Page 73 of Lost in the Reins

"Papers can be unsigned." Jake leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Deals can change. Unless you're too proud to admit when you're wrong."

I exhale slowly, staring into the depths of my coffee like it holds answers I already know but don’t want to hear.

The truth is, I don’t know if I’m wrong. I just know I’m tired. Tired of fighting battles I keep losing. Tired of holding together something that keeps slipping through my fingers like dry Montana dust.

Jake and Colt don’t push. They just stand there, letting the silence settle thick between us. Letting me wrestle with my own thoughts.

Outside, Bernard honks again, louder this time, full of righteous indignation. Probably because Emma forgot to refill his water. That goose never misses an opportunity to remind us of our failures.

I scrub a hand over my jaw and push back from the table. “I need to check on the livestock before they get here.”

Jake doesn’t argue, just watches me like he’s waiting for something more. Colt shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about stubborn old fools.

The screen door slams behind me as I step onto the porch. The air is sharp with the bite of coming winter, the sky stretching wide and empty over land that isn’t really mine anymore. I dragin a breath, filling my lungs with the scent of frost, horses, and hay.

I should be grateful. Should be relieved that Emma’s future will be secure, that some version of this ranch will still exist, even if it’s not in the way I want.

But all I feel is hollow.

My boots crunch against the frozen dirt as I make my way to the barn. The horses shift in their stalls, ears flicking toward me, sensing the weight in my steps. The barn cat, a scrappy thing Emma named Pickles, weaves between my feet, tail high, demanding attention.

“Not now, bud,” I murmur, giving him a quick scratch before heading toward the tack room.

The ranch has always been work. Always been long days and sore muscles, hands raw from rope and weather. But it’s also been laughter in the kitchen, Sarah singing while she burned breakfast, Emma’s giggles echoing through the fields. It’s been something worth breaking myself over.

I reach for the worn bridle hanging on its hook, my fingers tracing the leather grooves out of habit.

Papers can be unsigned.

Deals can change.

The question is, do I have any fight left in me to change them?

The rattle of an expensive SUV on the gravel drive announces the developer’s arrival. Through the kitchen window, I watch him emerge—crisp suit, polished boots that have never seen an honest day's work. He's got a tablet in hand, probably filled with plans to turn our home into someone else's idea of ranch life.

"Mr. Montgomery." His handshake is firm but soft. City soft. "Beautiful property you have here."

I don’t bother with pleasantries. “Cut to it.”

His smile falters just a fraction before he recovers, swiping at his tablet. “Of course. Our investors are eager to move forward. The plan is to preserve some of the existing structures for historical charm”—he gestures vaguely toward the barn—“but to maximize profitability, we’ll need to clear a significant portion of the acreage.”

My fingers curl into my palm. “Clear?”

“Demolish,” he clarifies, as if I don’t know exactly what he means. “We’d repurpose a small section for high-end glamping experiences—cabins, guided horseback rides, farm-to-table dining. The full Montana escape.”

Jake lets out a low whistle from beside me. Colt mutters something I don’t catch. My ears are roaring too loud anyway.

“You’re talking about gutting the land,” I say, voice even. Too even. “Leveling pastures, cutting down hundred-year-old trees, putting in…” I glance at his tablet, at the digital renderings of sleek, modern buildings with wide windows and wraparound decks. “Luxury vacation homes?”

“Residences,” the developer corrects smoothly. “For a select clientele. High-profile, exclusive. People want the authenticity of ranch life without, well…” He laughs lightly, like this is funny. “Without the mess of it.”

I stare at him. “The mess of it.”

He nods, oblivious. “Precisely. We’ll keep a few horses, of course. Offer guided riding lessons. Maybe even a hands-on cattle experience for our premium guests.”

Colt steps forward, arms crossed tight. “You mean rich people playing cowboy on land they didn’t earn.”

The developer blinks, then pastes on that same well-trained smile. “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity to share the beauty of Montana with those who appreciate it.”

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