That I've been awake since four in the morning, second-guessing everything?
No. I can't tell them that. Because that's exactly what they expect. For me to crumble, to fail, to prove that Dad made a mistake leaving me the bulk of his estate.
My throat tightens the way it always does when I think about him. Six months. It's been six months since I held his hand in that hospital room and he told me he was proud of me. That he believed in me. That the money was supposed to be my chance to build something real, not just coast through life like he'd watched my mother and sisters do.
"You're smart, Sierra," he'd said, his voice already thin and tired. "Smarter than any of them give you credit for. Don't waste it. Don't hide it. Make me proud."
And then he'd died, and the will reading happened, and everything fell apart. I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. I'm not going to cry. Not again. I've done enough crying.
The GPS announces I've arrived just as a wooden sign comes into view: **Promise Ranch**. The letters are carved deep into weathered wood, the sign itself mounted on two thick posts. It looks solid. Permanent. Like it's been here forever and plans to stay forever more.
I turn onto the dirt road, and the car immediately starts making concerning noises as it bounces over ruts and rocks. The rental company is going to *love* me. But the road winds throughbeautiful country, fenced pastures stretching in either direction, and in the distance I can see cattle grazing.
Real cattle. On a real ranch. That I'm about to invest in.
Oh god, what am I doing?
The main compound comes into view around a bend, and I slow down to take it in. A large log house dominates the space. Two stories, sprawling, with a wide porch that wraps around the front. There's a massive barn off to the right, red paint fading but structure solid. Smaller buildings scatter around the property, everything practical and well-used.
It's nothing like the sleek tech startups I toured in Seattle, or the trendy restaurants my business professors used as case studies. This is real in a way those never were. Worn boots and dirt roads and actual work, not just venture capital and pitch decks.
I'm either about to make the smartest investment of my life or the dumbest.
Three trucks are parked in front of the main house. My little silver sedan looks ridiculous next to them as I pull in and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to summon the confidence I need.
I dressed business casual this morning: nice jeans, a fitted button-down shirt in cream, my good boots. Not trying too hard but not looking like I rolled out of bed either. Professional but approachable. I spent forty minutes on my hair and makeup, then felt stupid about it, then left it anyway because at least I look put-together.
My mother's voice echoes in my head: *You should really think about losing some weight before you try to make any big business moves, sweetie. First impressions matter, and you know how people are.*
I shove the voice away and check my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time. My face is round. It's always been round, even when I was religiously counting calories and running myself into the ground trying to shrink. My body is curvy in ways fashion magazines hate and my mother passive-aggressively comments on it and I've slowly, painfully learned to accept.
Dad never cared. He saw *me*, not my dress size.
I need to channel that energy right now. The version of myself he believed in.
The front door of the house opens, and a man steps out onto the porch. Tall, lean, wearing jeans and a button-down not unlike mine but infinitely more natural-looking. He's got an easy smile and sandy hair, and as I grab my bag and climb out of the car, he comes down the steps to meet me.
"Sierra Vaughn?" he calls. "I'm Garrett Palmer. Everyone calls me Rhett."
"Rhett." I return his smile, grateful that he seems friendly. "Thanks for setting this up. The drive out here was beautiful."
"Yeah, we're a bit off the beaten path." He shakes my hand. Firm grip, warm. "How was your flight?"
"Fine. Easy. The airport was way smaller than I expected." I'm babbling. I need to stop babbling. "But in a nice way. Very manageable."
"Montana's not Seattle, that's for sure." He gestures toward the house. "Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone. They're all gathered in the main room. Fair warning… We're not really the corporate meeting type, so don't expect a conference table and PowerPoint."
"That's fine. I prefer authentic anyway." I follow him up the porch steps, very aware that I'm being evaluated with every word. "So, you handle the business side of things?"
"Such as it is. I'm better with numbers than I am with cattle, so I manage the books, deal with suppliers, that kind of thing." He opens the front door. "The others will fill you in on their roles. We all kind of wear multiple hats around here."
The interior of the house is exactly what I expected. Rustic wood, comfortable furniture that's clearly lived-in, photos on the walls of the ranch through different seasons. It smells like coffee and leather and something else I can't identify. Something earthy and real.
Voices come from a room off to the right, and Rhett leads me toward them. My heart is pounding against my ribs. This is it. The moment where I either convince these men I'm worth taking a chance on, or I prove my family right about my impulsiveness.
We step into what appears to be an office or study. Five men turn to look at me, and the weight of their collective attention nearly makes me step backward.
Rhett does the introductions quickly, pointing to each man in turn. "That's Tucker Hayes, our unofficial leader. Mason Reid, who keeps everything running. Boone Sullivan and his brother Colt. And Wade Turner."
