"Our neighbors are cattle and horses," I say, pushing off from the door frame. "They don't complain about the noise, don't leave their trash lying around, and they don't show up unannounced."
Eleanor's laugh has teeth in it now. "Wyatt, dear, the West is changing. You can either change with it or get swept aside."
"Is that a threat?" The words come out harder than I intended, and the tension on the porch ratchets up another notch.
"Oh, heavens no," Eleanor says. "It's reality. The kind of reality that comes with federal deadlines and environmental compliance costs that could bankrupt a family operation."
She leans forward. "We're offering you a choice. Sell us the eastern section—at a fair price, mind you—and we'll help you navigate this unfortunate situation with the Forest Service. We have excellent relationships with environmental consultants. The kind of relationships that could make problems... disappear."
"And if we don't?" Mom's voice is steady, but there’s a reckoning building behind her eyes.
Eleanor spreads her hands like she's discussing theweather. "Then you'll have to handle the situation on your own. Ninety days to remove twenty thousand head of cattle and all that fencing. The logistics alone would be staggering. The costs..." She shakes her head with mock sympathy. "Well, I'm sure you've run the numbers."
"Do you want to sell part of it," Ford adds, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability, "or lose all of it?"
"We appreciate the offer," Grandpa says finally, his tone nonnegotiable. "But we'll pass."
Eleanor's smile doesn't waver. "Are you certain? This is a very generous offer, given the circumstances."
"We're certain," Moms says, voice carrying the kind of politeness that comes right before a declaration of war.
Eleanor smooths her white suit like she's brushing off more than just wrinkles. "Well then. I suppose we'll leave you to handle your... situation... as you see fit."
Ford follows her down the steps, but not before fixing me with a stare that promises trouble down the road. I match him glare for glare.
They climb back into their Mercedes and roll back down our drive without so much as a backward glance. The weight of their threat hangs in the air like smoke from a grassfire. Some promises don't need to be spoken out loud to be understood.
The three of us stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle over the porch like snow on a dark winter’s night.
"Should we have brought Kinsley up for that?" I ask, glancing toward the barn where I left her nursing a head wound and probably wondering what kind of family she's gotten tangled up with.
"No." Mom's answer comes quick and decisive. "The longer the Whitmore's stay in the dark about our new consultant, the better. That's one reason I wanted Kinsley staying here on the property instead of in town—less chance of people talking." She glances at me with that knowing look that makes me feel like I'm sixteen again and she's caught me sneaking back from the county fair. "Maybe she'll find something to occupy her interest here at the ranch—outside of work. Maybe you can show her around."
I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth. "Maybe."
“But Wyatt,” Mom lifts a brow. “If you do take more photos, will you please keep your shirt on?”
Dang, I should’ve known Mom would seethatpost. “I can try.” I grin, even as my gut churns. I don’t remember that night, and as hard as I try to put it behind me, I’m worried I never will, thanks to the internet.
“Thank you,” her eyes fill with warmth. I’m tempted to tell her about the dinner I've already claimed, but I don’t. Some things are better kept between a man and whatever trouble he's planning to get into.
Mom and Grandpa head back inside, and I follow them into the main room. They settle at the table while I lean against the kitchen counter where I can keep an eye on the drive in case any more unwelcome visitors decide to show up.
My mind drifts to Kinsley. I should have thought to give her something for the headache she's bound to have. At least I know she'll get a good dinner tonight.
"What's the plan?" Grandpa asks, pulling me back to the conversation.
"Kinsley and I will figure thisout," Mom replies, and there's steel in her voice. "There are soft spots somewhere. We'll find them."
I half-listen to their planning while my mind wanders to more immediate concerns. Like what Kinsley's soft spot might be. She's tough as nails but I want to see what she's like when those walls come down. Really down, not just rattled by a knock to the head or caught off guard by a spooked horse. I want to see what she's like when she's not thinking three moves ahead.
She didn't pull away when I touched her face in the barn. Didn't flinch when my thumb brushed across her lip. There was heat there. The kind of heat that tells me this thing between us isn't one-sided—.
"Wyatt."
Mom's voice comes through my wandering thoughts, and I realize she's been talking to me.
"Sorry, what?"