I pictured the ranch, or what was left of it: an old clapboard house, maybe a barn, probably overrun with prairie dogs. I could almost hear my father’s voice in my head—You want to live like a backwoods degenerate, Rawley? Have at it.
I didn’t let it show. That was the whole trick of being a Steele: you didn’t give them the satisfaction.
“Congratulations, brother,” Barrett said, his smile sharp as a blade. “Hope you like milking cows. Do they have Wi-Fi up there?”
Carter added, “You’ll fit right in with the livestock.”
My knuckles went white on the armrest, but I didn’t move. Years of SEAL training: never react, not unless you want to give away your position.
Vivian, to her credit, didn’t pile on. She just cocked her head and said, “Is that where Grandpa used to take you? I remember he said you were the only one who didn’t whine about the outdoors.”
I shrugged. “I can handle a little dirt.”
The attorney, oblivious to the family theater, started gathering the papers. “Unless there are any questions orcontests, this concludes the reading of the will.” His gaze lingered on me, maybe expecting an outburst or a breakdown.
I just nodded.
My father finally spoke, voice low and icy. “You should be grateful, son. At least you won’t be bored out there. God knows you never had any use for an office.”
I looked straight at him. “Never did.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, and dropped his voice. “You have a gift for wasting potential, Rawley. Let’s see how far it gets you without the family name to prop you up.”
The room went silent. Barrett glanced at the attorney, who shifted in his chair like he was itching for a smoke break. Vivian looked away. Carter pretended to type something on his phone.
I let the words hang there, tasted their bitterness, then let them pass. I was used to this. Used to being the disappointment, the experiment gone wrong. What they didn’t know was that I’d always liked Montana. And I liked the idea of a place that wasn’t curated within an inch of its life.
“I’ll see myself out,” I said, standing. The chair squealed, fighting me to the end.
As I walked to the door, I saw Barrett mouth something to Carter. They both grinned, and I almost laughed at the predictability of it. I didn’t look back at my father, but I could feel his glare burning a hole in my scapula.
I was halfway to the elevators before the attorney called after me, voice carrying just enough authority to freeze my steps. “Mr. Steele? A moment, if you please.”
I turned, expecting another paperwork snafu or a lecture about taxes. Instead, Milton the attorney—who’d always looked at me like I was a half-feral Rottweiler—gestured me back inside with a tight, almost apologetic nod. The others were already gone; the room felt vacuumed out, every molecule of oxygen sucked away by their cologne and ambition.
He closed the door with a soft click and motioned for me to take a seat, this time at a little round table near the window. I sank into a different chair, marginally less suffocating, and let the silence stretch. Milton adjusted his tie, glanced at the empty conference table, then back at me.
“I have a few items for you,” he said, voice pitched lower now that the peanut gallery was gone. “Per your grandfather’s instructions, they’re to be delivered privately.”
He slid a slim manila envelope across the table. My name, in Grandpa’s blocky handwriting, ran crooked along the center.
I picked it up. The paper was thick, expensive. The seal on the flap was a mess of smeared glue and fingerprints—he must have done it himself. There was something about the physical weight of it in my palm that made the last ten minutes peel away, replaced by an itch of curiosity.
“I’ll give you a moment,” Milton said, and retreated to the far end of the office, busied himself at his credenza. A show of privacy, but I could feel his eyes in the mirror above the bourbon decanter.
I broke the seal, unfolded the letter.
Rawley,
If you’re reading this, it means the rest of them finally managed to show up at the same place and time without killing each other. Hope that was as much fun for you as I imagine.
I’m going to make this short. You always hated speeches.
I know you never felt like you belonged in this family. I know I’m to blame for some of that. I also know you made something of yourself that no one else in this line ever had the balls to do.
The ranch in Montana isn’t a joke, son. It’s the only thing that ever mattered to me, and it’s the first piece of land our family ever earned without cutting corners or screwing oversomebody else. I kept it out of the business on purpose. Didn’t want the others to get their claws into it.
You’re the only one I trust to make it mean something again.
