Chapter 8
CAITLIN
P reston didn't call on Saturday.
He'd said "talk tomorrow" on Friday night, after his celebration with the team. Tomorrow came and went without a word.
I told myself it was fine. He was probably hungover from the celebration. Or busy. Or both. I told myself I wasn't disappointed, because disappointment implied I'd expected something, and I'd learned to stop expecting things from Preston months ago.
I told myself a lot of things.
None of them helped.
The worst part wasn't even the silence. It was how unsurprised I felt.
Somewhere along the way, Preston's broken promises had become the norm, and I'd adjusted my expectations so far down that the bar was basically underground.
When had that happened? When had I become the kind of woman who made excuses for a man who couldn't be bothered to pick up a phone?
I didn't have an answer. And I wasn't sure I wanted one.
At five o'clock, I stood in front of my closet, staring at my clothes like they held the answers to questions I wasn't ready to ask.
It was just dinner. Strategic planning. Cole research. Nothing more.
So why was I agonizing over what to wear?
I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this way before seeing Preston.
In the beginning, sure—those early dates when everything was new and electric, when I'd change outfits three times and redo my makeup twice.
But that was years ago. Now our visits felt more like appointments than dates. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
When had comfortable started feeling like settling?
I finally settled on jeans and a soft green sweater—nice enough to show I'd made an effort, casual enough to pretend I hadn't. I let my hair down instead of the usual ponytail, then immediately pulled it back up, then took it down again.
"Get a grip, Miller," I muttered to my reflection.
My phone buzzed. For one stupid second, my heart leaped—Preston?
It was Jess.
Please tell me you're not sitting home alone on a Saturday night.
I typed back: Actually, I have dinner plans.
WITH WHO???
A client. It's professional.
Is it Horse Boy?
I hesitated. Then: His name is Blaine.
You better call me as soon as you get home!! I'll be waiting! Make me proud! I want details.
There won't be any details. It's about the neighbor who might be sabotaging his ranch.
Sure it is. Wear something cute.
I looked down at my green sweater. Changed it to a blue one. Changed it back.
This was ridiculous.
I pulled up to Sierra Sol at 6:25, because arriving exactly on time felt too eager and arriving late felt rude.
Blaine was on the porch, waiting. He'd changed since this afternoon—clean jeans, a button-down shirt that fit him too well. He smiled when he saw me, and something in my chest did a little flip.
This was a bad idea.
"Hey," he said, walking down to meet me. "You came."
"I said I would."
"I know. I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets, a gesture I was starting to recognize as nervous. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving toward the house. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of hay and something floral—jasmine, maybe, from the vines climbing the porch railings. In the distance, a horse nickered.
"So," I said. "PowerPoint?"
He laughed, and the tension broke. "Jake talked me out of it. Said it was 'too much' for a casual dinner."
"Jake sounds like a wise man."
"Don't tell him that. His ego's big enough already."
Dinner was chicken parmesan, garlic bread, and a Caesar salad that Tre proudly announced he'd made himself.
"I chopped the lettuce," he said. "And opened the bag of croutons. It was very labor-intensive."
"Your contribution is noted," Jake said dryly.
The kitchen was warm and loud with laughter—so different from the quiet, careful dinners I'd had with Preston's colleagues, where every word felt measured and every opinion was filtered through the lens of professional advancement.
Here, the conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by friendly insults and genuine affection.
"So," I said, twirling pasta on my fork, "when are the girlfriends and fiancées joining you guys out here? Or are they not thrilled about the whole 'drop everything and move to a ranch' plan?"
Jake and Tre exchanged a look.
"I'm between relationships," Tre said. "By choice. Mostly."
"Another one bites the dust," Jake said.
"Deja dumped me, so I'm left with my favorite person." Tre spread his hands. "Me."
"She changed the locks while he was at brunch."
"It was a very aggressive brunch." Tre took a long sip of wine. "What about you, Jake? Want to share with the class?"
"Nothing to share. Work didn't leave much time for dating." Jake shrugged. "Part of why I was ready to leave."
"And Mike?" I asked. "Blaine mentioned a fourth friend."
