Bucked (The Invincibles 6)

“You got a minute, Buck?”

“I was on my way back inside anyway,” I heard her mutter and then the door close behind her.

“Damn,” I heard Porter say.

“Whatever thoughts you’re having about the woman who just went inside, bleach them from your brain.”

He laughed.

“What brings you by this morning?” I asked, anxious to get this conversation over

so I could go confirm Stella’s bare butt—and pussy—were all that were under my shirt.

“I’d like to set up a meeting with the guys from Flying R Rough Stock. It seems like we’d have better luck getting started with bucking bulls and broncs than we would the dude ranch. At least until your boss gets the security system in place. Even then, you’re occupying the only cabins we have ready to go.”

“Have a seat,” I said, pointing to one of the Adirondack chairs. As much as I didn’t want to have this conversation now, it was long overdue. I sat beside him. “I have a few things I need to ask you before we start scheduling meetings.”

“Fair enough.”

“Port, did you know what was in Pop’s will?”

He looked over at me with scrunched eyes. “No, Buck. None of us did. At least not the way he set it up. I can tell you, though, he did his damnedest to make each one of us aware that as the oldest son, the decisions about the ranch were yours to make.”

I looked out over the land our father had used against each one of us in many different ways. “When I left for college, he told me that once I walked out the door, I wouldn’t own any of it.”

“He obviously didn’t mean it.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. I walked away willingly, Port. I never wanted a piece of the Roaring Fork. I still don’t.”

“But you’re here.”

“I came to Crested Butte to pay my respects. I never intended to stay. Once Six-pack read the will, what choice did I have? Did you really think I’d turn my back on all of you?” I stroked my beard. “How bad is it?”

“With the money from the Invincibles, we aren’t that far off, if we could shake some cash loose to invest, I think we could turn a decent profit by the end of the year.”

“I don’t have it, Port.”

He looked away, out over the land, like I had.

“I’m sorry if you were under the impression I did.”

“That isn’t it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Why’d he have to make it so damn hard?”

It wasn’t just this. He’d made our entire lives hard. Roscoe Buchtold Wheaton, Sr., was the most manipulative, controlling son-of-a-bitch I’d ever known—and the most critical. There were agents, higher-ups, who had a reputation of being assholes to work for. Compared to my father, each one was a goddamn pussy.

“It was his way,” I finally said when I realized Port was waiting for an answer.

“What about getting a loan?”

“We’d have to put up collateral to secure it. As of right now, I’m just an independent contractor. I don’t have the steady income I had when I was at the agency.”

“Can I ask you something, Buck?”

“You can ask.”