Chapter 1 – Inheritance in December
Ella
The envelope was thick—legal thick—with my name in block letters that screamedyou can’t ignore this.
I stared at it from across the cracked Formica table, the return address stamped with some law office in Montana. Montana?
I wasn't from Montana. I didn't know anyone in Montana. But apparently, Montana knew me.
I tore it open with the same recklessness I’d applied to quitting grad school, breaking up with Brad, and, most recently, getting myself fired from the job I’d actually kind of liked. Inside was aformal letter. My estranged grandfather—whom I’d never met—had passed away. And he’d left me a ranch.
Aranch.
In Montana.
I blinked at the page.
Then I laughed.
Then I cried.
December had a cruel sense of humor. It had already taken my mother, my career, my last scrap of confidence. Now it was giving mecattle?
Just last week, I’d been sitting in a cubicle under flickering fluorescent lights, sipping stale coffee, and listening to my manager say phrases like "not a good fit" and "restructuring opportunities." I'd packed my things into a cardboard box while a Christmas playlist chirped from the break room like it was mocking me.
My phone buzzed. A text from my former boss:Still time to come back and fix this. We can talk in January.
Too late.
I almost didn’t go. I thought about calling the lawyer, telling them to sell the place and wire me whatever pocket change was left after taxes. But something about that letter… about seeing my mother’s maiden name again in official print… made me hesitate. Made me wonder.
Within forty-eight hours, I’d quit my lease, sold what I could, packed up my tiny coupe, and headed toward the one place on Earth I had no business going—Starcrest Ranch.
The moment I crossed into Montana, everything changed. The sky stretched wider, the road narrowed, and cell service disappeared like it knew I was running from something. My GPS died somewhere outside Amarillo, and the next thing I knew, I was pulled off a backroad in the middle of nowhere, steam pouring from under my hood.
“Perfect,” I muttered, kicking the tire.
Then a pickup rumbled up behind me, slow and ominous, like something out of a modern Western.
A man climbed out—tall, broad-shouldered, all scowl and scruff under a battered Stetson. He didn't smile. Not even a hint of it.
“City girl?” he asked.
I straightened. “Car trouble.”
He eyed the coupe like it had insulted his truck. “Yeah, I can see that.”
I noticed his dashboard displayed a cap with a "Starcrest Ranch" logo, folding my arms I asked, " are you Max? ”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re Ella Henderson?”
“Unfortunately.”
He sighed and walked past me like I wasn’t standing there. “Figures.”
Ten minutes later, my suitcase was in the back of his truck, and I was trying not to freeze while he tightened down the tow line. I climbed in, shivering.
“Thought you were coming next week,” he said gruffly, starting the engine.
