Chapter 10
DAISY
Marcus Donnelly hasn’t changed at all since I was a kid—same silver hair, same gentle manner, same unhurried warmth that always made me understand why my father called him a friend.
He stands when he sees me, his weathered face breaking into a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. His handshake is firm without being aggressive, and when he speaks, he sounds exactly how I remember.
“Daisy Monroe, as I live and breathe.” He holds my hand a beat longer than necessary, his gaze going soft. “Lord, look at you. Last time I saw you, you were, what—twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Twenty. It was my last Christmas at the ranch.”
“That’s right. That’s right.” He shakes his head before gesturing for me to sit across from him in the booth. “Your daddy talked about you all the time, you know. ‘My Daisy’s gonna change the world,’ he’d say. ‘Just you wait.’”
The words catch in my throat. “He said that?”
“All the time. Every time you published something, he’d print it out. He had a whole folder of your articles. Didn’t matter if it was a city council recap or a tiny feature buried on page six, he’d find it. He was so damn proud.”
I blink hard, looking down at my notebook to give myself a moment. The lines blur and swim.
A folder.
He kept a folder.
I never sent him links. Never called to tell him when something went to print. I always meant to and I never did. But he found them anyway. He was paying attention the whole time, and I had no idea.
“I didn’t know that,” I manage, my voice rough.
“That was Tom. Always paying attention.” Marcus’s smile turns wistful. He gives me a moment—doesn’t rush to fill the silence—then signals the bartender. “Another coffee for me, and whatever the lady wants. Put it on my tab.”
“Just coffee’s fine.”
We settle into the interview, and Marcus is everything I hoped he’d be—warm, forthcoming, full of stories that paint a picture of my father I’ve been hungry for. The man I only got in summers, in scattered phone calls, in too-short visits that never felt like enough.
“Your dad and Bill Hartley.” A fond smile creases his face.
“Those two were thick as thieves. Bill was the businessman, always thinking about the numbers, the long game. Tom was the heart of the operation. Knew every hand by name, knew their families, their problems. If someone was struggling, Tom was the first one there with a listening ear and an offer of help.”
I trace the edge of my notebook, remembering. The way Dad would sit with me on the porch when something was wrong, never pushing, just waiting until I was ready to talk.
“That sounds like him,” I murmur quietly. “He was like that with me too.”
Marcus nods, his expression softening. Then he chuckles, shaking his head at some memory.
“He’d sing, too. Lord, that man could not carry a tune to save his life.
I remember one summer barbecue, Tom had a couple beers in him and started belting out Johnny Cash like he was performing at the Grand Ole Opry.
” He wipes his eyes. “Bill laughed so hard he nearly fell off the porch. Even the dogs left.”
I laugh, and it feels good. Real. “He used to sing to me when I was little. I thought he was great.”
“Well, you were biased. The rest of us had to suffer.” Marcus’s eyes twinkle with laughter before he sobers. “But we loved him for it. We all did.”
He asks about my life in Denver, and I give him the same answers I give everyone. He nods along, genuinely interested, asking follow-up questions like the answers actually matter to him.
And maybe they do. Maybe this is just what it’s like to be part of a community that remembers where you came from.
“So the article.” He leans back with his coffee cup clasped between his hands. “Multigenerational ranching families. That’s a big topic.”
“I’m focusing on Glacier Ridge. The Hartleys and their legacy, specifically, but I want to capture the broader picture too. The challenges. The traditions. What it takes to keep these places running.”
“Smart angle. Lots of folks don’t understand what goes into it. They see cowboys on TV and think it’s all romance and sunsets.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard work. Brutal, sometimes.”
“That’s what I want to capture. The reality behind the romance.” I lean back in the booth, coffee warming my hands.
“It’s not easy, keeping a place like this afloat.” Marcus turns his coffee cup in his hands. “Lot of ranches around here haven’t made it. The Hendersons, the Millers… all of them are good people. Sometimes people just can’t catch a break.”
“I’ve noticed.” I think of the decaying fences and plywood windows. “What happens to them? The land, I mean.”
“Gets bought up, mostly. Developers, holding companies.” He shakes his head and expels a deep sigh. “Silas Blackwood’s been the loudest buyer in the county. Man’s got deep pockets and not a jot of sentiment. Sees opportunity where the rest of us see tragedy.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, choosing my next words carefully. “He bought my father’s land.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Marcus’s expression darkens. “That whole situation never sat right with me. It happened so fast after Tom passed—the auction, that lawyer your mother brought in.” He stares into his coffee. “Your dad would’ve hated seeing his land go to a Blackwood.”
