"Come on, son," Dad said from the doorway. "Let's talk."
I followed him out to the porch, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the yard. We settled into the old rockers that had been here since his father's time, the wood worn smooth by generations of Blackwood men trying to figure out their lives.
Neither of us spoke at first. We just sat, watching Ivy in the distance. She'd changed back into work clothes and was walking among the herd in the east pasture, stopping occasionally to check a cow or calf. Even from here, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the weight of what she'd just sacrificed.
"She chose us," I said finally.
"She chose you," Dad corrected. "The ranch, the work, the life—that's all part of it. But make no mistake, son. She chose you."
"She gave up everything. Her career, her future?—"
"Did she?" Dad interrupted, his voice thoughtful. "Or did she trade a future that was never really hers for one that could be?"
I watched her kneel beside a calf, her hands gentle as she examined something on its leg. Professional, competent, but also caring in a way that went beyond any job description.
"The program results," Dad continued, "speak for themselves. Conception rates up thirty percent. Calf weights increased. Genetic markers that'll improve our lines for generations. She's succeeded beyond anyone's expectations."
"She's brilliant at what she does."
"More than that. She's built something here. Not just numbers on a spreadsheet or improved breeding protocols. She's built a legacy." He rocked slowly, considering his words. "The hands respect her. The neighboring ranchers have been calling, wantingto know our secret. Tom Morrison wants to hire her for consultation. Sarah Chen asked if she'd look at their breeding program."
"Everyone wants a piece of what she's created."
"Exactly. Which is why we'd be fools to let her walk away."
I turned to look at him. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying she doesn't need Dallas. But we need her. This ranch needs her. The whole damn county could benefit from what she knows." He stood, decision made. "Call her over."
"Dad—"
"Trust me, son."
I whistled, sharp and high, the sound carrying across the pasture. Ivy looked up, shading her eyes against the sun, then started walking toward us. She moved with the easy grace of someone comfortable on ranch land, her stride sure despite the uneven ground.
As she got closer, I could see the red around her eyes, the evidence of tears she'd probably shed in private after our "guests" left. But her chin was up, her shoulders straight. Still fighting, even after burning every bridge to her old life.
"Owen," she said as she climbed the porch steps. "Wyatt. I want to apologize for?—"
"Stop right there," Dad interrupted, his voice firm but kind. "You've got nothing to apologize for. Those men showed their true colors, and you stood up to them. I'm proud of you."
Her breath caught. "You are?"
"More than proud. Impressed. You could have taken the easy path, gone back to Dallas, and accepted their terms. Instead, you stood your ground. That takes courage."
"Or stupidity," she said with a watery laugh. "I just torched my entire career."
"Did you?" Dad echoed his earlier words to me. "Seems to me you just cleared the path for a better one."
She looked confused, glancing between us.
"The breeding program you've built here," Dad continued, "it's revolutionary. Every rancher in three counties wants to know how we've improved our conception rates, our calf weights, our genetic diversity. They want what we have."
"What you built," I corrected.
"What we all built," she said quietly. "It was a team effort."
"Led by you," Dad said. "Which is why I want to offer you a permanent position. Not as a consultant. As our head of breeding operations."
