I reply, “Yep.”
And I mean it.
The truck eats miles like punishment now, each one bringing me closer to the thing I didn’t know I needed.
Tonight could have gone sideways.It didn’t.
We made sure it wouldn’t.
And somewhere under the diesel and the pain, in a place I don’t often let anyone reach, I swear I’m not just hauling frozen straws of bull semen down a highway.
I’m hauling a promise.
A chance at a future.
A reason to come home.
Because whatever waits for me at Jersey Iron Ranch—awoman, a kiss, a heartbeat—I know it’s worth the fight.
Chapter 9-Sawyer
Brentwood Cattle isn’t what I expected.
It’s bigger.Cleaner.Older.
Everything smells like fresh hay and money—generational kind.
The kind of ranch that’s been building itself for a hundred years and has the power to ruin a man with one bad handshake.
Charles Brentwood himself meets me at the main barn, a tall, silver-haired man in a crisp white shirt and the kind of jeans that probably never saw mud.
He’s all smiles, but there’s a calculating gleam in his eyes that says he knows exactly how much I need this contract.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d make it on time, Sawyer,” he says, hands on his hips.“In fact, I was told not to expect you at all.”
I set the clipboard down on the tailgate and meet his gaze.
“Really?I’d be interested to know who said that, Mr.Brentwood.”
He grins, slow and deliberate.“Ace Gunner.Gunner Land & Seed out of South Dakota.Big seed stock rancher.His family’s been in the business a hundred years.”
“Has it now.”I nod once, filing that name away.“Well, maybe I’ll give Mr.Gunner a call, let him know he doesn’t have to worry about Jersey Iron Ranch.”
Brentwood chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re old friends.
“You do that now.Oh—and Sawyer?I’m glad he was wrong.If this does what I think it will for my program, you and I are gonna be doing a lot of business together, my friend.”
I shake his hand, firm and sure.
“Glad to hear that, Mr.Brentwood.”
The deal’s done in minutes—his foreman signs off on the manifest, my trailer’s unhitched, and I hand over the straws like I’m passing off a newborn.
Every tube of that frozen gold represents months of work, planning, and risk.
It’s not just a delivery—it’s proof that Jersey Iron can play with the big boys.
But Ace Gunner’s name is still bouncing around in my head.
