“So they squeeze the banks,” I say, anger sharpening. “Banks squeeze the ranchers. Ranchers sell.”
“Or get desperate,” Ethan says quietly. “Or make mistakes.”
Silence settles, heavy with understanding.
The cut fences.
The waterline “accident” that somehow only affected the lower pasture and poisoned Kitty.
The barn fire at Havenridge that almost killed Angus’s wife, Luna.
At the time, we treated them as isolated problems. Ranch life. Wear and tear. Shit happens.
But now?
LandCorp doesn’t bulldoze families outright. They’re circling. Applying pressure. Creating inconvenience. Letting panic and debt do the dirty work for them.
We don’t have proof. Nothing that would hold up anywhere official. Just a growing certainty that none of this is a coincidence. And a cold, unwelcome realization settling in my chest:
If LandCorp is willing to starve ranches out quietly… they won’t stop with us.
Dad pushes his glasses up, eyes hard now. “Once LandCorp owns the subsurface, the surface follows. Always does.”
Ethan clears his throat and clicks to another screen. “There is one option they can’t touch. Montana Veterans’ Ag Resilience Grant. State program for veteran-owned operations facing financial hardship.”
I wait. There’s always a catch.
“It prioritizes married veteran operators with qualified co-signers. Infrastructure funding, matched dollar-for-dollar up to fifty thousand.”
The word “married” hangs in the air.
“Combined with the grant,” Ethan continues, “the bank would have to reconsider. Married couples with diversified management are statistically lower risk. And if your co-signer has operations credentials—business management, financial oversight, agricultural experience?—”
“Someone like a ranch operations coordinator,” I finish.
“Someone exactly like that.”
The door creaks. We all turn.
Gabriel stands in the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s been scarce lately—disappearing for hours, dodging questions, that haunted look in his eyes that reminds me too much of myself three years ago.
“There’s more,” he says. “The land-grant loophole.”
Dad straightens. “What loophole?”
Gabriel moves into the room and pulls a folded document from his jacket. “Nineteenth-century provision. If ranch parcels stay trust-held and the designated heir is unmarried when a mineral-development petition is filed, there’s a reversion clause. Forced sale.”
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just hands the document to Dad. “LandCorp’s lawyers have been digging through county records for months. They’re planning to file the petition this quarter.”
Silence. Dad’s face pales as he scans the document.
“If Daniel’s married,” Gabriel says quietly, “the title converts from trust to direct ownership. The loophole closes. They can’t force anything.”
I stare at my brother. He’s been gone for weeks, barely returning calls, and now he shows up with exactly the information we need?
Questions for later. Right now, there’s only one question that matters.
