Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
If I gotta be the one to remind her how it’s done…
Well, I’ll do it.
I got no choice when it comes to Sally Powell. If she’s unhappy, I’ll move heaven and earth to make her feel better.
I’ll do whatever it takes to make her see she’s perfect just as she is. And then I’ll let her go, just like I did twelve years ago.
I take a deep, unhurried inhale through my nose. Firm my hold on my cards, then lazily drop my elbows to the table, like I don’t have a shit hand that jeopardizes the four hundred dollars’ worth of chips I have in the pot.
I get dealt bad cards as much as anyone else. But I’ve learned to make my own luck.
“Fake it till you make it,” Dad used to say.
He was the one who taught me how to play Texas Hold’Em. The game started out as a way for Dad to occupy my brothers and me when it was too wet or cold to be outside.
After he died, I insisted we continue playing it as a way to keep his memory alive. When my brothers and I lived in the bunkhouse on Lucky Ranch, John B and Garrett would join us after supper, and we’d play until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.
I won. A lot. Not because I was a particularly skillful player, but because I was—am—an excellent bullshitter. My poker face is second to none.
Once we started playing for money—pennies at first, small bills—I slowly amassed a war chest of cash. I liked the money, so when my old friend Tallulah took over as owner of The Rattler a few years back, I approached her about hosting a not-exactly-legal poker game every Wednesday night in the basement.
The space ain’t fancy. But the exposed brick walls and low lighting give it a speakeasy vibe, and the liquor is free—I cover the drinks—so we’re all drinking top-shelf shit. Don’t hurt that I usually walk away with a wad of hundreds in my pocket.
Needless to say, Wednesday night is the highlight of my week.
Was. It was the highlight of my week, until Sally finished her residency and came back into town. Now I look forward to seeing her more than anything.
A familiar ache grips my heart and squeezes as I watch the players around me fold, one by one. I guarantee they have better hands than me. But as long as I stay relaxed, crack jokes, I’ll be the last man standing.
Finally, it’s just me, Sawyer, and Colt left in the game. I feel Colt eyeing me from across the table.
“What’re ya thinkin’ over there, Wyatt?”
“I’m thinkin’ I’d like to buy myself a nice steak dinner with your money.”
He smirks. “Sounds tasty. Although I think you’ll be the one treating this time, ’cause I got a good-lookin’ hand here.”
“Why haven’t you gone all in yet then?” I nod at the chips sitting by his drink. “You know I’m tryin’ to pay for Ella’s college. Haven’t put nearly as much as I’d like to in her 529.”
“I think y’all are doing just fine in that department now,” he replies.
He’s not wrong.
When Mollie and Cash created Lucky River Ranch, they made my brothers and me stakeholders in the company that owns and operates the ranch. Revenues are split more or less evenly between Mollie and all five of us Rivers boys.
It’s a wildly generous setup. Too generous, in my opinion. Cash agrees with me. We fought Mollie on it, mostly because the ranch she brought to the table was so much bigger and generated so much more revenue than our old Rivers Ranch did. Yes, in our family’s heyday, our ranch had rivaled Lucky Ranch in scope and size. But that hadn’t been the case for decades.
Still, Mollie insisted we all had an equal stake in the newly formed Lucky River Ranch. “No one works harder than y’all,” she said when we recently sat down in our attorney Goody’s office to sign the paperwork. “I’ve seen firsthand the love you have for this land. Each of you is an essential part of our legacy, and your ownership stake should reflect that.”
Now, all of a sudden, I’m a wealthy man.
Wish I could say that having that money hit my account was as much of a thrill as I’d hoped. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. When my parents died, they left behind a mountain of debt they’d accumulated trying to keep Rivers Ranch afloat. My brothers and I had to bust our asses for a long, long time to claw our way out of that hole.
I never wanna be broke again. And I won’t be, thanks to the enormous revenue that the ranch’s multiple income streams—cattle, oil, development—spin off.
But now that I have the money, it’s just thrown my loneliness into stark relief. What’s the point of having that kind of cash if you don’t have anyone to share it with?