Jesse
Iwon’t sell. Not now. Not ever.
The words came out hard, but they carried the weight of a day already wrung dry—too much pressure, too little sleep, and no patience left to spare.
And I hated that my first clear thought hadn’t been about the land at all, but about the warmth of his hand in mine, and how wrong it felt to notice that when everything was already under threat.
“I’m sorry?” Lucas said, as if I’d confused him.
I’d had a shit morning, the kind that started in the dark, boots crunching over frozen ground, coffee burned down to grit, my limbs heavy and moving on muscle memory alone, and a dull ache already drilling in behind my eyes before the sun was even up.
An early wake-up call when a first-calf heifer went down in the south pasture, left me donning long gloves and dealing with a panicking cow, mud slick under my knees, steam rising from her flanks into the cold air, my arm muscles burning as I went in shoulder-deep trying to turn a calf that didn’t want to move, and the sickening stretch of minutes where no one knew if we were going to lose one or both.
Followed by an emergency call from Olivia that Dad had walked out of his place and driven off, and then a full-blown argument with the man himself when he’d turned up at the ranch, in front of everyone, where exhaustion stripped my filter clean, and I said things I’d usually choke back.
And to top it all off, when I opened the mail, there it was—another envelope stuffed with heavy paper from Lowstat-Meyer, a Denver real estate firm I’d never heard of, talking about land value, development potential, and confidential expressions of interest. Not the ranch.
Never the ranch. Just the land. As if Snow Creek could be peeled apart and sold off in parcels, as if grass and water rights and history were numbers on a spreadsheet.
And his name was all over it—no secret to anyone on the ranch. Walter’s will, the grandson inheriting most of the place, was all common knowledge. What wasn’t was intent.
Lucas freaking Barrett. A liability with paperwork and a deadline for selling Snow Creek, although no one but me knew that yet.
To the rest of the ranch, he was Walter’s grandson.
Printed all neat and formal at the top of the page, referenced again and again—as discussed with Mr. Barrett, subject to Mr. Barrett’s approval.
I hadn’t seen the letter they were replying to, but I didn’t need to.
The language was polished, confident, already halfway to a deal.
Whatever that asshole had sent them had been sufficient to make them think this land was available.
It’s not.
And now he was here.
Lucas was short, barely at five-nine or ten, certainly way less than my six-three, plus he was fifty pounds lighter, with curly blond hair and a face all sharp lines and pretty-boy bone structure.
Nothing like his grandpa, and hell, he didn’t look as if he belonged anywhere near a calving pasture.
He wore city boots that had never seen mud, and a coat that probably cost more than my truck payments.
Seventy-five percent owner of this place, and he didn’t even look around with respect at the land, the fences, the cattle—just stared behind me at the buildings, and I could imagine he was calculating resale value.
I hated him for that—a hard, territorial kind of hate, born of fear and the instinct to protect what was already under threat.
“I said I’m not selling.”
“I haven’t—”
“Real estate assholes are sending me letters, all mentioning you’re already out there selling what isn’t yours!”
“I’m evaluating,” he said evenly, smoothing the hand I’d shaken down his coat, then pulling the collar up. I knew he was lying—he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“That’s bullshit,” I snapped. “I’ve gotten letters with your name all over them.”
He exhaled as if he were choosing his words rather than reacting to me, and I hated that he had that control when I had none.
“I only had a preliminary discussion—”
“They’re replying to something you sent, and from where I’m standing, you’re figuring out how fast you can turn your inheritance into cash.
I’ll tell you this for nothing, I have a quarter of this ranch and the land, I can veto everything, so do your six months, inherit your part, but we won’t be selling. ”
“Maybe we can talk later—”
“There’ll be no talking.”
The poison pixie looked stricken then, and bit his lip, uncertain. “Uhm… okay… can you maybe show me inside where it’s warm?” he asked.
I thumbed behind me at the big house, aka the house Walter used to live in, and that I now owned one-quarter of. “Front door’s unlocked, up the stairs, second door on the left, don’t touch anything electrical.”
He gestured at his car, which was full to bursting. “I’ve been driving a while and my things—”
My usual level of ingrained hospitality would have me offering to help him; hell, that was me to the core, but the way he stood there like a threat? I couldn’t see past that.
