One
Wyatt
Ray Callahan died the way he lived, stubborn as the devil and set on doing things the hard way. I could still hear his gravelly voice in my head, sharp as rusted barbed wire.
“You think I can’t mend a simple goddamn fence, Wyatt? I was fixing this fence line before you were out of diapers.”
He’d been leaning against the gate that morning with one elbow perched on the fence post and the other rubbing that stiff knee that had been giving him trouble as long as I’d known him. The sun was already high, the horses restless in the corral behind me, and dust rose off the dry ground like smoke. The faint, sweet scent of fermenting barley drifted over from Hargrove Brewing, three miles north of where we were standing. It was the smell of progress, a smell Ray hated. His attitude ran hotter than the August heat on our backs.
“Your heart’s been acting up,” I said flatly. It wasn’t concern for the sake of it, though anyone with half a brain could see he needed watching. He asked me to look at the east fence the week before. I’d ridden the line, seen the rot, seen thewire splitting apart like frayed hair. It needed more than a hammer and a stubborn streak.
“Sell me your land, Ray, I’ll take care of everything. You can stay in the house; I don’t want or need it. Take a load off yourself and let me help.” I pleaded. Ray was in trouble, and unless someone else with deeper pockets came along, I was the only one who could help him. I needed his land, and he needed to retire.
He hadn’t liked hearing that. Ray stepped right into my space, his chin jutting like picking a fight might keep him upright. “I’m fine, and I’m not fucking selling you my land so you can destroy it. It’s prime pasture land, not farmland,” he shouted back at me.
It was true: the land was prime real estate, but it was being wasted on pasture. It was meant for farming, or that’s what the soil testing I’d done said loud and clear. I needed it for the brewery. I’d wait him out and buy it at auction to clear his debt, or he would sell it to me at a value that he’d still be able to live. At this point, it was up to him; if I bought it now, at least he’d keep his dignity.
“You’re not fine, Ray.”
“Don’t tell me what I am.” He jabbed a gnarled, sun-leathered finger into my chest with all the brittle pride in the world, a finger that shook just enough to betray him. “I’ll fix the fence myself. And when I’m done, I’m calling my niece. The one in Calgary.”
I stared down at that finger and fought the urge to snap it off. “You’ll fall over before you make it to the first post. And you only have one niece, Ray. I know where she lives.” I resisted rolling my eyes at the old man.
He scoffed, pushed off the gate, and stomped up the path toward the house, muttering about young men who thought they knew everything. I let him go. Arguing with Ray was like arguing with a stubborn horse or with God. Pointless andloud. When he slammed the door behind him, I sighed, rolled my shoulders then sent two of my guys to fix the fence anyway. Not for Ray. For the cattle. Winter wasn’t far off, and loose livestock in the foothills was every rancher’s nightmare.
A few hours passed before I headed up to tell him the job was done. The house was quiet, a little too quiet. Inside, the air felt stale, heavy with old coffee and dust. The TV murmured, playing one of those cowboy shows Ray liked, where men solved their problems with silence and rifles.
“Ray?” I called. Nothing.
I stepped into the living room, boots thudding on the floorboards, and saw him slumped in his recliner like he drifted to sleep. His head tipped to the side, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes softened. One worn hand rested limply on his lap, fingers slack. A coffee cup sat half full on the table beside him, a faint brown ring marking where the liquid had cooled.
Something inside me dropped, flat and final. I crouched down beside him, my knees creaking in protest.
“God dammit, Ray,” I muttered. I wasn’t family. Half the time, I wouldn’t have even called myself a friend. But Ray was Ray. A fixture. A thorn. A pain in my ass I’d grown used to sparring with. We fought because that was our way. Our language.
The man in the chair wasn’t the one who yelled at me only a few hours before. That version was gone. Sunlight filtered through the window, catching dust that drifted lazily through the quiet, warm air. The mid-August light painted everything soft and reflective. It was everything Ray hadn’t been.
I sat back on my heels and scrubbed a hand down my face. Grief wasn’t unfamiliar. I’d buried enough people to know how it settled. But finding Ray like this carved something sharp across my chest. I reached over and switched off the TV. The sudden silenceroared in my ears.
I stood slowly, heavy from the weight of it all, and crossed to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. My thumb hovered over the keys a moment longer than necessary. Calling an ambulance felt pointless, but what else was I supposed to do? The dispatcher’s voice was brisk, and she assured me help was on the way.
When I hung up, my gaze drifted to the counter where Ray kept his important things, unopened mail, and a half-used notebook. In the center sat the offer. The formal paperwork I’d brought over three weeks ago to buy the ranch and fold his operation into mine.
All he’d needed to do was sign it. My jaw tightened as I stared at the empty signature line. On the back, in his shaky, cramped handwriting, he’d started a list: Tessa’s number.
Lawyer.
Don’t let the vulture win.
The "vulture." That was me.
Things had just gotten complicated because the land didn’t belong to me. Now, it belonged to her. Tessa Callahan..
“She’s a city girl now, Wyatt,” he grumbled once. “Doesn’t know a damn thing about ranching.”
“You raised her here, Ray. She’ll remember,” I said, because I thought he wanted reassurance.
“She won’t.” His frown had deepened. “She doesn’t want this life.”
