Chapter 8
Eight
Wyatt
The old drip machine on Ray’s counter gurgled and hissed like it was dying slowly, the glass carafe half full, dark liquid bubbling up in uneven bursts. The smell hit me first, bitter, strong, familiar.
I should have waited another day. Maybe two. Let her get through the funeral arrangements. Let her find her feet on this land again before I kick them out from under her.
But she asked. And if there was one thing I knew, it was that lies by omission cut deeper than blunt honesty. When she inevitably learned how bad things were, finding out I’d known and said nothing would feel like betrayal. Worse than telling her outright.
So I braced myself. Not for her feelings. For the fallout.
Her eyes were tired, rimmed faintly red, but there was steel under the exhaustion.
Like she layered armour under the grief sometime between last night and now.
She studied my face, gauging something, how bad it would be, maybe.
How honest was I going to be? Whether I was about to dismantle what little stability she had left.
“The truth is, your uncle was struggling,” I said. “More than he let on to anyone.”
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t interrupt. “Tell me everything,” she said.
I pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen fully.
The floor creaked under my weight. “Fences are failing,” I continued.
“Some of the cattle wandered last month and haven’t been found.
Equipment’s shot. The tractor needs work.
The baler’s on its last legs. The truck should’ve been retired five years ago.
” I let my voice trail off because what I had to say next would only make things worse.
She nodded slowly, absorbing the blows in quiet, controlled increments. “I figured it’d be bad,” she said. “He always put repairs off. Said things still had life left in them even when they rattled across the yard.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. That sounded like Ray.
“There’s more,” I said, exhaling. She went still. Spoon hovering over the mug. Shoulders squared. Waiting for the real damage.
“The taxes,” I said. “He fell behind. The county sent notices. More than one.”
Her jaw clenched hard enough I could see the muscle jump. One hand tightened around the rim of the mug. The other flattened on the counter like she needed to feel something solid under her palm.
“And there’s a loan, or more than one,” I added. No sense avoiding it. “A big one.”
Her shoulders went rigid. Every line of her body sharpened. “What kind of loan?”
“One secured against the land.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Swallowed. The tendons in her neck stood out. “You mean a lien,” she said.
“Yes.”
She stared at the mug for a second like she’d forgotten what it was. Her fingers tightened around the handle until her knuckles paled.
“So he could lose it,” she said.
“He would’ve,” I answered. “It was a matter of time.” Silence settled between us. Heavy. Thick.
She swallowed again, hard. “Okay,” she said at last. “That’s a lot. But I can deal with it. I can figure something out. I’ll get a payment plan, I can sell things, like equipment, and some cattle. The debt should be wiped out with his passing, right?”
There it was. She is reaching for the thin ice of hope.
“Tessa,” I said quietly. She looked at me then. Really looked. Those tired eyes sharpened, defences drawing tight. “The bank will still want to get their money,” I said. “So it’ll be auctioned off for them to recoup the costs. Unless you decide to assume the debt yourself.”
Ray hadn’t been a talker, but he’d let me know what was happening. What the numbers looked like. What would the bleak future be if nothing changed?
She went very, very still. Her fingers loosened on the mug just enough for her hand to tremble.
“There’s something else,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion sparked fast and sharp. “What?”
I hesitated just long enough for her to feel the shift. To sense there was something personal in what I was about to say. Something that mattered. Something that could change how she saw me.
“I’ve been trying to buy the ranch,” I said, and everything in her stopped.
Her breath. Her expression. The faint pulsing of her hands on the coffee mug as she started to lift it. All of it froze.
“You what?” she whispered.
Confusion crossed her face like a cloud. Her eyes focused in a new way, as if she’d finally sobered up.
“I made Ray an offer last year,” I said. “Above market value. I asked again in the spring. And right before he passed.” The words landed like fist blows. I could see each one hit. “I’d like to make you the same offer.”
The mug came down hard on the counter. Porcelain clacked against laminate. Coffee sloshed up the sides, but somehow didn’t spill over. I saw it then. The exact moment the switch flipped, and she became the spitting image of her uncle.
