-cooked artillery strikes. "That is the third wall you have ruined this week."
"Then learn to wash your hands and sit at the table when the bell rings," the woman snapped, planting two massive, muscular fists on her hips.
Thurlee was shorter than Ripplan, perhaps six feet tall, but she possessed the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a powerlifter.
Her dark green skin was weathered with fine laugh lines around her sharp hazel eyes, and her thick black hair was woven into an intricate crown braid threaded with bright strands of silver.
She turned her sharp, assessing gaze directly onto me, looking me up and down with the critical eye of a livestock judge. "Is this the new nurse?"
"This is Tammy Duncan," Ripplan said, stepping to the side. "Our new medical provider." I was shocked he knew my name.
Thurlee walked toward me, circling my frame with slow, deliberate steps that made her heavy leather apron creak. "She's tiny. A strong gust of mountain wind will blow her right off the ridge."
"I am five feet and five inches tall," I said, lifting my chin and refusing to wither beneath her scrutiny. "That is standard height for an adult human woman."
"Small," Thurlee declared again, poking a thick, callused finger firmly against my shoulder muscle. "Do you have any idea how to handle rowdy cowhands? They are clumsy, stubborn, and constantly cutting themselves on barbed wire or getting kicked by unbroken colts."
"I spent eight years running trauma triage in a regional emergency room," I countered, locking eyes with her. "I have stitched up bar fighters, extracted fishhooks from eyeballs, and managed full cardiac arrests with three broken ribs. I assure you that your cowhands will not intimidate me."
Thurlee paused, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly as she weighed my words. A low, appreciative grunt rumbled in her throat.
She turned her attention back to Ripplan, pointing an accusing finger at the battered drywall. "Your nephew thinks my baking is funny. I was celebrated as the best cook underground, and now every batch of bread I pull from the oven comes out hard as pig iron."
"It is the atmospheric pressure," Ripplan offered mildly. "The high altitude ruins the rising process."
"It is not the altitude, it is this cursed bleached flour and modern lard," Thurlee argued, throwing her hands in the air. "I have adjusted the oven heat, whipped the batter, and prayed to the stone ancestors. Everything comes out like river gravel."
I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile, taking a cautious step forward. "Have you tried cutting the butter into the dry mixture by hand and incorporating cold buttermilk with minimal folding?"
Thurlee froze, turning her intense gaze back to my face. "Cold buttermilk?"
"My grandmother was the best cook in the Great Smoky Mountains," I explained gently, warming to the subject.
"At high elevations, overworking the dough develops too much gluten, and the leavening gas escapes before the crust can set.
If you grate frozen butter into the flour and fold it gently like a letter, you will get flaky, cloud-soft layers every single time.
I would be honored to show you her technique. "
The great room fell dead silent.