The City Boy and the Rancher (Snow Creek Ranch #1)

Lucas

Ikilled the engine and stayed where I was, gripping the steering wheel as if the rental might roll forward without my hands on it—every instinct telling me to turn around and leave, but the thought of what my inheritance could do for so many forcing me to stay put.

Snow Creek Ranch—an asset with a price tag and a place that had never truly wanted me.

The sign sat just off the road—weathered timber, freshly painted letters, clean enough to tell me someone still cared.

It marked where the asphalt of the highway gave up, and the ranch began.

Beyond it, a cattle guard cut across the entrance, steel bars sunk into frozen dirt, designed to stop anything with hooves from wandering where it didn’t belong.

A fence line stretched away on either side, posts straight, the land opening wide and pale under a winter sky.

I hadn’t even crossed onto the property yet.

My property. Well, seventy-five percent mine—once I’d done the six months and earned the right to call it that.

The heater clicked as it cooled, and when it stopped, I could hear the wind rattling the fence wire.

I didn’t have to get out of the car to know that late March out here would be far colder than Denver, the cold already biting through the glass.

Somewhere far off, something moved in my periphery—animal or machinery, I couldn’t tell.

I knew the basics, at least on paper: Ninety-five thousand acres give or take, depending on which boundary dispute could be believed, a cattle operation that made a profit, but no one was getting rich from it.

I needed the money locked in the land—needed it badly enough that staying here was already decided, a trade of endurance now for cash later because there were kids out there with fewer options than I’d ever had. They needed the money.

I should have kept the engine running because the cold seeped in fast. My lower back tightened in response, muscle memory kicking in as it always did when the temperature dropped.

I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t pull at the scar on my left hip.

No such luck. That ache was permanent. A reminder I carried whether I wanted it or not.

Six months.

I’d survived worse at fifteen with nowhere to go. I could endure this.

Six months on the ranch, if I wanted the inheritance, and I definitely wanted all that cash.

If Walter expected his grandson to fall in love with the land, he was wrong.

Where was he when Dad had thrown me out at fifteen and called the cops on me when I was homeless?

Nowhere. Dad hadn’t cared about me right up until an aneurysm had ended his life a couple of years back; my grandfather hadn’t cared about his son or his grandson, just as hateful as my dad.

“Only the money matters.”

I stared through the windshield at land I didn’t want, inherited from a grandfather I didn’t know, handed to me by a will that felt less like generosity and more like one last, stubborn grab from beyond the grave.

My phone buzzed on the console, and the name on the screen made me smile—my best friend and fellow numbers crusher, Dalton. I answered before it could go to voicemail because I needed to hear his voice right now. “Hey.”

“Oh my god, you’re alive! You answered your phone!”

“I’ve been driving.” That was my excuse, and I was sticking to it. Nothing to do with nerves strangling my ability to think about anything other than driving the route from Denver to here.

He huffed in disbelief. “Non-stop? No coffees? Not even a cheeseburger?”

“Dalton—”

“I thought you’d been eaten by a cow.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “They run cattle here—working herd, not pets—and statistically cows are non-lethal,” I said, summarizing the data I’d collated.

Dalton snorted. “You’ve barely arrived, and you’re already talking like a rancher.”

“Fuck you,” I huffed as I restarted the car to get the heat going, shivering when it kicked in, and wincing at the shooting pain in my hip.

“You’ll be dressing like a cowboy by the end of the week,” Dalton added.

I scoffed. I had bags piled on the back seat, more boxes crammed into the trunk, my suit carrier bent where I’d forced my entire life into a mid-size Toyota. Why I’d thought a suit belonged anywhere near a working ranch, I had no idea, but I was more suited and booted than in flannel and chaps.

“This is bullshit,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I meant them to, edged with anger and, hell, was that panic?

“I can manage the sale from Denver. I don’t need to be on-site for any of this.

” I heard how sharp it came out and forced my breathing to steady.

Panic wasn’t a plan. I was here, so I was going to do this

—one step, one decision at a time—get the money, move on. My chest was tight again. “Shit, D,” I muttered, and he picked up on the panic.

“Tell me the plan,” he said, and almost instantly, I felt a wash of calm. Goals and numbers I could handle.

“I stay six months, assess the property, legally inherit my share, and leave,” I said.

“Seventy-five percent ownership makes me the majority. After the estate releases the final paperwork, I list it. I sell. I take my share and funnel it straight into Harbor 5280. Any money that big,” I continued, “keeps the charity doors open for years. Expands services. Staff. Beds. It’s… a lot of good.”

Harbor 5280 was trying to help too many kids, with not enough funding. But it had been the first place in my life where someone had looked at me—bloody, half-conscious, dragged out of a gutter—and said you matter without needing anything in return.

Rebecca Morris, now in charge of everything, had been on her very first shift when she’d found me on the street.

She’d sat on the edge of the bed without crowding me, without pity, and told me I was safe in a voice that didn’t waver or soften, as if safety were something solid she could hand over and expect me to hold onto.

I hadn’t believed her—not then, not with blood and pain and my ribs aching, a doctor poking at me, my head spinning—but she’d stayed anyway, checked in again, kept showing up.

Somewhere along the line, I realized she hadn’t gone anywhere, and neither had the promise.

Eventually, I believed her. 5280 had paid for my education.

Nothing fancy. I finished high school, then got a degree in accounting at night school while working my way up at an accountancy firm in Denver’s financial district.

That was where I’d met Dalton, one of only two people I called friends.

He and Rebecca mattered to me, but I didn’t have time for anyone else.

I worked my nine-to-five, then gave as many hours as possible to the charity.