“He would have.” My throat tightens, but I push through. “Did he ever say anything to you? About whether something was wrong?”
Marcus is quiet for a moment, running his thumb along the rim of his cup. “Not with Glacier Ridge, no. But toward the end, he got real involved with the Millers’ situation. You remember them? Had the place south of town.”
“I remember.”
“When their ranch went under, Tom couldn’t make sense of it.
Good land, no debt to speak of, and suddenly they’re in foreclosure.
” Marcus frowns. “He started asking around. Wanted to understand how a family like that just… loses everything overnight. Came to me a couple of times, actually. Wanted to know if I’d heard anything about the sale, who was behind the holding company that bought the land. ”
My heart kicks against my ribs, but I keep my face still.
Journalism 101: Don’t spook the source.
“Did you?”
“I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much.
These companies—they layer themselves. Shell over shell.
Hard to see who’s really pulling the strings.
” Marcus sighs. “That was Tom. Always looking out for other people. Once he got a thread between his teeth, he wouldn’t let go. Guess you inherited that from him.”
I file that away—every single word of it—my heart beating a little faster beneath my careful composure. Dad was looking into the foreclosures. He knew something was wrong.
Marcus watches me, his expression warm as his lips lift in a smile.
“Your daddy would’ve loved this. You, coming back here. Telling our stories. He always said you’d find your way home eventually.”
I swallow roughly.
“I wish he was here to see it.”
“Me too, sweetheart.” Marcus reaches across the table and pats my hand, grief softening his eyes. “Me too.”
We talk for another half hour. Marcus shares everything he knows about the ranch’s history, the financial side of running an operation this size, and the challenges facing family ranches in modern Montana.
Marcus is thorough, knowledgeable, and utterly generous with his time.
By the time we wrap up, my body feels lighter, and I realize this is why I came back.
For the pieces of my father I can still find if I look hard enough.
“Thank you.” And I mean it with everything I have. “This was exactly what I needed.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” We stand and he pulls me into a hug that’s brief, paternal, and smells of coffee. “You need anything while you’re here, you just ask. Tom’s girl is family.”
Tom’s girl.
I hold on to those words as I leave the inn.
The afternoon has softened into gold, and Main Street is quiet between lunch and dinner. Outside the post office, the lilac bushes are heavy in bloom.
I pass the bookshop, noting that Hemingway hasn’t moved an inch, and the coffee shop where those women were gawking at Wyatt earlier. My notebook is heavy with names and dates and threads I’m itching to pull.
When I round the corner, Shelby is stepping back from the driver’s side of Wyatt’s truck, her laugh carrying across the sidewalk. She spots me and waves, easy and friendly, before heading back toward the inn.
I wave back, trying not to notice the way Wyatt’s still watching her go.
June is already in the passenger seat when I get there, shopping bags piled at her feet, chattering before I’ve even closed the door.
“—so old Lou at the feed store stops me to say he heard Maggie wrestled a goat into submission behind the vet clinic last Tuesday, and did she need backup, because his grandson’s been looking for excitement—”
“She didn’t wrestle it. She sedated it,” Wyatt states flatly.
“That’s not the version going around. Supposedly, she had it in a headlock.”
“That goat has three legs and cataracts.”
June laughs, swatting his arm. “That goat is a menace and you know it. Anyway, Lou asked if she gives lessons. Apparently, his grandson needs ‘toughening up.’”
“His grandson is forty-three.”
June dissolves into giggles. Wyatt shakes his head, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch as he turns the key in the ignition.
They keep at it as we pull out of town—something about Lou’s wife and her vendetta against the post office—and I find myself smiling despite the strange tension still humming under my skin.
My phone chimes.
FELIX
Just hit a new PR on deadlift. 285. Pretty sure I’m basically a god now.
I watch a hawk circle over the valley below, then make myself look back at the screen.
ME
That’s amazing! All that 5am training is paying off.
FELIX
I know right. Told my trainer I’d hit 300 by summer. He said most guys take a year to get there. Took me four months.
ME
Wow!
FELIX
Gonna be sore tomorrow tho. You should see my arms RN. Actually hold on.