Chapter 8
Daniel
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of sharing a house with Delaney Phillips, and I’m losing my goddamn mind.
It starts small. Her coffee mug appearing next to mine in the dish rack—the blue one with the chipped handle she brought from Havenridge.
Her shampoo wafting from the mian bathroom, something floral that hits me every morning like a sucker punch.
The sound of her footsteps while I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that she’s so close and I can’t—won’t—touch her.
Her terms. Her timeline. Her choice.
I repeat it like a mantra. It doesn’t help.
The kitchen encounters are the worst. Early hours of the morning, when neither of us can sleep. I come down for water, and she’s already there, standing at the counter or sitting at the table in that oversized T-shirt.
We don’t touch. We talk about supply orders and weather forecasts and whether Captain Winky’s favoring his left foreleg. Safe topics.
But last night, she reached past me for a glass, and her hand landed on my chest to steady herself when I didn’t move fast enough. Three seconds. That’s all it was. Three seconds of her palm flat against my bare skin, her eyes wide, her breath catching.
Neither of us moved.
Then she stepped back, said goodnight, and disappeared upstairs. I stood in that kitchen for ten minutes, rock hard and furious with myself, before I could make my legs work.
I’m not sleeping. I’m running fence lines at 5 AM to burn off the want. I’m taking cold showers that don’t do a damn thing.
And through all of it, I’m doing the only thing I can do: taking care of her in the only way I know how.
Moving her truck to the shade so the steering wheel doesn’t burn her hands.
Stocking her favorite tea in the cabinet.
Adjusting the Sunday schedule so she can have lunch with Kitty without rushing.
Leaving her favorite pens on her desk—the specific brand she mentioned once, in passing. I bought six of them. Just in case.
She doesn’t know. That’s the point.
If I can’t tell her how I feel—if saying it out loud would make her feel trapped—I’ll show her in ways that don’t cost her anything. Small things. Invisible things.
It’s not enough. It’s all I’ve got.
Marlon Ennis has the kind of handshake that makes you want to count your fingers afterward.
“Mr. Sutton.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk, all polished wood and family photos arranged at precise angles. “Thank you for coming in. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Water? Sandra just restocked the—”
“I’m fine.” I take the chair because standing over him will only make this take longer. “You said you had an answer about the restructuring.”
His smile falters. He’s not used to people skipping the pleasantries. Probably went to some seminar about building rapport with clients. Probably has a certificate on the wall behind me.
“Yes. Well.” He shuffles papers that don’t need shuffling, aligning edges that are already aligned. “After careful review of your application and current risk profile—”
“Just say it.”
He blinks. Adjusts his glasses. Clears his throat.
“The bank is unable to approve the requested loan restructuring at this time.”
The words land like a bullet to the chest. I keep my face neutral, my breathing even. Ranger training. Never let them see you bleed.
“Risk profile,” I repeat. “That’s interesting. Considering our risk profile hasn’t changed in eighteen months. Same herd numbers. Same revenue streams. Same management.”
Marlon’s eyes flick to something on his desk. A tell. “Market conditions have shifted. Policy changes at the regional level—”
“What policy changes?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss internal—”
“We’ve banked here for four generations, Marlon.
” I lean forward slightly, and he leans back.
“My grandfather helped construct this building. My father’s signature is on the original charter.
So when you tell me there are policy changes that suddenly make Stoneridge a risk, I’d like to know what changed. ”
Sweat beads at his temple. He reaches for his glasses again and polishes them with a cloth he pulls from his drawer. Buying time.
“The agricultural sector is facing unprecedented challenges.” The words sound rehearsed. Memorized. “Commodity prices, climate variability, operational costs—”
“Our operational costs are down twelve percent from last year. Delaney Phillips restructured our vendor contracts and consolidated our supply chain. You have the projections. She sent them to you herself.”
“Yes, Ms. Phillips’s work is... impressive.” He can’t quite hide the surprise in his voice. Like he expected us to roll over. “However, the committee felt that given current market pressures, the risk of default—”
“We’ve never missed a payment.”
“—the potential risk of default outweighs the benefit of restructuring at this time.”
I stare at him. He won’t meet my eyes.
It’s clear that this man isn’t making the decisions. He’s simply delivering them. Someone else is pulling the strings, and Marlon Ennis is just the puppet with the polished desk and the sweaty handshake.
