We're here for your family.
A smiling baby looks over his mom’s shoulder on the giant advertisement, and it hits me that the cheesy line could be my motto.
Because I'm the one who is always there for my family.
Our dad disappeared when I was four and Jessica was a newborn, and our mom is distant most of the time. Except when she needs a daughter to show off, and I'm the one she calls.
And hell, I practically raised Jessica.
A self-deprecating snort bursts free. “Look how well that turned out.”
Jessica is a mess.
A convicted felon.
An addict.
No wonder that judge is hesitant about me raising Jesse.
The pessimistic thought does nothing for the nerves forming a sickly black pit in my stomach. It only adds to the pressure for tomorrow's trip to be a success.
I can't afford to fail my nephew like I did my sister.
I have to find this Mac.
He's my only hope.
2
CORMAC MADSEN
Exhaustion weighs on my chest like a thousand-pound horse as the shrill bleat of my alarm signals another early start to a busy day. I sigh then roll into a sitting position.
“Fuck!” I snarl beneath my breath as my grandmother’s old quilt falls to my waist, baring my naked chest to the 5 A.M. chill.
We’re at the tail end of winter, which means the weather will soon change and bring with it an uptick in corporate retreats—part of a model the ranch shifted to after my dad died three years ago.
To remain profitable, and prevent the Rocking M from falling into disrepair like a lot of surrounding ranches, we transitioned from a true cattle ranch located at the base of Black Mountain to a rustic playground for wealthy guests.
It was my younger brother Connor’s idea, since he’s in charge of the ranch’s finances, and so far, his business plan is working, but that doesn't mean I love the necessary decision.
Scrubbing a hand over my tired eyes, I stand and groan at the slight ache in my back.Jesus.Sometimes I feel a century older than my forty-three years.
And it’s not just because my job is physically taxing. I’m used to hard work; it’s been my constant since I was old enough to follow Dad around the Rocking M.
No, it’s more than the routine of the ranch.
“It’s my fucking life,” I say aloud to an empty bathroom suite. The sparse counter and shower shelving perfectly illustrate my point as water spits from the showerhead.
Despite the two-sink vanity and oversized walk-in shower, it’s obvious only one person uses the space. Two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Bar soap and washcloth.
Utilitarian and lacking a woman’s touch.
Like me.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt anything more intimate than a handshake or brief man-hug from my brother or best friends.
At this rate, I’m going to die grizzled and alone after a lifetime of manual labor. No woman to call my own. No kids to teach about the ranch like my father taught me.
