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 buyingpressure. 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.”