“Oh, I see what this is,” she said. Her voice changed. Sharp. Cutting. “How absolutely stupid do you think I am?” A deep crease formed between her brows, her eyes blazing.
“You drive to Calgary to tell me he’s gone,” she said.
“Offer to give me a ride, hide behind the concerned gentleman cowboy act. When in reality you’re plotting to take all this from me.
” Her finger flicked outward, toward the window, the yard, the ranch beyond.
The life she once had here. The life she chose to leave.
“Let me guess,” she went on. “I can go back to a normal life again if I let you take it off my hands, right?” She stood in front of me now, glaring up like I was something tracked in on the bottom of a boot. Her jaw was tight, shoulders up, chest heaving.
“I’m not trying to steal anything,” I said. I kept my voice level.
“What did Ray say to your offer?” she demanded.
“No,” I said. “Every time.”
Her laugh cracked. Wild. Bitter. “So you thought you’d try me the day after he died, because you’re so sure I want to dump this place as fast as I can?” Her voice rose. Heat poured out of her in waves.
“For fuck’s sake,” she shouted, “he’s not even in the ground yet.” Her words hit hard, but she wasn’t done. “A fucking vulture is what you are.”
“That isn’t what I’m doing,” I said.
“Really,” she snapped. “Could’ve fooled me.” She was shouting now. Her voice bounced around the small kitchen, filling every corner. I wondered if she knew how much she sounded like him, like Ray when he was cornered and scared and pretending he was just angry.
“I was trying to help him,” I said evenly. “He needed someone to take over. Someone with the resources.”
“You mean you,” she fired back. I didn’t respond. Her eyes shone suddenly. Fury. Heartbreak. Betrayal all tangled together. She looked at me like she wanted to hit me. Or scream. Or shove me out the door and bar it behind me.
“You should’ve told me this yesterday,” she said.
“You weren’t ready,” I answered.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she said. Her voice climbed again, sharp and shaking. “You don’t get to waltz in here and act like you’re some hero when you’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to take everything.”
“That isn’t the truth,” I said, quieter than before.
“It’s exactly the truth,” she shot back. “I see it now. You didn’t come because you cared about Ray. You came because you wanted his land.” She was wrong. She was also hurting, and grief made enemies out of anything close enough to strike.
“Tessa,” I said quietly. “I didn’t come get you to start a fight.”
“Well, congratulations,” she said. “Because you just started a war.” The words hung there. Final. Cold.
Silence rang through the kitchen, loud in its own way. The coffee machine ticked. A fly bumped against the ceiling, and outside, somewhere, a cow mooed.
She stepped back. Not far. Just enough. Like, even the air between us burned.
“I want you to leave,” she said. I didn’t move. “Wyatt, leave.”
I set my jaw, reached for my hat on the counter, and slid it on. The brim brushed my forehead, familiar weight settling in place, the one thing that felt steady right now.
I moved toward the doorway, eyes on her as she wrapped her arms tighter around herself, like she was holding her own ribs together.
As I reached the threshold, she choked out, “I trusted you.”
The words landed inside my chest like a kick.
For a second, something cracked hard enough to make me falter. A fissure down the middle of the control I lived by. I almost said something then. Almost reached for some explanation that would make it hurt less. But explanations don’t mend fresh wounds. Time does. Perspective. Sometimes nothing.
“Lock the door,” I said quietly. “I’m nearby if you need anything, and my number’s on the fridge.”
“I don’t need anything from you, and I won’t be using that number,” she snapped.
I stepped out into the sunlight. The screen door clapped shut behind me, rattling in its frame like the house itself decided it wanted me gone, too.
The ranch sat tired but sturdy under the late morning sky, faded paint, sagging fences, weeds along the driveway, cattle specks in the back pasture, the old barn roof catching the light. Ray’s legacy. Her inheritance. A place stitched from stubbornness and history.
I walked down the steps, boots crunching on gravel, jaw tight, heart heavier than I liked to admit. The morning air was cool still, but the sun was climbing. Heat would come. So would decisions, and more hard truths.
Enemies, it was then.