“If you can’t handle a suitcase and one bag, you’re never gonna make it out here.”
I look up. He’s turned around, watching me now. So he heard that. Good. Maybe we should get this out in the open. I don’t want to be here any longer than he wants me here, so maybe honesty is the fastest way out of this mess.
“I don’t know what I did to you,” I say, setting my computer bag on top of the suitcase so I can stand a little taller, “but you clearly have an issue with me. So let’s clear this festering wound you call an attitude.”
His eyes—gray as steel, darkening like a storm that’s decided to roll in—drag over me slowly before he scoffs.
“You tell me,” he says. “You’ve got some claim to my family ranch. The ranch that rightfully belonged to me.” He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“God, you city folk are all the same. You want the land so you can slap townhouses on it. Maybe a resort. Am I right?”
The proximity is deliberate. Intimidating. And annoying—because it works just enough to rattle me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap.
“I’m an environmental consultant. I literally help make existing land thrive. I don’t care about hotels or high-rises—that’s what cities are for. And I’m not naïve enough to think every place in the country needs to look like a metropolitan nightmare.”
I lift my chin, refusing to give ground.
He studies me like he doesn’t buy a word of it. “Then why do you want my ranch?”
I shrug. “I don’t. My dad told me I had a fifty–fifty inheritance at Hollis Ranch and said I needed to show up to secure it. But honestly?” I gesture between us. “After meeting you, it doesn’t seem worth the hassle.”
He laughs, stepping back—but there’s nothing amused about it. The sound is sharp. Derisive.
Ugh. I loathe him.
I hold up my hand. “Forget it. Where do I sign to get out of this? This is a waste of gas.” I turn toward my bag, already digging for a pen.
“You can’t sign awayanything.”
I stop and turn back to him. “What do you mean, I can’t?” I just offered to hand him full ownership of the ranch on a silver platter, and now he’s acting like I’ve suggested something illegal. Or offensive. Or both.
“There’s a six-month stipulation,” he says. “You have to stay for the full turnover. Otherwise…” His voice trails off as he drags a hand over the back of his neck.
“Otherwise…” I prompt.
He exhales. “Otherwise, it isn’t gonna be good for either of us.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the sun beats down on us, heat pressing in from every direction. Great. No—fantastic. I’m trapped.
Why didn’t my dad mention the small detail where I’m legally required to uproot my life and camp out on a ranch with a man who clearly despises me? This cannot get any worse.
Gage sighs again and holds his hand out. I stare at it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with that information, until his fingers flex impatiently.
“Give me your bag,” he says, the words sounding like they cost him something.
I hand over my computer bag and nudge the suitcase toward him. He takes both without comment and turns toward the house.
I follow, taking in the ranch as we walk—hands moving with purpose, boots in dirt, labor happening without pause, systems running on schedules I don’t recognize yet.
No one stops to watch the new arrival for long—work keeps rolling, like the ranch doesn’t care who owns what on paper.
Everything moves with intention.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just a steady rhythm that doesn’t stop for anything—or anyone.
It’s not chaotic like I expected. There’s no scrambling, no shouting, no sense that things might fall apart if someone misses a step.
