“…and Sloane Carter. There shall be a fifty-fifty asset split between the two parties along with all associated assets, including but not limited to the main house and the materials inside.”
The name lands like a punch to the sternum. Sloane Carter. I don’t recognize it—and that alone feels wrong. Every person tied to this ranch, every neighbor, every hand, every creditor—I know them all. This name doesn’t belong here.
Hollis Ranch has been a part of my family for generations. Growing up, I heard how my great-great-granddad built the place up from a strip of pasture to one of the largest cattle ranches in the Southwest—hell, the whole dang country—and that’s something to be proud of. Uncle Sam made it something special, and I’m determined to keep that legacy alive.
“Now hold on a damn minute!” I yell, holding my hand up as I shove out of my seat and pace, doing my best to calm the irritation radiating through my body. “Who the hell is Sloane Carter?”
Monty shrugs, looking down at the will. “It says here she’s an environmental consultant.”
“A what now?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know, Gage. I’m not privy to that sorta thing.”
I scoff. “Not privy? Come on.” I place my hands on top of his desk. “Read it again. Word for word.”
“Well, there are stipulations,” Monty says.
Of course there are. My teeth grind together as my pulse kicks up another notch.
“Oh, great, this just keeps getting better and better,” I reply, holding my hand out for him to continue.
He looks back down at the will. “The two parties must remain active on the property for a minimum of six months for finalization,” he says.
I sigh, “Ah hell.”
Monty holds the will out for me, and I snatch it out of his hand. Maybe this old man isn’t seeing right, and he needs better glasses.
But when I look it over, I see it—clear as the blue sky outside this very window.
Black ink. Legal language. No room to argue. Uncle Sam’s signature is right there, bold and certain, like he never once doubted this decision.
What the hell was Uncle Sam thinking? I look back at Monty. “This is crap. I worked hard for that damn ranch. It is my birthright.
I put in the work, not this damn Sloane Carter. I mean, hell, I picked this place up from the ground when it was going under.”
I turn away, staring out the window like the land might explain something Uncle Sam never bothered to say out loud. Six months. Fifty percent. A stranger’s name sitting beside mine like it belongs there.
The ranch looks the same from here. Solid. Quiet. Patient. It doesn’t know it’s been split down the middle by ink and legal language. It doesn’t know I might lose it without ever actually losing it.
Even now, I know the crews are moving without me—fences checked, feed delivered, the ranch carrying on whether I’m ready or not.
That thought sinks deeper than the anger.
“Six months? He must be joking,” I say, and Monty shakes his head, folding his hands.
“That’s right. If either of you doesn’t remain active on the property, all assets are forfeited to the other party.”
“Surely that can’t be legal,” I say, knowing damn well it probably is.
He sighs. “I assure you it is, Gage.” He holds his hands up. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but the same conditions are placed on Miss Carter, should she even show up.”
So there is a chance she won’t even come at all. I mean, where is she even coming from anyway?
“But if she does?”
“If she does, you’ve got to learn to coexist. Think like a marriage,” he says.
I scoff. “There’s a reason I’m not married.”