“You’re on your own.”
For the first time, Lucas’s composure slipped. Just a fraction.
I ignored him, headed straight for the barn, the familiar smell of hay and oil and animals grounding me more than anything else had all day. Jake was already there, sleeves shoved up, pitching fresh straw into a stall with more force than necessary.
“New owner is here then?” Jake asked without looking up.
“Part owner, and yeah,” I said to correct him.
I grabbed the first thing within reach—a shovel, still crusted with frozen dirt—and started scraping out the old bedding.
Each shove sent a jolt up my arms, straight to my shoulders, everything aching, protesting, but I kept going anyway.
Sweat broke under my coat despite the cold.
My hands shook. I didn’t stop because this was easier than thinking.
“Jesse,” Jake said.
I ignored him and jammed the shovel in again, breath coming too fast now, vision tunneling at the edges. Fucking tired didn’t even cover it.
Jake stepped in, caught the handle, and then his hand was on my shoulder—solid, familiar, stopping me whether I liked it or not.
“Hey. Enough,” he said quietly.
I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the packed dirt floor as if it had personally offended me. “I got a letter today,” I said, and saying it out loud made it worse. “People interested in buying what he apparently wants to sell.”
Jake’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and he gestured to the car outside. “His intent is to sell?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Jake was quiet for a moment. Then, “He has to do the six months to inherit, right?”
Most people at Snow Creek, hell, probably the entire town of Chance, knew what Walter’s will had said. Not only was there the shock that any of it went to me when I was nothing more than the old foreman’s son, but then, there was the mysterious grandson who’d gotten the rest.
“Yeah.”
“Well, six months is a long time for him to change his mind.”
I finally looked at my best friend, someone who’d seen almost everything going on in my life. “Doesn’t matter what he wants, my quarter vote is enough to stop him selling.”
“Who else knows about him thinking of selling?”
“Just us, but I’ll probably give Ruth a heads-up in case there are any calls that come in when she’s in the office, but there’s no sense in worrying everyone yet, unless he goes around shouting about it.”
“Boss?” Colt and Miguel walked in, Miguel already gabbing in his usual way. “A couple of the bred heifers in the south pasture aren’t settling right. One’s off her feed. We thought you’d want to know.”
“Okay.”
“And one of ‘em keeps trying to climb the fence like she’s got someplace better to be,” he added, laughing. “I swear, if she figures out the latch, we’re all screwed. She’s heavy, though. Close. Might need to move her up by the barn. Just in case.”
“What Miguel said,” Colt smiled.
Miguel bounced on his heels. “I can grab panels. Or the calving kit. Or both. I’m not saying disaster is imminent, but I am saying she gave me a look like she’s about to do something dramatic.”
Jesse exhaled through his nose. “We’ll check them after lunch. Colt, can you spare some time to keep an eye on the quiet one?”
“Sure, boss.”
“And, Miguel—”
“Already on it,” Miguel said cheerfully.
“So, the car? Grandson’s here then?” Colt asked.
“Yeah.”
We all watched as he headed back to his car from the porch, the frozen ground slick with ice.
We were in the shadows—he wouldn’t be able to see us—but we had front row tickets to him flailing about.
He popped the trunk and hauled out a comically oversized suitcase, the kind meant for airports, not ranch houses.
It snagged on the trunk lip, and he nearly lost his footing, boots skidding as he wrestled it free.
He stood there for a second, staring at the ground, leaning against the trunk, then headed for the house, stopping at the porch steps.
The case was half his size, and who knows how he planned to get it up there. Not my problem.
“You want us to help him first, boss?” Colt asked.
“Nope. He’s good.” I was lying. “Go check the heifers.”
“Six months, Jesse,” Jake murmured next to me as Miguel and Colt left, catching Lucas as he came down the steps and saying their hellos. Or at least, Colt did. Miguel hung back as usual. “That’s all you need to ride, then he’ll see you’re not selling, and he’ll leave.”
Six months of keeping this tight—no rumors, no panic, just work and vigilance—then it would be over one way or another.
A hundred and eighty days give or take, with him living in the same house as me, wanting to sell my life from under me.
He would never change my mind. This ranch stayed whole while I was standing on it.