Nights. Weekends. Whatever they needed. I showed up, hauled boxes, filled gaps, did the jobs no one else had time for, and worked just as hard as the stripped-back staff who kept the place running.

It wasn’t about feeling good. It was about paying back a debt I knew I could never clear.

And inheriting enough land in Colorado to make me a millionaire fifty times over or more meant I could change so much for so many.

“And what about the whole other twenty-five percent the foreman owns now? What if he doesn’t agree to sell?”

“Why wouldn’t he agree? It’s an instant payout. Anyone with sense would take the money and walk.”

There was a beat of silence, then Dalton shifted gears. “Talking of walking, I met Hunter last night at Eddie’s, and I had to hear it from him that you two broke up.”

The ex.

I grimaced. It hadn’t been some great love affair—just a way to get sex without effort or expectations. That was the beginning and the end of it.

“We’d have had to be dating to break up,” I said.

“He wanted me to be all small and cute and let him be the big alpha man. It worked until it didn’t.

” At five-nine, yes, I was short, and yes, people said my blond curls and my blue eyes leaned toward cute, verging on twinky, but fuck if I wanted to be babied and managed as much as Hunter had wanted.

“Would have been nice to hear it from my best friend,” Dalton teased.

Guilt flickered. It hadn’t crossed my mind that he’d care—I wasn’t used to sharing my life with anyone, Dalton included.

“Sorry,” I said.

Dalton snorted. “No, you’re not.”

“I am,” I argued.

“You’re sorry you got caught; not sorry you didn’t tell me.”

I huffed. “That’s unfair.”

“It’s accurate,” he said mildly. “You compartmentalize. I exist in one box. Your sex life exists in another. The boxes do not touch.”

“That’s not true.”

“Lucas, I found out about your breakup from the man you were sleeping with. I feel that earns me at least a little indignation.”

I grimaced. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” Dalton said, then softened it with a grin I could hear in his voice. “But it’s also very you.”

I stared out at the fence line stretching into the distance, the land vast enough to swallow a person whole, and the ranch sign again, at the fresh paint, then ahead, down the long drive disappearing into the property. I couldn’t even see outbuildings, a house, or people. It was desolate.

“I can do this,” I said, despite the spike of something tight and unfamiliar in my chest. Fear wasn’t something I allowed, but somehow, there it was.

“Yes, you can,” Dalton said, “and I’ll come out and visit if I get the PTO approved with the shit that’s hitting the fan, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I want regular updates, okay?”

“Sure.” I ended the call before he could say anything else, then sat there for another second, my heart beating harder than it should’ve. Everything felt lonelier as soon as the call ended, which was freaking ridiculous.

I put the phone face down on the seat and eased the car forward, turning off the road and onto the ranch drive.

The surface changed—packed dirt giving way to ruts and shallow holes that rattled the suspension and sent a jolt straight up my spine.

The rental car bounced and complained, every uneven patch shaking my back hard enough I clenched my teeth and slowed, as if that would help.

The road curved and dipped with the terrain, following the river, and after a few minutes, the ranch came into view.

The main house sat back from the track, two stories, weathered timber, broad and square.

A wraparound porch ran along the front and one side, posts evenly spaced, boards worn smooth by use.

It faced the working yard rather than the road.

Off to one side stood the barns—long, low buildings with wide doors and practical roofs, spaced to allow vehicle access and movement of stock.

Sheds and utility structures sat farther out, positioned for storage and repairs.

Fencing cut the land into defined sections, with pens closest to the buildings and larger pastures beyond.

Even from a distance, this was obviously a place where people lived and worked, and as I rolled to a stop and cut the engine again, the reality of selling this pressed down on me harder than the cold ever had.

What was I doing out here? I’d planned for resistance.

I hadn’t planned for this sudden panic and regret that I had to do this.

I stayed in the car a moment longer, hands resting on my thighs.

One more breath. Then another. As if delaying it by seconds might make this easier.

Leaving wasn’t an option, so I forced myself to move, to commit, and to get these six months over with.

This was temporary. I would treat the ranch like a contract with an end date, and the other owner, this Jesse Knox, would be nothing more than an obstacle I’d learn to work around.

I sat straighter when there was a bang somewhere to my left, then took a last second to get my head straight.

Someone stepped out of a large barn, bundled against the cold in a heavy jacket, shoulders broad beneath the fabric.

He wore a Stetson pulled low, dark jeans, and worn boots, and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he stared in my direction.

I knew there were other staff who kept the place running alongside Jesse, but I couldn’t tell which category this man fell into from here.

His expression was dark and furious as he strode toward me, long steps eating up the distance.

I noted it clinically—men had looked at me like that before, and I was still standing.

I grabbed my coat and opened the door, bundling myself up and waiting for him to reach me as a blast of freezing air hit me full in the face.

“Barrett?” the cowboy asked, his voice flat and edged with irritation, not a greeting so much as an accusation. He frowned at me, gaze sharp and assessing, as if I were already a problem he hadn’t asked for.

“Lucas Barrett, yes.” I extended my hand, and he stepped closer to shake it, the grip firm and unapologetic, his palm warm despite the cold, callused from work done outdoors.

The contrast between the heat of his skin and mine, the solid confidence of the handshake, caught me off guard.

He released me first, already withdrawing, already done.

“Jesse Knox,” he spat after a pause.

Ah, the man I needed to sweet-talk into accepting all the good things that come with being rich. “It’s good to meet you, Jesse—”

“You can stop there,” he snapped, his jaw tightening as he looked past me at the car, then back at my face. “Before you get too comfortable,” he said, his voice low and flat. “If you think I’ll agree to sell the ranch, you’re wrong. I won’t sell. Not now. Not ever.”