"What's going on?" Jake tries to sit up.
"Someone's been sending Kinsley anonymous texts," Wyatt says.
The question I've been avoiding forces itself past my lips. "Do you think it's my dad?"
The room falls quiet except for Jake's monitors.
Wyatt studies my face. "Doyouthink it's your dad?"
I should know, shouldn't I? But the truth is, I barely know Ford at all. There's a memory that surfaces: I was eight, maybe nine, and I'd won a small barrel racing competition. I called to tell him, breathless with pride. He didn't answer. I left a voicemail. Never heard back.
"It feels like something he would do. But then it doesn’t. I’ve never been worth his time.” I fold in on myself.
Wyatt pulls me to him and rubs his hand up and down my arm. "I'm sorry, Kins."
"I need to get home," I say finally.
As we prepare to leave, Ford remains a shadow—present but absent, connected but distant, just like he's always been. Maybe his indifference is weapon enough.
Is it possible he's sending these texts? I don't know. But if he is, I'm stepping into a fight with my own father—and that's a war I never wanted to wage.
Thirty-Three
IF YOU TRY TO PROTECT HER BY SENDING HER AWAY, YOU'LL LOSE HER SURE AS SUNRISE.
WYATT
The stock trailer's gate drops with a metallic clang that echoes across the auction yard, and I'm moving to guide our cattle down the ramp. Grandpa works his truck while Billy helps him with the sorting, all of us working around each other because we know our jobs and when to stay out of someone else’s way.
The Brush Livestock Auction spreads out in front of us—steel pens packed with cattle, ranchers in beat-up Wranglers checking on their stock, auctioneers testing mics that squeal loud enough to wake the dead. Buyers with clipboards move between the pens, sizing up the animals. The whole place smells like hay, manure, and diesel—exactly like it should.
The two days since we returned from Oregonhave been a whirlwind of activity that's turned our quiet ranch into something resembling a campaign headquarters.
Kinsley's been working nonstop on this thing. She's all over the place—checking on the electricians at the venue, holed up at the cottage on her laptop talking to politicians and celebrities, then running up to the main house for meetings with Mom that go past midnight.
Watching her handle all this—the media calls, the catering mess, half the politicians in Colorado—is something else. Never seen anything sexier in my life.
Grandpa, however, is about ready to lose his mind with all the commotion happening on his normally quiet-ish ranch. When I offered to haul cattle to auction with him this morning, the relief in his weathered face was worth the early wake-up call.
Not to mention, Kinsley and Mom were grateful to get him out of their way. He somehow manages to be right in the middle of the kitchen when they’re trying to work.
Billy climbed into Grandpa's truck without being asked, understanding that sometimes a man needs the quiet company of someone who knows when to talk and when to just let the road noise fill the silence.
Our cattle flow down the ramps with minimal fuss—one-hundred-and-twenty head of yearling steers that should bring decent money. They're quality stock, well-muscled and healthy.
"Easy there, boys," I murmur to a particularly jumpy steer, guiding him toward the assigned pen with steady pressure from my position. The animal settles once he's with the group, finding comfort in the herd.
A rumble catches my attention at the entrance, where astock trailer that's way too clean pulls in between the beat-up ranch trucks. Gritstone Ranch gleams in gold letters against forest green—not a speck of honest dirt on it.
Ford climbs out of the cab like he owns the place, when we all know the Whitmore’s own him. Creased jeans, spotless hat, everything about him screaming money while the rest of us look like we actually work for a living.
My hands curl into fists. Between Brittney’s texts to Kinsley and this sorry excuse for a man sending his own daughter anonymous threats, I’ve had enough. I’m putting an end to it, right here, right now.
"Dang it," Grandpa mutters under his breath, following my gaze. "Thought we might have a peaceful morning."
Ford's cattle move down his ramp—quality stock, though I hate to admit it. They flow with the kind of ease that speaks of good handling and careful breeding, each one representing the Whitmore's deep pockets and selective breeding program.
Billy appears at my elbow, quiet as always but alert to the tension that's suddenly charged the air around us. "Want me to finish up here?" he asks, nodding toward our own cattle.