Chapter 2
1561 Words
aUSTIN
The beeping pierces the silence. I slam the snooze button. "You'd think I could afford to sleep in with all this money."
Wyoming air chills my bare arms as I throw off the covers. Last night's dreams of riding Vanna across open spaces linger, reality dulling by comparison.
I tug on boots and jeans, ready for ranch work. The animals offer better company than most people.
The rising sun paints the sky. I stride to the barn, inhaling hay and horseflesh.
Vanna, my champion barrel horse, digs into her feed as I run a hand along her coat. I check her diet regimen - one slip could cost us the circuit.
The other horses get similar treatment - Ritchie, my old man; the two-year-olds Kodi and TinMan. Watching them eat, I jab, "You ungrateful hay burners act starved every morning. Where are my pancakes?"
The shower unknots my muscles as I try not to dwell on Gramps' lawyer's email. One hoof in front of the other - my motto.
I gulp a protein shake and coffee with creamer. Scrolling through emails, sponsor requests and fan mail remind me of my progress since winning Nationals.
Gramps' attorney's email catches my eye. More legalese about the ranch transfer. I click it open and choke on my coffee.
Water rights? Owned by Gramps? For over a dozen ranches?
I scan the document again, heart pounding. Lists of local ranches with contracts and payment details. The Hendersons. The Swifts. The...Carters.
Cadee.
The mug slips from my grip, ceramic shards and liquid scattering across the floor. My grandfather stole water rights through shady deals.
One thought crystallizes: I must make this right, no matter the cost.
Cadee, my childhood friend. Is this why we were forbidden to see each other outside of school? Because our families warred over water?
Hope kindles - if I return these rights, maybe Cadee and I could reconcile. But reality snuffs it out. Even if the Carters accepted, what about the others? Some wounds won't heal.
I grind my teeth. Damn you, Gramps. Your greed screwed us this time.
A new email pops up from Harding, the estate lawyer. "Austin, we need to discuss the water rights contracts. Sending a Zoom link."
I curse. He knew about this all along?
The video call connects, Harding's face appearing with a practiced smile. "Austin! Settling in okay?"
"Cut the pleasantries," I snap. "You knew about Gramps' shady water dealings."
His smile falters. "I've been privy to many of your grandfather's business agreements. But I assure you, everything was legally sound."
"Legally sound?" I scoff. "It's okay to steal a community's lifeblood?"
"Harsh words," Harding says, leaning back. "Your grandfather had a talent for high-stakes games. He took advantage of opportunities."
I laugh. "So nickel-and-diming hardworking families was an 'opportunity'? Typical lawyer logic."
Harding's jaw tightens. "I think you're struggling to reconcile childhood memories with reality. Your grandfather was a businessman above all. Not everyone can afford sentimentality."
Memories of Gramps' hugs clash with visions of struggling ranches. I'd suspected he built his empire through dubious means, but this was a new low.
"Look, Austin," Harding continues, "I believe Harlan's intentions were ultimately benevolent. He wanted to secure a legacy for the family."
I meet his gaze. "Well, you can take this 'legacy' and shove it. I'm not keeping those water rights. Period."
Disbelief etches Harding's face. "You can't be serious. Do you realize how much wealth you'd be tossing aside?"
"Damn right I'm serious," I say. "I didn't come back to bleed this valley dry. I'm making things right, whatever it costs me."
Harding sighs. "Austin, I admire your idealism. But be rational for a moment-"
I end the call, cutting him off. Let him stew in his overpriced suit. I've made my choice.
Grabbing my hat and sunglasses, I head for the barn. The morning heat settles on my skin, grounding me in this land's harsh reality.
Inside, Ritchie whinnies a greeting. I smile. "You know what I need, don't you, boy?" I grab his bridle. "A nice, long ride to clear my head."
Soon we're loping across the sun-baked earth, crimson dust billowing behind us. With each mile, my anger cools from molten rage to steely determination. I will make this right.
We crest a rise overlooking the Carter ranch. Memories of Cadee flood back - wild, sunburnt kids causing mischief in the schoolyard. Would she even speak to me now?
