Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Maybe.” Wyatt lifts a shoulder. “Or maybe he just wanted to keep the ranch in the family.”
We are his family. I’m certain of that.
Before he promised me the ranch, I never assumed I’d get a dime from him, other than the wages he paid me.
I never expect to get anything from anyone. Expectations lead to hope, and hope leads to disappointment.
Maybe that’s what pisses me off the most about Mollie—how she feels like the world owes her something.
No way I’m working for her.
Then again, do I have a choice? What am I gonna do if she actually comes to live on the ranch? Yeah, I’m the foreman, which means I call the shots when it comes to pretty much everything that goes on at the property. I oversee a staff of fifty. I manage budgets, repairs, equipment maintenance, our calving operation and veterinary programs, not to mention hundreds of thousands of acres of land.
I get shit done. But ultimately, the person who owns Lucky Ranch is the one who signs my paychecks and those of my staff.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard. We really are fucked if Mollie is that person. Not only will her sense of entitlement make her a nightmare to work with, but she also has no idea what the hell she’s doing.
Let’s not forget, she’s going to sell the ranch the second she can. Where will that leave us? At the mercy of some billionaire asshole with a cowboy fantasy?
“I got eight hundred bucks.” Wyatt pats his worn leather saddlebag. “I wasn’t planning on taking it to the bank, but I can deposit it if that would help? Should buy us some time—”
“Harley closed the Lonestar early again. But really, Wyatt, you should be careful riding around with that kind of cash.”
He glances over his shoulder at the Beretta shotgun tucked behind his saddle. “I’ll be just fine.”
The shotgun was a gift from Garrett for Wyatt’s twentieth birthday. I don’t think I’ve seen my brother without it since. Probably why he’s a crack shot. Good thing, considering Wyatt runs an illegal poker ring out of The Rattler’s basement.
“Rent from the house should cover our bills this month. Keep the eight hundred for a rainy day.”
Wyatt glances up at the sky. “None of those in sight.”
The heat is killing me. I let off the brakes. “Were you able to fix the tire on the baler?”
“Duke patched the hole, yeah. It was a nail. Changed the oil in the tractor too.”
“And the cutting—”
“Got it done. Also, John B and Sally were just arriving as I left to look at the four cows we were worried about. Sally thinks it’s just a virus. I reckon they’re about wrapped up with their examination by now.”
“Good work. See you at supper, then.”
Wyatt smiles. “Patsy’s making her cottage pie. See? It don’t all suck.”
Just mostly, I think as I hit the gas.
The sun-bleached pavement glimmers in the heat. I feel short of breath. Throat tight, pulse drumming.
I hit the knob that turns on the stereo and crank it as loud as it’ll go. I’m able to rein in my runaway heartbeat as the opening notes of “My Maria” fill the truck.
I fucking love Brooks & Dunn. Been into them ever since Garrett introduced me to their first album, Brand New Man.
I have a lot to do back at the ranch. Chat with John B—short for John Beauregard, his middle name—about those cows. I should check on the fence some ranch hands were supposed to repair in the southeast pasture. I need to call the mechanic to schedule routine maintenance on our feed trucks. Text our farrier to remind him of our appointment tomorrow. Dude always mixes up his dates.
Ryder said his throat hurt this morning. I wonder if he got strep from Ella? We keep passing that shit around.
Maybe it’s because I have so much to do that I drive right past the manicured entrance to Lucky Ranch, its gnarled oaks providing much-needed shade to the vibrant green brush below.
I need a breather. Time to think. I keep waiting to feel less anxious—less overwhelmed. Garrett passed months ago. I should at least be able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time by now. But I’m worried that if I stop moving—stop doing all the things for all the people—something bad will happen again.
It’s a waste of gas, but I know I’ll fall apart if I dive back into the chaos right now. And the last thing everyone needs is a foreman—a brother—who can’t do his job.
Music blaring, I drive another ten minutes. A dirt road appears on my left, the land around it blistered and broken, a shade of gray-brown that makes my chest hurt. The rusted wrought iron arch above the road reads Rivers Ranch Est. 1904.