“Perhaps you might consider outside investors,” he says, his voice taking on a different tone now—almost eager, like he’s been waiting to get to this part.
“There are development companies that specialize in agricultural properties facing financial headwinds. Companies like LandCorp, for example. They offer very competitive terms for land with... potential.”
Land with potential? And who the fuck is LandCorp?
My instincts flare. Something cold and sharp settles in my gut.
“Potential,” I repeat flatly. “You mean land you can carve up and flip.”
Marlon’s smile tightens a fraction. “I mean land that isn’t being used to its fullest capacity.”
“Funny,” I say. “We’re running at a profit.”
“On paper,” he counters smoothly. “But paper doesn’t account for volatility. Weather. Labor shortages. Market shifts.”
“Neither does greed,” I say.
He clears his throat. “LandCorp has helped many family operations transition gracefully.”
“Transition,” I echo. “That’s a hell of a word for pushing people off land they’ve worked for generations.”
Marlon finally looks at me then—really looks. There’s a flicker of something there. Calculation. Caution.
“This is just an option,” he says quickly. “No commitments. No pressure.”
I stand and lean forward, placing my palms on his desk. “You brought them up. That’s pressure.”
His face goes pale. “Mr. Sutton, I assure you—”
“Thanks for your time.”
I’m out the door before he can finish the sentence, pulling out my phone to text Ethan.
Me: Need you to look into a company called LandCorp.
Ethan: On it. How did it go?
Me: Not good. Explain when I get back.
Sandra at the front desk calls something after me—have a nice day, probably, or some other meaningless pleasantry—but I don’t hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.
The truck is parked nose out. Habit. Always ready for a quick exit.
I sit behind the wheel and let myself feel it for thirty seconds. The rage. The fear. The crushing weight of a legacy I’m about to lose because some banker in a pressed suit decided we’re expendable.
Thirty seconds. That’s all I allow.
Then I turn the key and head home, running scenarios the whole way. Looking for angles. There’s always an angle. There has to be.
The ranch—four generations of Suttons, my mother’s garden still blooming by the kitchen window, the land that held me together when everything else fell apart—is slipping through my fingers.
And I can’t fix it alone.
The thought tastes like ash.
When I pull into the yard, I see Delaney’s truck parked in full sun again. She always forgets. I move it to the shade, crack the windows, and try not to think about how natural it feels to take care of her.
Like breathing. Like something I was built for.
Dad’s study smells like old leather and coffee that’s been reheated too many times. He’s at his desk when I walk in, reading glasses perched on his nose, financial statements spread in front of him like a losing hand of cards.
Ethan’s already there, laptop open. He nods when I enter.
I leave the door cracked. Dad doesn’t comment anymore.
“Marlon denied the restructure,” I say. No point sugarcoating it. “Risk profile. Policy changes. The usual bullshit.”
Dad’s jaw tightens. “That man’s got the backbone of a jellyfish.”
“He’s got orders from somewhere up the chain.” Ethan turns his laptop toward me. “I’ve been tracking patterns. Three other ranches along the ridge got similar denials in the last six months.”
I step closer, scanning the screen. Names I recognize. Families who’ve been here as long as we have.
“All of them,” Ethan continues, “were approached by the same development company first.”
I already know the answer, but my stomach tightens anyway. “LandCorp.”
Dad exhales slowly through his nose. “Those sons of bitches.”
Ethan clicks to another tab—photos, glossy brochures, smiling men in pressed jeans standing in front of land they don’t own yet.
“They’re not buying ranches,” he says. “They’re buying pressure.
Mineral rights, easements, exploratory surveys.
They make ‘fair offers’ while quietly choking off financing. ”
The ridge.
The mineral rights.
LandCorp’s friendly handshakes and promises about “shared prosperity.”
“So they squeeze the banks,” I say, anger sharpening. “Banks squeeze the ranchers. Ranchers sell.”
“Or get desperate,” Ethan says quietly. “Or make mistakes.”
Silence settles, heavy with understanding.
The cut fences.
The waterline “accident” that somehow only affected the lower pasture and poisoned Kitty.
The barn fire at Havenridge that almost killed Angus’s wife, Luna.
At the time, we treated them as isolated problems. Ranch life. Wear and tear. Shit happens.
But now?