“Okay then. We’ll have it mowed and baled, though it’s pretty puny yet. Then the plowing’ll get finished by morning. When did those parts come in?”
I laughed weakly. “Just got done setting it out about an hour ago. We got it hauled out to the back range and got the crates off the trucks. Took almost a dozen big rigs to haul ’em out here. Let me tell you, that was a job all on its own. And if I don’t hurry up and get the whole thing installed, I’m afraid I’ll chicken out! Let’s get this done afore I can change my mind.”
“No way, boss. After what you musta spent on all that fancy new-aged equipment, I don’t see you backing out now!”
Remy laughed and clapped me on the shoulder and turned back to his truck. It took guts for me to rip out a third of the ranch’s feed crop, but the foreman knew well enough that I didn’t get where I was in life by not taking risks. The older man waved his hat over his head, signaling to the crew waiting beside their heavy equipment, and the machines roared to life.
I drove along the worn dirt path that led away from the hay fields, squinting into the afternoon sun. I tried not to think about the new equipment—or the multi-million dollar price tag that had come with it—and focus instead on my goals to turn this ranch into something that would last for a long time. Instead, I kept my eyes on the road in front of me, knowing that every rock and washed out gully belonged to me and me alone.
It was my home, one that I’d had to fight hard for...and there had been a time when I’d thought I would never see it again. A sniper’s bullets overseas had almost made that a reality, and all the months it took to recover in the hospital, all I could think about was getting home to Texas where I belonged.
“Not today, Colt,” I muttered to myself. “No reason to head down that road.” Instead, I switched on the radio and hummed along absentmindedly with an old country favorite. The truck bounced along the worn path, and I let the music and the drive help me regain a sense of peace.
When I rounded the bend in the road and my house came into view through the tall grass, my heart softened slightly. It didn’t matter if I was coming home from a war zone on the other side of the world or just a quick trip into town, seeing my newly remodeled childhood home was better than any medicine and could cure just about any pain.
Its light grey, high roof gently sloped down over the same whitewashed planks my great-great-grandfather had put in place almost a hundred years ago, and the wraparound porch that encircled the entire home just begged people to pull up a chair. The entire structure rested on top of a low stone crawlspace made from rocks the first generation Stone rancher had hauled from the creek in the back of a second-hand Model T with the seats removed. It was all the man had left to his name once he’d put down the first payment on this land, and it had been integral to building the house and the original barn. The car itself was still out here, sitting in a place of honor in one of the outbuildings.
I knew the stories of the original Stone family ranchers well, but I’d squandered the years when my grandfather and my dad would tell them. Like any surly teenager, I’d resented the long summer days working alongside them in the Texas sun, rolling my eyes instead of soaking in their talk. I’d bolted for the Army the day I was old enough, signing on for any job that would get me out of there.
There had been days when I thought he’d never live to see this old ranch house again. Now that I was finally home, there was no one left to swap stories with.
“You’re doing it again, dumbass,” I grumbled as I climbed down out of the truck and walked up the front steps, my boots thudding with a hollow sound against the wooden floor. I pushed open the door, fixed myself a glass of sweet iced tea, and leaned back against the countertop, staring overhead at the clouds passing above the skylight.
I finished my drink and sorted through the day’s mail, left in a neat pile by Mrs. Claire, the housekeeper. The usual bills took up most of the stack, followed by the charitable requests. It was impossible for someone with my kind of money to get through the day without a needy person asking for a small share of the pot. I flipped through the thin envelopes, ignoring most of them until I got to a thick, expensive-looking post.
“Crap, this thing again?” I mumbled as I flipped it over. It was the annual invitation to the Barons’ Ball, an exclusive event for the billionaire oil tycoon set. It was nothing more than a chance to rub elbows with the billionaire elite of Texas, and if I didn’t need the support of my fellow well-to-do ranchers so badly, I would have gladly used the invitation to start a fire in the barbecue grill. The steaks would taste great flaming over the ashes of old money and snobbery.
Ignoring the yearly reminder of just how much money I had, I headed up the stairs to the master bedroom. I stripped down and entered the bathroom, turning on the water and pausing to look at myself scornfully in the mirror while the water warmed.
“This is what you’ve got to show for yourself,” I thought bitterly, ignoring the chiseled muscular frame and focusing instead on the deep jagged scars that had gotten me sent home for good. “An empty palace and an even emptier heart.”
I stepped into the lukewarm shower, letting its light droplets wash away not just the grime but also the sun’s heat that had worked its way to the bone. I remembered how I used to tell the guys in my unit that the Army had a top-secret base in Texas where they groomed local boys for fighting in the Middle East. “The heat might be different but it sure ain't worse!”
They'd all laughed at the time, but I now knew the difference: the Texas heat was unrelenting, especially for a rancher, but at least I was breaking my back and burning myself up to the core for my own land. There was a lot of comfort to be had in that.
I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist and shaking the water from the ends of my hair. I looked in the mirror and deliberated for a moment about whether or not I needed a shave or could let it go another day or two when the doorbell rang.
“Crap, Mrs. Claire took her night off,” I muttered when the bell rang again. I wiped my feet on the plush mat as best I could, and then raced down the stairs, trying not to fall.
Chapter 2
Meredith
My trusty old Volkswagen Beetle was barely gonna survive the bumps and jostles of the washed out dirt road. With every rock or pothole, the poor vehicle let out another sad screeching noise from the undercarriage, shook uncontrollably, and then sputtered on. I shook my auburn hair out of my eyes and checked my watch.
When I finally pulled up in front of the enormous house, my natural work instincts took over. I immediately took in the way the light hit the corner, casting one wall of the house in shadow. My eyes followed the horizontal planks of the exterior, appreciating their amazing symmetry despite being obviously hewn by hand generations ago. The massive porch became the focal point for the whole thing, and the sun provided the best architectural feature of all, sliding partway down the sky until it looked like the glowing ball hung from the rafters.
I didn’t take my eyes off the stunning house as I reached into the backseat and blindly fished my camera out of its bag. I moved just enough to shoot the house over the top of the convertible’s windshield, making sure I kept the angle to position the sun within the roof. I smiled behind my camera at the results.
When I was done, I fell back into the driver’s seat, worn out from the thrill of getting the perfect shot. “This’ll be on the cover, for sure,” I told myself, although an ugly inner voice told me that probably wasn’t true.
It was hard enough being a woman photojournalist, a field typically ruled over by the guys, but the fact that I worked for Elite Design Digest meant I spent most of my interviews smiling through gritted teeth while my architect subjects mansplained the concept of lighting to me. I’d only taken this job as a much-need break from more hard-hitting stuff, but thanks to my
editor-in-chief Diana, I’d already enjoyed a handful of solid wins in the past few years.
But the cover story… that was the Holy Grail of the industry, and no matter how hard I worked and how much praise my pieces got, I still hadn’t reached that goal.
“Shake it off, cupcake, you’ve got work to do,” I whispered as I reached for my camera bag.