“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “I know.”
I look out the window, toward the south ridge where Boone’s cabin sits hidden in the trees. Then I look north, toward Knox’s. And finally, west, toward the main road where Rhett disappeared.
They’re everywhere. They’re in the walls of this house, in the ink on these pages, in the very soil of this land.
My grandfather wanted them to have this place. He built a fortress for them, using his own legacy as the bricks.
But I’m the Cruz. I’m the heir. And I may be angry, and I may be betrayed, but I’m not my grandfather. I will not roll over and let them take what is mine just because he said so.
I stand up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I wash my face in the kitchen sink, the cold water shocking me back to clarity.
I have the documents. I have the truth now. And knowledge is power.
They think they have the upper hand. They think they can wait me out, that I’ll get frustrated and sell to them for a fraction of what it’s worth.
They’re wrong.
I’m going to lawyer the hell out of this. I’m going to find every loophole, every missed signature, every breach of contract. If Anthony wanted them to have this ranch, he should have left it to them in the will. But he didn’t. He left it to me.
And I’m not going to let three Alphas—no matter how charming, or how sad their pasts are, or how good they look in jeans—take that away from me.
I dry my face on a rough towel. Wellsy watches me, tail thumping.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go see what kind of damage we can do.”
Rhett
Afew hours earlier
The ceiling fan above my bed spins, a repetitive, hypnotic circle that does nothing to cool the air in the cabin. I’ve been staring at it for hours. The red digits of the clock on the nightstand switch from 3:14 to 3:15.
Sleep is a lost cause.
My mind is a knot of tangled thoughts, frayed at the ends by the events of the last few days. The ranch, the will, the woman in the main house who looks at me like I’m a squatter in her own home. And the smell. That damn scent of hers that clings to the inside of my nose no matter how many times I wash my face.
I throw the covers off and sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. The floorboards are cold under my feet. I walk to the small desk in the corner, cluttered with bills and receipts. On top sits the file box.
Saramaria asked for the documents. She demanded them. And for days, we’ve refused. A collective act of defiance orchestrated by Boone, fueled by Knox’s stubbornness, and executed by me. But lying here in the dark, listening to the wind howl against the logs, the weight of it feels wrong.
I left my last pack because of secrets. Because of the way truths were withheld to manipulate and control. I hated that. I swore I wouldn’t be part of that dynamic again.
Whatever is happening with Meadowlark, whatever Anthony’s plan was, hiding the paperwork isn’t protecting the ranch. It’s just prolonging the inevitable. She owns the land. She has a right to see the mess Anthony left behind. If she wants to sell, let her see exactly what she’s selling. Let her see the obligations, the leases, the debts.
Maybe then she’ll understand why we can’t just pack up and leave.
With a frustrated growl I lay back down and wait for dawn. I lie awake watching the gray light seep through the curtains.
By the time the sun is up, I’ve had enough of staring at walls. I need to work. I need noise. I grab my keys and head out. I need to pick up a load of feed for the horses before the weather turns. The forecast is calling for snow by the end of the week.
I decide to pass by and hand her the documents but she is nowhere to be found. None of the other guys know where she went to. I try not to laugh as I watch Knox struggle to tame Diablo while having a nauseatingly bad hangover.
After breakfast, we disperse. I’m just about to leave when I see her coming back.
I hand her the documents. I want to ask if her hand is feeling better or if she’s sore, but she smells particularly fantastic this morning. So instead, like the coward I have now turned into, I run.
I drive into town, the truck rattling over the potholes in the main road. Muddy Creek is just waking up. The windows of Sweetbuns are glowing yellow, and I can see a few early risers lined up outside.
I pull into the gravel lot of Clara Mae’s Feed. It’s an old, wooden structure that smells of molasses, grain, and earth. ClaraMae herself is behind the counter when I walk in. She’s a sturdy woman with iron-gray hair and a no-nonsense demeanor that has kept this place running for thirty years.
