“It’ll make us look like we’re having financial trouble,” I spit out, despite his earlier command.
“Hard choices are hard for a reason, Wes.”
It’s his way of telling me he has already decided.
He lowers his palm back to his desk. “I reached out to a realtor. She’s putting in some calls to development companies I would prefer to sell to. Places with standards and a backbone. I don’t want some pansy-ass people who’ll use the land to bring in big box stores and ruin Sierra Grande.”
I smirk. “Is that what you told the realtor to write in the listing?”
The corner of his mouth quirks, and it’s as much of a smile as I’ll get out of him while discussing this.
If my mother is my father’s first love, and the ranch his second, then Sierra Grande is a close third. Like many of the people still living in the town, Dad was born and raised here. The Hayden Cattle Company is as much a fixture as the Bar N, the local watering hole located in a poorly revamped barn.
“I want you to take point on this project. I’ll go to the first meetings with you from prospective buyers, but after that, it’s your responsibility.” He gets up from his chair and walks to the window while I busy myself picking my jaw up from wherever it rolled to when it hit the ground. Aside from the time I spent in the military, I’ve been working the ranch my whole life and I’ve never been given responsibility in the running of it. It should make me happy, but mostly it worries me. My dad is getting older, and he’s pulling back.
When I recover, I say, “This is a pretty big project for you not to handle on your own, Dad, or at least have a big hand in.”
He turns, his dark eyes piercing me like arrows. “Are you not up for it?”
“Of course I am,” I assure him.
“I thought you might want to be part of what will ultimately edge our property. After all, this place will be yours one day.” He doesn’t look away, doesn’t mention the fact that right now, the way things are, the Hayden Cattle Company cannot be mine.
Four generations of Hayden cattlemen run through my blood, and I want to sit at the helm of this family ranch more than I want food or air. It twists me up inside knowing I may never get what I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of.
It will go to Warner, though he doesn’t want it like I do. If he passes it up, it will go to Wyatt, and who the hell knows what will happen then?
Without me, the Hayden Cattle Company may not have a future. The worst part? I could rectify my situation, but it seems an impossible task.
My dad shakes my hand and tells me he’ll direct the calls from the realtor my way. On my way out of the office, I bump into my mom. She’s walking with Peyton, the older of Warner’s two kids.
She kisses my cheek and squeezes my hand. “Are you taking on the project?”
I nod. She smiles faintly, her eyes creased in concern. “It will be good for you. Good for the ranch. Your dad’s getting old. He needs to slow down.”
“Right,” I agree. Sometimes I think he’s evergreen, and other times I see his age. “What are you two ladies up to this morning?”
“Milking goats,” Peyton answers. She has her mother’s blond hair and dimpled left cheek. “Grandma’s going to show me how she makes goat cheese.”
“No school today?” I ask.
Peyton shakes her head. “Nope,” she answers, popping the ‘p’. “We have the day off school. Teacher in-service.”
I don’t know what that is, and I’m not curious enough to ask. “Well, have fun with the goats.”
I peel away from them and head outside, get on my horse, and go join the cowboys mending fences.
Today will be the kind of day where I add a new callus to my hands.
3
Dakota
No. Please, no. Someone tell me that did not just happen.
It’s my last pair of high heels. My favorite pair, the black ones with the gold-studded heel. And now one of them is no longer a heel. It’s a flat, courtesy of the curb and my misstep.
I pause on the sidewalk beside a skinny Aspen tree. A long, deep breath draws in slowly through my nose, my chest expanding, and I hold it until my throat burns.
“So screwed,” I mutter on the exhale. I am so screwed. This is my last pair of work-appropriate shoes. What am I supposed to wear tomorrow? Hiking boots? Converse? I can’t think about that now. I need to figure out how I’m going to hobble my way into the office.
Looking around, I see the streets of downtown Colorado Springs are as crowded as they’re probably ever going to get, which is to say not much. The inhabitants of this town are smart; they can be found on one of the gazillion hiking trails, not pounding the pavement in one high heel and one flat like me.
I nod at an older man who passes, waiting patiently for him to get far enough away, and then I remove my intact shoe and crouch down. It pains me to do this, like an actual twist in my gut, but what choice do I have? I bring the heel down against the curb until the second shoe matches the first, then slide it onto my foot and stow the broken heels in my purse. They’re officially the weirdest thing I’ve ever carried in my bag. I square my shoulders, look up at the small glass and concrete building in front of me, and march into the front door like wearing flats with the hem of my black dress pants dragging on the ground is something I’ve done on purpose.
My family’s office is one of many in this building. The lobby smells like the cucumber melon scented lotion I used in high school, and a small dark green velvet love seat and matching couch sit near the elevator bank. I’ve never seen anybody using them, so at this point, I’m certain they’re just for decoration.
I keep going past the ornamental couches and walk to the second to last door on the left. Wright Design + Build is written in dark gray lettering on the frosted glass door. My dad started this firm before I was born, and we joke that it’s his third baby. I’ve been working here for six months. Learning the ropes, he says in a hopeful tone. He has always hoped to pass down his business to me or my sister, Abby. The problem is that Abby isn’t interested, and I’m, well… me. I’m more creative than analytical, more right brain than left. I couldn’t possibly run this large of a business. The only reason I’m working here now is because I was fired (let go, downsized, whatever) from my event planning job. I was hesitant to take my dad up on his offer, but I needed money. To eat, to live, and to do that other thing I do with my money that I haven’t told anybody about.
Sheila is the first person I see when I walk into the small reception area. She’s been with the company as long as I can remember, and her personality is what some would call prickly. When I was a little girl, I was frightened of her, but that stopped after a company picnic when she cussed out some boys who were picking on me. After that, we became thick as thieves. Or at least as thick as you can be with your father’s administrative assistant who you see sporadically until you work for the company and become her kind-of boss who probably doesn’t deserve to be.
Sheila’s seated but bent over in her chair, digging through her over-sized purse. “Good morning,” I say to her poof of feathered hair. Sheila never got the memo on discontinuing the use of a small round brush and Aqua Net. Either that, or she got the memo and wrote expletives on it and marked it return to sender.