Mae's expression shifts, something sadder moving through it. "That started before Cole's offers. Right after your dad died."
My chest tightens, but I don't look away.
"People didn't leave because they wanted to," Mae continues. "They left because we couldn't give them what they needed anymore."
I know what's coming, but I let her say it anyway.
"Your dad was the draw," Mae says simply. "He was the one training their horses, giving lessons, working with their kids. When he died, we lost that." She says.
The guilt lands sharp and familiar, but I force myself to stay present. To not flinch away from it.
"So they went to Cole's place," I say quietly.
Mae nods. "He's been expanding his operation. New facilities. Better rates. And he's got trainers on staff. People who'll be there consistently." She looks at me. "He made it easy for them to leave."
I swallow hard. "How many?"
"We're down to three boarders," Mae says. "Used to have twelve."
I do the math in my head. Twelve boarders at standard rates, plus training fees, lesson income. That's not supplementary money—that's half the ranch's operating budget. The number hits harder than I expected. Twelve down to three. That's not a slow decline—that's hemorrhaging.
"How bad is it?" I ask. "Financially."
Mae takes a long breath before answering. "We've got about a year. Maybe a little more if we're careful and nothing else goes wrong."
"A year until what?"
"Until we can't make it work anymore," Mae says plainly. "Until we have to seriously consider selling. Or losing it some other way."
The words hang there between us, stark and undeniable. A year. Twelve months to turn things around or lose everything my dad built, everything this family has held onto for generations.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out quieter than I intended. Not accusatory. Just hurt.
Mae looks at me fully then, and something in her expression softens. "Because you were building a life somewhere that didn't hurt to wake up in. I wasn't going to pull you back into all this just because we needed help.”
"It's my family's ranch," I say.
"It's mine to manage," Mae counters gently. "You left for a reason. I wasn't going to guilt you into coming back."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because the truth is, I don't know what I would've done if she'd told me two years ago. Would I have come back then? Would I have stayed? Or would I have sent money and told myself that was enough?
"I called you every week," Mae continues, her voice soft. "And every week, you sounded good. Settled. Like you were finally finding your footing." She pauses. "I wasn't going to take that away from you."
"That should've been my choice," I say.
"Maybe," Mae allows. "But I made it mine."
We sit with that for a moment. The light has almost completely faded now, the pasture slipping into shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a horse nickers softly.
"I wasn't trying to lie to you," Mae says after a while. "I was trying to protect you."
I nod slowly. I understand that. I even appreciate it in a twisted way. But it doesn't change the fact that I've been living in a version of reality that wasn't true, making decisions based on information that was incomplete.
"You should've told me," I say again, but there's no heat in it. Just fact.
"Yeah," Mae says quietly. "Probably."
The porch light clicks on with a soft hum, spilling a warm circle across the boards and Mae's worn boots. The pasture beyond is fully dark now, the land holding its shape in shadow.
