With Uncle Sam, it was different. I knew he had my best interest, and he was like the father I never had, but this is a whole different scenario.
I guess my communication really is shit.
I spent the rest of my morning doing all the manual labor tasks that the other ranch hands typically do. I get my hands dirty alongside Jesse and Mason and help Hank assess the final list of cattle issues before releasing them to the pasture.
I even fixed that cut in the fence Sloane mentioned.
It was a clean break, like someone used wire cutters in a smooth line straight down the middle. Just staring at the damn thing pissed me off all over again, but fixing it up alone made me realize how foolish I had been.
Would Sloane really sabotage the ranch like this? I hardly think so, especially not when she spent hours with me lining the posts and helping with the wiring. The truth is, the evidence doesn’t point to her—but I’m not ready to let go of the version of her I’ve been bracing against.
Why go through all that just to cut it a week later? Then again, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have others helping her nearby.
Who am I kidding? That’s utter nonsense, even for me.
I’m picking stalls inside the horse barn with Mason, who quietly helps. I’ve got him glancing over at me, but he doesn’t make small talk. He’s a young guy, hardworking, but he’s immature. I mean, hell, I can recall myself at twenty-two, and I wasn’t any better.
He glances over at me again, and I huff, slamming the manure fork down into the shavings. “Say what you wanna say, boy,” I tell him, having had enough of his side eye.
His eyes widen slightly. “No, it’s nothing. I—” he stops short at seeing the way my stare grows tougher than stone. He sighs uneasily. “—Look, the guys and I just noticed you seem a little…tense lately,” he explains with a shrug.
I scoff. “Couldn’t possibly be the five-foot-seven, brown-haired, green-eyed thorn in my side,” I grumble under my breath, glancing away momentarily, and Mason’s mouth drops slightly. My eyes turn back to him sharply, and his mouth closes like I caught him doing something he shouldn’t.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. We all really like Miss Carter. She’s really helpful, she’s always interested in how we’re doing, and she’s open to learning.” I roll my eyes. Great, this is exactly what I feared.
If she starts getting into all my ranch hands’ good graces, then getting rid of her will prove to be even harder.
The shuffling of boots sounds behind us, and I turn around to see Jesse waltzing inside with a purpose. He walks up to us and then hands me a piece of paper with writing on it.
“I was out checking the levels this morning. They’re low, like real low,” he says, causing my eyebrows to furrow. That’s not possible. That water main was serviced not long ago.
I look it over, and he’s right. The chart we created to check the water levels has drastically changed over the last year, but only recently has there been a dip this significant.
The levels are so low that there may as well not even be water coming out of it. Which is exactly what she’dbeen warning me about—even if I don’t like how she went about it.
I look back at him and hand it back. “It’s probably the dry season. Just focus on the rest of the chores. I’ll see what I can do about getting additional water,” I explain to him, and he nods, with no additional questions.
It’s one of the reasons I like Jesse. He never questions me; he just does his work and allows me to run the place. It’s a welcoming change from the rest of the people here.
As I finish up the last stall, my phone vibrates in my pocket. My screen lights up with Francis Gallard’s name, our accountant. What the hell is he calling for? I look up at Jesse as he brushes one of the horses.
“Jesse, take over. I got to take this,” I tell him, and he steps away to quickly grab my manure fork so I can walk out of the stall and into the office.
I take a seat at the desk and lean back in Uncle Sam’s fancy wood-stained chair. “Francis, what can I do for you?” I answer as he clears his throat.
“Good morning, Gage, I hope I got you at a good time,” he says, and though I appreciate the pleasantries, I know he wouldn’t be calling if he didn’t have something urgent to share.
We aren’t in the middle of tax season, and I routinely send him receipts and other financial records, so therereally is no other reason for him to call me unless there is something bad.
“As good a time as any,” I reply, and he sighs softly. “Based on that reaction, I sense you’re not calling to find out we overpaid on our taxes and are getting a massive return,” I add as Francis chuckles lightly.
“I wish that were the case, Gage, but I was running through the records you sent over from your uncle,” he begins, and that’s another thing, Francis isn’t our longtime accountant, he isn’t even in the town limits.
Uncle Sam had been using the town accountant for decades, but the poor guy is so overworked from all the other ranches and businesses in this town that we weren’t getting a fair assessment.
Francis is based out of Midland. Highly respected, and he’s really helped clean up the records for us, but there are a ton of them, so he’s always finding new pieces inside the records.
“Go on.”
