And then there’s the damn rug. Thick as prairie grass in spring, cream with some gold embroidery that screams ostentation. A water feature burbles in the corner, like the man needs some fake serenity.
I shut the door behind me. “I’m not selling.”
Landon sits down on his plush leather office chair. “Cade?—”
“No.” I slam my palm on his desk. “We’re not selling Blue Rock. Not one acre. You start carving it up for rich boys to build ski chalets, our legacy is gone. And it won’t come back.”
Landon leans back, calm and cool as ever.Mr. Politician.
“Ranching’s dying, Cade. You can’t fight that. Money’s in development. You could be set for life.”
I snort and wave a dismissive hand. “I ain’t interested in sittin’ pretty ‘til the grave, watching other men do the work my grandfather taught me how to do. I ain’t interested in watching imported beef fill grocery stores while our pastures sit empty.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ll never makerealmoneyranching. Not compared to what this land is worth.”
I lean in, get into his face, close enough he can’t mistake my meaning. “Dollars don’t weigh what dirt does.”
For a second, his mask cracks. I see how angry he is, how annoyed he is with me.
Then he shrugs like I’m just being naïve.
“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re broke.”
He says it like it’s afait accompli, like my failure’s already carved in stone.
It hurts that he expects Blue Rock to go under, especially since he knows damn well how hard I work.
I straighten, every muscle tight, burning with the strain. “Better broke than selling my birthright to the highest bidder.”
CHAPTER 14
sarah
Ihate paperwork, but I can’t hire an assistant in Wildflower Canyon. No one wants to work for the woman who supposedly tried to destroy golden boy Landon Mercer’s life.
The bell over the clinic door jingles, and I glance up from the stack of forms spread across my desk. Evie barrels in, cowboy boots clattering across the linoleum.
“Dr. K!” Her voice is high and urgent. “We found a dog. He’s hurt bad.”
Behind her, Joy follows with the stride of someone trying to rein in a four-year-old whirlwind. In Joy’s arms is a trembling heap of fur—matted, filthy, ribs sharp under a patchy coat.
My stomach drops.
I push back my chair so fast it bangs against the cabinet. “Let’s get him into the exam room.”
This is still Daddy’s clinic in bones and walls—theold brick exterior, the wide front windows with peeling trim—but inside, it’s mine.
The exam room smells faintly of lavender and disinfectant, sharp but not sterile. The walls are a soft sage green, a color I chose to soothe nervous animals—and their owners. Cabinets line one side, enamel white with brass pulls I installed myself, neatly stocked with bandages, bottles, and syringes.
The old wooden table Daddy swore by is gone, replaced with stainless steel that gleams under warm lights. In the corner, the hum of the ultrasound and the quiet click of the digital X-ray machine make the room feel alive, modern, capable.
But the little touches are mine: a basket of hand-knit blankets on the shelf, paw-print decals skimming along the baseboard, a jar of liver treats that rattles when I open it. On the windowsill, a single succulent soaks up the last of the sun.
State-of-the-art, but welcoming. Professional, but personal.
Joy eases the dog onto the exam table, her expression soft with worry.
Evie clutches my sleeve. “Can you help him?”
