I move.
Introductions first. Names. Handshakes offered but never demanded. Room assignments delivered calmly.
Captain Winky snorts from his paddock, ears flicking as if he’s curious about the newcomers. Sergeant Potter stamps a hoof, lightning-bolt blaze catching the sun. Somewhere behind the barn, Major Pecker raises absolute hell at a fence post.
The ranch feels alive.
Not perfect. Not peaceful.
Alive.
“Hey.”
Daniel’s hand finds mine during a lull. Warm. Steady.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Just… taking it in.”
He follows my gaze. The bunkhouse. The veterans unloading bags. The land that’s been fought over, worked, bled into, and still refuses to give up.
“We’re not out of the woods,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“But we’re not standing still either.”
He smiles at me like that sentence matters. LikeImatter.
Six months ago, I would’ve been waiting for the other shoe. The failure. The catch.
Now, I plan contingencies and keep building.
The bank extension buys us time. What started at Havenridge now lives here too—the veterans program, the purpose—and the accommodations give them a place to land.
And LandCorp? They’re still circling. Still smiling. Still making “fair offers” with sharp teeth. We now know exactly what kinds of companies specialize in struggling ranches. And we know exactly what kind of bank steers its clients toward them.
They’re going to be disappointed.
I squeeze Daniel’s hand once. “Come on, husband. We’ve got people to welcome.”
He follows me toward the bunkhouse, toward the noise and the work and the future we’re building piece by piece.
The deadline can wait.
We’ve got ground to hold.
Epilogue
Daniel
Two Months Later
I walk Captain Winky toward the barn, steam rising from his coat. Two months ago, we were scrambling. Now, we’re building.
Two new cabins finished. Grant funds deployed—gates, water infrastructure, security cameras along the ridge. Delaney’s spreadsheets saved us more money than I want to admit. The coalition of ridge ranchers meets monthly now. United front. LandCorp’s not picking us off one by one anymore.
Wyatt “Saint” Callahan—the SEAL who couldn’t make eye contact when he first arrived at Havenridge—lifts a hand in greeting from the porch of the new cabin as I pass. Coffee in one hand. A paperback in the other. He looks… settled. Like a man who sleeps through the night now.
