Page 3 of Midnight Surrounds Us

When I turned to leave, I heard her breathy huff of indignation, but I didn’t need eyes in the back of my head to know there was a twinkle in her eye now and thatbothher eyes were glued to the seat of my jeans.

Now, I just needed to let her stew in the idea of me and her awhile. I’d be back. No way would I give up on Aubrey. I’d waited a lifetime already; a few more months wouldn’t deter me.

But first, I needed to have something to offer her. Problem was, I didn’t have shit.

Squat, zilch, nada.

But that was about to change.

CHAPTER ONE

RYE

Couldyou really claim you had a legacy if someone else owned the land, if it was their name on the deed, not yours? If all a man did was work for his daddy, could he even really say he had a job? Or was he just his dad’s bitch?

And was he even a man? By most Wyoming standards, that would be a hard no. By my own standards, it was a big, fatfuckingno.

“Dammit, Ryder,” my dad complained. “The west fence is still down. Didn’t you doanythingyesterday?”

Focusing on the sunrise behind him, I thought:Yeah. Dug holes for a mile of new fenceposts. Managed thousands of cattle. Thought about Aubrey George. Patched up the hole in the east barn wall where a raccoon ripped through it to make a nest. Fed and watered horses. Thought about Aubrey again. Jacked off to thoughts of Aubrey on my lunch break. Exercised the horses. Fed and watered yet again.

“That goddamn fence is the most important task I gave you. Get to it, now.”

“Yes, sir.”

My old daddy didn’t trust but a handful of people, which meant many of the jobs that should’ve been done by ranch hands landed in my lap every day.

Dropping his head to stare at the clipboard he kept clutched close to his heart, he continued to peruse the paper proof of all the money he’d made on our latest cattle sale. They’d just been picked up to be transported to slaughter.

He mumbled, “Lazin’ about all damn day when there’s work to be done.”

“‘Lazin’?Old man, I work my ass off for you and this ranch, but?—”

He speared me with a look, peering over the rims of his glasses. In the shade of his hat, they darkened like sunglasses.

He shook his head. “Don’t, Ryder. Don’t start. I don’t need to hear about regenerative agriculture one more time. I’ve heard it all. You never shut up about it. Just get to work.”

Presley pounded me hard on the back, his not-so-gentle way of telling me to move on. To shut my mouth and get to work. He knew when my dad’s patience had worn thin. He’d worked for us long enough to know when to change the subject. It still made me laugh that his mama named him Elvis. I didn’t think anybody even knew his last name was actually Decker.

The problem was, if I shut up about all my ideas for our ranch, there wouldn’t be much left of it when, eventually, it became mine.

My two older brothers wanted nothing to do with the family business, which was probably smart on their parts. Sure, our cattle were fat, but the soil was dead. The only thing that grew in abundance on our land was misery and weeds, so the money my dad liked so much was spent feeding the cattle.

If he would just listen to what I had to say, we could change the direction of G&S Cattle. We could alter Graves & Sons’ carbon footprint on the world, could lessen it by a goddamnmile, which would only make us more money. It might be hard work in the beginning, but didn’t we work our asses off every day anyway?

“Give it up,” Presley whispered.

He yanked his head toward the west fence my dad hadn’t stopped grumbling about since yesterday morning even though there wasn’t a cow anywhere near the breach.

Of course, before we could mount our horses and head out, my dad had to get in one last dig. “You don’t fix that fence, genius, ain’t gonna be no cows left for you to sustainably farm when I kick the bucket.” As he turned to walk away, he added under his breath, “That’s the only way you’ll get your mitts on my ranch.”

Fucker.

“Grady’s in a fine mood today,” Presley said when my dad was out of earshot. “What did you do? Or whatdidn’tyou do?”

“The fence. He pays no mind to all the other shit I got done yesterday,” I said, turning to tighten my cinch. I patted my horse’s shoulder and felt energy buzzing in the muscle. Blue was ready to ride.

“No, it’s more than that.” Presley stepped into his stirrup and pushed up into his saddle. His fifteen-year-old bay mare didn’t bat an eye. She was too busy sniffing the dirt, searching for grass that didn’t grow anymore by the barns. “He don’t talk about dyin’ unless you’ve really pissed him off.”

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