The sun bronzes the buttes. Despite the beauty, intuition lurks—a storm approaches.
For now, a fragile moment of peace. I turn Ritchie towards home, leaning into his gait. Tomorrow I'll start untangling this web of history and broken trust.
But that damning contract flickers in my mind - a promise of reckoning. Of bridges burned and friendships threatened.
I'll return these water rights to their rightful owners. It's the only way to stop Gramps' poison and maybe redeem the Mowery name.
Ritchie's ears prick forward as we near the barn. Cedar and worn leather scent the breeze. Someone else rides on Mowery land.
Rounding a bend, evening light illuminates a grassy meadow. There, silhouetted against the rustic backdrop, an unfamiliar cowboy sits on a tall bay gelding.
They move seamlessly, executing tight rollbacks and spins. The man sits low in the saddle, guiding his mount with subtle cues. An undeniably beautiful sight.
I force myself to look away, tamping down an unexpected thrill. Just some ranch hand out for an evening ride.
The gelding executes a final, blazing pivot before settling to an easy jog. The rider straightens, catching sight of me. He tips his hat, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
So much for going unnoticed. I nudge Vanna forward, determined not to slink away.
"Evening," I call out. "Didn't mean to interrupt your... practice."
The cowboy's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Just finishing up this fella's training," he drawls. "Nice night for a ride."
I try not to squirm under his assessing gaze. "The ranch is gorgeous at sunset. I was checking fences by the west pasture."
One eyebrow arches. "Ranch hand? Don't think we've met."
When we shake hands, I can feel the roughness of his calloused palm. "Austin Myers. You could say it's my grandfather's place."
Comprehension flits across his features. "You're the one who inherited the double Rider? Small world." He studies me with renewed interest. "Lane. I've been overseeing things here."
Ah, the mysterious caretaker. "Nice to meet you, Lane. Not sure how long I'll be sticking around myself."
His lips quirk at my tone. "No? Where are you headed next, then?"
A hint of challenge lurks in his eyes, daring me to run before I've settled in.
I let my gaze drift across the sprawling ranch. "Way I see it, there's still some unfinished business around here. This place could use a firm hand on the reins."
Lane looks amused. "Is that a fact? Well, I love a challenge."
The spark of interest in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. Lane aims to test me in more ways than one.
"Don't worry your pretty head," I toss back. "I'll try not to show you up too bad while setting things right."
A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Awful sure of yourself, aren't you, princess?"
His expression sobers. "Listen, Austin... I hope you're ready for one hell of a fight. Folks won't care for your return, not after how things went down."
I lift my chin. "Let them try to stop me. This storm's brewing-might as well be me who breaks it."
A muscle ticks in Lane's jaw. "You've got fire, I'll give you that. Don't go getting yourself burned, darlin'."
The concern in his voice gives me pause. For a moment, I see a kindred spirit who knows the peril ahead.
My smirk softens. "Where would be the fun in that?"
Our gazes lock, a new understanding crackling between us. Whatever comes next, I won't back down from this fight.
We ride back to the ranch in silence. Tending to our horses.
As Lane saunters towards his truck, I appreciate the view. It's a wrangler jean thing.
I shake off those thoughts and head inside. No distractions allowed. Work awaits.
The screen door creaks as I enter the No time for distractions, only work. Memories come flooding back with each step. Dad's baseball mitt in the closet, Mom's apron on its peg, the calendar frozen on the day I left twelve years ago.
Swallowing hard, I head upstairs to unpack. In my old bedroom, I slide open the closet, inhaling cedar and memories.
One by one, I pull out relics of my former life - yearbook photos, 4H ribbons, pressed wildflowers. In the corner sits Gramps' old trunk, his initials carved into the lid.
I ease it out and lift the latch. Inside lies a jumble of letters, sepia photos, and at the bottom, an aged document case.
My fingers trace the seal. Numerous untold stories, all culminating here.
Time to reveal these secrets, regardless of the outcome.
I close my eyes as an invisible weight settles onto my shoulders. When I open them, my jaw sets with determination.
Things will get messy. But there's no going back now.
My phone rings, shattering the silence and spurring me into action.
Showtime.
- Writer
