Although nothing will stop me from farming my own land. It’s about the only thing I’ve got that I can still call mine. In every sense of the word.
I intend to invest in Coleson Ranch mentally, physically, and financially until my dying breath. I wouldn’t be true to myself otherwise.
“I say once we get back to Texas, we put an ad out for interviews. See if we can hire a few ranch hands to put in some extra hours. Give the boss man a much-needed break.”
That puts me on high alert. “I like working,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Doesn’t mean you should do it,” Clay tells me.
“And why’s that?”
“Hate to say it, but you’re getting old, Stetson. And besides, what’s the point of having all this money without anything to show for it?”
“Not this shit again,” I groan.
Over the years, Clay has been adamant about encouraging me to hire a full staff. I don’t need a large number of employees. I don’t want it. I just want to live a simple life, tend to my ranch, raise healthy cattle, and not have to ask anyone for anything. Nothing more.
Having the wealth I do ensures freedom. I know I sound like an old fuck just saying that, but it’s true. I can do whatever, go wherever, and see whoever I want without apologizing or money being an issue.
That’s what the hustle has given me. And I’ve worked sunup to sundown over the last twenty years to make Coleson Ranch everything it is today. For ten years, I got to do it with my pops by my side.
“Guess I need to remind you again,” Clay sighs. “Purely for shits and giggles, please remember you own eight hundred thousand acres, a massive ranch home, horse stables, now three open leases, cattle out the fucking wazoo, a workhouse for the two ranch hands you already have, lakes, crop fields…Should I keep going?”
I really hate it when he gets like this. Thinking that reminding me of my success will make me want more.
“What happened to contentment, Clay?” I ask him directly, and he looks at me like I have two heads. “Eventually, I don’t want to have to think about all this shit. I’m almost fifty. Enjoying the life I’ve built for myself sounds pretty nice right about now.”
Clay claps his hands like he agrees with me, but I think he missed the message. “Great. That’s what I like to hear. Now, let’s hire some more guys so they can do it for you.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Anyone else would have knocked him out by now. But I’m one of the only people in Clay’s life who can call him out on his bullshit and get results from it. “Not happening. We’ll hire one more ranch hand. Put him up in the house with Granger and Creek. Train him to rebuild fences, plow hay, and work with the new tenants in a respectable manner. I’ll handle the rest.”
Before he has a chance to argue, the flight attendant appears between us, summoning our attention with the clearing of her throat. “Gentlemen,” she presses.
“Apologies,” Clay mutters, situating himself in the expensive black leather seat. He looks like a bank teller in his full suit and tie. We’re polar opposites in every sense of the word, but I think that’s what makes our team dynamic work. I prefer to be casual while he enjoys being stiff, possibly with a sharp stick up his ass.
I own the damn jet, and you’d be lucky to ever catch me in formal wear.
“What appetizers can I get started for you this afternoon? Any drink requests?” the flight attendant asks. “I know I’m not your usual attendant, Mr. Cole, so I do apologize for any inconvenience I may cause by asking.”
I wave her off, not at all concerned about her thoroughness. It’s actually kind of nice to have options. Alyssa, my usual flight attendant, knows what I like, so I typically don’t have an option. She serves me without even asking.
This is refreshing.
“It’s no problem at all—” I wait for her to tell me her name.
“Cove,” she responds, and her name strikes me as something different. I take in her long raven curls and lightskin alongside the navy and red flight attendant uniform and decide right away that it fits her.
“Cove,” I repeat. “Please don’t apologize. I’m happy to have you aboard. I’ll take a scotch on the rocks. Johnny Walker is just fine.”
Clay rears his head. “Johnny Walker, seriously?”
“Are you gonna order for yourself, or would you like to know my underwear preference, too?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, he directs his attention back to Cove, and I swear I hear a laugh under her breath. “I’ll take whatever the locally brewed IPA is and an order of hummus and pita, please.”
I belt out a dry chuckle. “Fucking IPA and hummus.”
“I’ll have that right out for you, gentlemen,” Cove comments amid my dig at Clay before returning to her section of the cabin.
