“The Velvet Den,” I say.
“Time frame?” he asks.
“June. Five years ago.”
“I’ll have her tracked down.”
I don’t like it. Every instinct in me screams against it. But I nod anyway. Because he’s right. I need to do this correctly. Legally.
“All right,” I say. “But when you track her down, I’ll be the one to talk to her.”
“Fine. I’ll make some calls.” He leaves the office, jaw set.
Caison clears his throat. “We’ll get you a paper check cut for the first pay period,” he says. “Until everything’s squared away and Carla can get you set up for automatic bank draft.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Oh, and furniture gets delivered on Thursday and the new appliances sometime next week. You and Ruby can move in anytime after.”
“Move in?”
“Yeah. The cabin. Crew went in this weekend to do some minor repairs needed and get it cleaned up. Priscilla had them take out all the old stuff, and she hand-picked the new furniture and decor. So, if you don’t like any of it, too fucking bad.” He grins.
“You can take rent out of my paycheck,” I say.
His eyes come to mine. “No rent. Ranch hands get room and board.”
I shake my head. “Ranch hands get a bunk in the bunkhouse, not a foreman’s cabin.”
“Can’t exactly have a little girl in the bunkhouse.”
“Right. So, I’ll pay rent.”
Caison huffs as he takes a seat behind his desk, and his eyes come to me. “Waylon, this is your home. Whether you like it or not, you are a Ludlow. Holland and Priscilla’s son. And Ruby is their granddaughter. Your parents want you to have the cabin so you and Ruby can have your own place. Your own home. So you don’t feel like a guest here. Accept it or don’t.”
I’m an ass.An ass with too much pride.
“All right. You got the keys?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll have them after everything has been completed. I’ll get them to you next week.”
“Okay.”
One step at a time.
“Now get to work. This place doesn’t run itself.”
It’s Monday.
I’ve only been at this job for a week, and somehow, it already feels like I’ve put in a year’s worth of work. My body doesn’t know what day it is anymore—just that it hurts in places I forgot could hurt. My shoulders stiff. Hands calloused over.
Darby’s promise not to be too hard on me feels pretty damn thin right about now. If last week was considered not too hard, I’d hate to see what his version of hard actually looks like.
The first week of October tiptoes in like it’s being polite—mornings growing colder by the day, afternoons still warm enough to trick you into forgetting what’s coming. But the ranch doesn’t forget. It never does. As soon as September shuts thedoor behind it, everything shifts into winter-prep mode whether you’re ready or not.
So, we gather and wean calves. We move herds down to lower pastures, where the snow won’t bury them alive come December. We prep winter feeding and shelters, check fences that always seem to fail at the worst possible time. We run cattle through for health checks—vaccinations, deworming, assessing body condition. Hands move automatically now, muscle memory taking over while my brain lags somewhere behind, still surprised I’m here at all.
Today, we seed and fertilize pastures, the tractor humming beneath me while the smell of dirt and diesel hangs thick in the air. We check winter water sources, heaters, pumps, anything that’ll keep water flowing when the temperature drops below zero and stays there for three straight months. Equipment gets serviced, greased, tested. There’s no such thing as prepared—only ready enough.
