“Since he decided you need to start taking more responsibility around here.” Larry’s expression softened slightly. “It’s your ranch too, Ryder. Or it will be someday soon. Your father’s pushing sixty-five. He knows the time is comin’.”
The weight of that expectation settled on my shoulders like a heavy yoke. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Dad had never let me handle the new recruits before. He always insisted on being the one to lay down the law, to make it crystal clear who was in charge.
“Don’t worry,” Larry added, misreading my silence. “He’ll be right there beside you, ready to jump in if you screw up.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered, throwing a pillowcase on with more force than necessary.
We finished preparing the bunkhouse just as the sound of tires on gravel announced the arrival of the prison transport van. I straightened my collar one more time and headed out to meet my father on the porch of the main house.
Dad stood rigid, his black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting troops. I took my place beside him, mimicking his posture.
“Remember,” he said without looking at me, “these men need structure. Discipline. Clear boundaries. They’ve had none of that in their lives, which is why they ended up where they did.”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded, even though I wasn’t entirely sure his reasoning was sound.
“And don’t try to be their friend,” Dad added, his voice low and stern. “They’ll walk all over you if they sense weakness.”
I kept my face neutral even as I internally rolled my eyes. Dad’s approach to management was stuck in the past. He ruled with an iron fist with no exceptions. But arguing with him would only make this morning longer and more painful than it needed to be.
The van pulled to a stop in front of us, dust settling around its tires. The driver, a parole officer I recognized from previous groups, nodded to my father before she climbed out.
“Morning, Pete,” she called. “Got your new batch ready to go.”
“Morning Ms. Randall,” he replied. He wasn’t exactly warm with her, mostly because he didn’t think women should have her kind of job. But they had an understanding. “These boys better than the last batch? The last ones flew the coop the moment their six months were up.”
“When they’re free to go, they’re free to go, Pete. We can’t make them stay.”
“Well, they could be a little more loyal,” he shot back.
“You want loyalty, get yourself a dog,” Ms. Randall replied without missing a beat.
I couldn’t help but snicker and Dad shot me a dirty look. That woman, no matter how many times Dad tried, she always put him in his place.
Ms. Randall moved to the back of the van and unlocked the doors. One by one, the new recruits filed out, blinking in the morning sunlight. They stood in a ragged line, looking unsure and uncomfortable in their ill-fitting civilian clothes. Some stared at the ground while others took in their surroundings with cautious hope. Six men, just like Larry had said, each carrying a small bag of belongings that probably contained everything they owned in the world.
I studied them carefully. The youngest one, he had to be the twenty-three-year-old, looked nervous to say the least, hiseyes darting around like he expected someone to yell at him any second. The oldest had the thousand-yard stare I’d seen on many ex-cons who’d been through the system multiple times. The others fell somewhere in between, a mix of wariness and resignation on their faces.
Dad cleared his throat and stepped forward. Then he glanced at me expectantly, jerking his head slightly toward the men. Right. This was my show now.
I straightened my shoulders and moved to stand in front of them, channeling my father’s authoritative stance while trying not to look as stiff as he always did.
“Welcome to McGrath Ranch,” I began, my voice carrying across the yard. “I’m Ryder McGrath. This is my father, Pete McGrath.” I gestured to Dad, who gave a curt nod. “For the next six months, this ranch will be your home and workplace.”
I saw a flicker of relief pass over some of their faces. Home. Even a temporary one probably sounded good after prison.
“We run a tight ship here,” I continued, echoing my father’s favorite phrase. “You’ll work hard, but you’ll be treated fairly as long as you follow the rules.”
I laid out the basics for them. We had a wake-up time at five, breakfast at five-thirty, work until lunch at noon with an hour break, then back at it until sundown. Sundays were half days, with the option to attend church services in town in the mornings. The pay was minimal but fair for ranch work, especially considering their circumstances. All their room and board would be covered.
“Your bunks are yours to keep clean and tidy,” I said, gesturing toward the bunkhouse. “But make no mistake—they aren’t private property. We reserve the right to conduct inspections at any time, day or night.”
Dad stepped forward then, unable to stay silent any longer. “And we will be conducting them regularly,” he added, his voicegruff. “Any contraband—drugs, alcohol, or weapons—means immediate termination of your placement, a call to Ms. Randall, and a trip back to prison. Is that clear?”
The men nodded, some more vigorously than others. I could see the youngest one swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He was damn nervous.
“However, this isn’t prison,” I said, softening my tone just slightly. “But it’s not freedom either. It’s a stepping stone. How you use it is up to you.”
Dad shot me a look that clearly said I was being too soft, but I ignored him.