"Mike's the responsible one," Blaine said. "Six months from making partner at his law firm, so he couldn't move out here full- time. But his fiancée Amanda has been great about him coming up on weekends. She might even visit next month."
"She wants to see if we've completely lost our minds," Tre added. "Jury's still out."
I watched them—these three men who'd uprooted their lives for friendship, for adventure, for something that felt more real than whatever they'd left behind.
There was an ease between them, a shorthand born of years of shared history.
They finished each other's sentences, knew each other's sore spots, gave each other grief without any real bite behind it.
I thought about Preston's friends—the ones I'd met at conferences and industry dinners.
They talked about cases and clinic expansions and who was publishing where.
They competed, constantly, even when they pretended not to.
I'd never once seen Preston laugh with them the way Blaine laughed with Jake and Tre.
Maybe that should have told me something.
The conversation shifted to Cole. I told them what I knew—what Doc Peterson had shared when I first started working with him.
"He's been buying up land for years," I said. "Doc warned me about him my first week—said to watch out for Cole. It started with the Henderson place about a decade ago. They had a bad year—sick cattle, equipment failures, barn fire. Sold to Cole for way under market value."
"Barn fire?" Blaine's jaw tightened.
"Ruled accidental. But people talked." I took a sip of wine. "Then there was the Morrison ranch. Same pattern—string of bad luck, financial problems, sold to Cole. And the Whitfield property two years ago."
"And no one's connected the dots?" Jake asked.
"People have suspicions. But Cole's careful. Nothing that can be proved. And he's got connections—the sheriff, the county commissioners, half the business owners in town." I shrugged. "Around here, that counts for a lot."
"So what do we do?" Tre asked. "Just wait for him to sabotage us into bankruptcy?"
I noticed the word— us . Not "you." These men had adopted Sierra Sol's fight as their own. And somehow, sitting at this table, I felt like I was part of it too. Like I'd been pulled into their orbit and didn't want to escape.
Jake grabbed a notepad and started a list. "We need to research property lines, water rights, local regulations. Build a case."
"We should call Mike," Blaine said. "He'd know how to approach this legally."
Five minutes later, Mike was on speakerphone, his voice crackling slightly over the connection.
"So let me get this straight," Mike said. "You've got a neighbor who may be sabotaging your ranch to force a sale, the local sheriff is his golf buddy, and you have zero hard evidence?"
"That about sums it up," Blaine said.
"Sounds like you need documentation. Photos, timestamps, incident reports—even if the sheriff won't act on them, you're building a case. And I'd look into whether any of the previous sellers have grounds for a civil suit. If Cole established a pattern of coercion..."
"Could we go after him?" Jake asked.
"Maybe. It's complicated. But if you can connect the dots between multiple properties, you might have something." Mike paused. "I'll do some research on my end. And Blaine? Be careful. If this guy is as connected as you're saying, he's not going to appreciate you poking around."
"Noted."
"I mean it. Don't do anything stupid."
"When have I ever done anything stupid?"
The silence on the line was pointed.
"Fair enough," Blaine said.
After the call ended, Tre researched Cole's business holdings on his laptop, discovering a web of LLCs and shell companies that made his true reach hard to determine. Blaine listened, asked questions, and slowly started to look less overwhelmed and more determined.
I watched him across the table, this man who'd shown up three weeks ago knowing nothing about ranching and was now fighting to save his family's legacy. He caught me looking and smiled—a small, private smile that made my heart stutter.
This was such a bad idea.
After dinner, we moved to the porch with coffee and the last of the wine. The sun had set, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange. Somewhere in the barn, a horse nickered softly.
Jake and Tre had retreated inside with knowing glances that I pretended not to notice. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the sounds of the ranch settling into evening—crickets, the distant lowing of cattle, the creak of the old porch swing.
"It's beautiful here," I said, leaning against the porch railing. "I forget sometimes, when I'm rushing between calls. But nights like this..."
"Yeah." Blaine came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "I didn't expect to love it. When Mae first called, I thought I'd sell the place, take the money, go back to my real life."
"What changed?"