Between the Brentwood Cattle account, this Arizona one, and a few others Micah’s lining up, things are looking damn good for Jersey Iron Ranch.
And the best part?
We’re doing it our way.
The idea’s simple but smart—merge the old-school grit of seedstock breeding with cutting-edge tech.
Genetic testing, digital tracking, and advanced cryo storage.
It’s all stuff the big corporate operations use, but without all the soulless bullshit.
My vision.
Micah’s tech genius.
Benji’s bloodline.
Jersey Iron Ranch is the future, whether the old guard likes it or not.
“Once we’re back in the green, we start expanding,” Micah mutters, eyes glued to his screen.“Hire some of our old team from our service days—men we can trust.Let ‘em drive the long hauls, handle security detail.Got some more rigs lined up.They’re used, but Benji you can upgrade and outfit them for our needs,” he says.
“Damn fucking straight I can,” Benji answers.
“Hell, in a year or two, we maybe even set up a satellite ranch in Montana or Texas if things keep climbing.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I mutter, but I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth.
The man’s right, though.We’ve got something here—something solid.
It’s a good feeling.
Or it should be.
But under it, there’s that low hum again.That gut-deep warning that says maybe peace is just the calm before the next hit.
The kind of quiet that’s too perfect.
Too still.
I shake it off, rolling my shoulders and glancing out at the desert stretching for miles—flat, open, and merciless.
By the time the sun starts dipping low, painting everything in orange and rust, we’re pulling into Rattlesnake Ranch.
The place sits just outside Tucson—sprawling and sunbaked, the kind of operation that hums with old money and big ambition.Long white fences, wide corrals, and barns that look more like luxury car garages.
A couple of ranch hands wave us in as the dust kicks up behind the rig.There’s a line of trucks parked along the fence, all shiny, new, and expensive.Even the cattle here look like they’re worth more than most folks’ houses.
Benji whistles low.
“Damn.These people don’t just raise cattle—theybuild empires.”
I kill the engine and climb down, boots hitting the packed dirt with a thud.The desert air hits my lungs dry and sharp, hot as sin even with the sun half gone.
“Alright,” I say, scanning the lot.“Let’s make it quick, get the paperwork signed, and head out first thing in the morning.”
Benji nods, but his grin fades when he catches my expression.
“You still got that feeling?”
