It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m glad that he’s at least kind to Caleb. If I want a future with Wade, that’s important.
I suck in a breath as the thought wraps around me. It’s not anif—I do want one. I just haven’t thought about the logistics or anything else. It’s something that I need to do, but figuring out what’s causing the herds to get sick is way more important right now.
“Thanks, Mr. Frank,” Caleb says, his voice earnest. “I’m just glad we got ’em all in.”
“Doesn’t look like any wild animals got a hold of anything, so that’s good,” Caleb says.
“Yeah, but seeing as something got yours, it’s only a matter of time,” Dad says as he looks out into the yard. “Setting up surveillance cameras may not be a bad idea.”
Is he serious, right now? I mentioned this before, and he totally blew it off. Apparently, I have to improve at making this man think it’s his idea and not mine. I inhale and exhale slowly as I let the words sit there.
“I can have someone out here tomorrow,” I reply.
He’s quiet for a full minute before he nods. “I’d appreciate it. Anything we can do to stay ahead of all this mess.”
“Of course, Dad. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I go back toward the house carrying the lemonade pitcher. It was Mom’s favorite, and I don’t want anything to happen to it.
I step inside the house, the familiar creak of the floorboards under my boots. The air smells faintly of coffee and leather, a comforting mix that feels like home, but right now, it only irritates me further. Dad follows behind, his boots heavy against the wood. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his presence, steady and unyielding, just like always.
I turn around to face him when I realize that it’s just him and me.
“When were you going to tell me about the second mortgage?”
He freezes for a moment, his hand halfway to the coffee pot. He recovers quickly, pouring himself a cup like we’re discussing the weather.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I cross my arms. “I saw the papers. You took out a second mortgage on the ranch. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sips his coffee. “Must’ve been some mistake,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
“A mistake?” I let out a bitter laugh. “You’re seriously going to stand there and lie to me?”
“Watch your tone, Sutton,” he warns, his voice low.
“You should’ve told me, Dad. You should’ve asked for help. This isn’t justyourranch; it’s our family’s legacy. How could you keep something like this from me?”
His jaw tightens. But then he sets his mug down with a deliberate clink and fixes me with a hard stare. “I’m an adult, Sutton. This ismyranch. I don’t need to run any decision by you.”
“I am your daughter. It’s my ranch, too,” I say, my voice rising. “You’re struggling, and instead of asking for help, you’reburying yourself in more debt. Do you have any idea how upsetting this is?”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Upsetting? You sure don’t act like you give two shits about me or this ranch. You left. You abandoned your family and barely came back to bury your mama. You’re gallivanting in Montana like you don’t have responsibilities back here. I’ll be damned if I talk about financial issues with my spoiled brat of a daughter. You don’t have a clue what it takes to run this ranch, to keep it afloat year after year. If you did, you’d understand why I did what I did.”
I feel as though he slapped me across the face. I gape at him, stunned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, his voice steady but firm. “You come in here, acting like you know better, but you’ve never had to make the hard choices. You’ve never had to sacrifice to keep this place going. You made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with this ranch or me. Don’t pretend like you care now when you think you might lose some money. And don’t stand there and talk down to me like I’m some kind of fool.”
I open my mouth to argue, but no words come out.
He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “This isn’t your burden to carry. It’s mine. And I’ll handle it the same way I always have.”
He picks up his coffee again and storms out of the house. That old wooden screen door flaps behind him.
I follow him out, the weight of our conversation hanging heavy in the air. There’s so much I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. I’m fighting back the urge to break down in tears, to scream at him that he disowned me and told me not to come home, that’s why I stayed away. But doing any of that will only make me look crazy; it would be like screaming at a brick wall.
For now, I can only push the feelings aside and focus on the work ahead. I forgot to ask about the tags, but I’ll bring it up another day when he’s calmed down. As it stands now, I’m not sure that I could get through another conversation with him without crying.
