Cash (Lucky River Ranch, #1)

by Jessica Peterson

My heart takes a tumble at the very handsome man standing just inside the door. He looks to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Tall—six-three, I’d guess—with the kind of build you see on quarterbacks: broad shoulders, thick arms, long legs with thighs that strain against his fitted jeans. Wranglers, if I had to guess. He’s holding a cowboy hat to his chest, like he just swept it off his mass of messy brown hair that curls out at the ends. Veins crisscross the back of his hand. He’s sporting a scruffy beard that’s longer along his top lip—I don’t normally find mustaches attractive, but somehow, it’s downright hot on this guy—and a white-and-blue striped button-up that complements his cobalt eyes. Eyes that are so blue, in fact, they seem to glow against his deeply tanned face.

“Mollie, allow me to introduce Cash Rivers.” Goody extends her arm. “He’s been the foreman at your family’s ranch for, goodness, has it been⁠—” “Twelve years.” Cash’s clipped reply makes me think he really is annoyed. With me? But why? And he’s working on our property now? What happened to his family’s ranch? I’m confused.

“Cash. Wow. I remember you.” I extend my hand. He glances at it, his mouth a hard line. An awkward beat passes before he wordlessly envelops my hand in the warm mitt of his. My pulse skips at the firmness of his handshake. How his heavily calloused palm presses against mine, dry but somehow thrillingly alive at the same time. I give him a firm handshake back, making a point to look him in the eye again. “Been a minute,” he says at last.

Goody takes a seat at the head of the long, shiny conference table. I grab the chair to her right and watch Cash fold his large body into the chair to Goody’s left. He sets his hat on the table upside down so that the crown is facing up. What’s that about? A way to protect the hat’s shape or something?

Goody sets out several pieces of paper on the table, pushing them around until they line up in rows of three. “I’d like to start by saying emotions can run high during these situations. It’s okay to take a break if you need it, all right?” I uncap a purple felt-tipped pen. “Okay.” “Yes, ma’am.” Cash sits up in his chair and rests his elbows on the table. “Let’s dive right in.” Goody glances down at the papers. “For simplicity’s sake, we’ll divide Garrett Randall Luck’s assets into two buckets: financial and tangible. The Lucky Ranch comprises 256,000 acres and 15,000 head of cattle, along with 22 structures, several pieces of heavy equipment, and an oil operation that produces approximately 1,000 barrels a day. As of the signing of this will, the ranch employed 50 people…” I hear the whisper of denim on denim. Looking across the table, I notice Cash’s knee is bouncing. He’s anxious too.

“…and then we have the financial bucket, consisting of cash and an investment portfolio. Garrett requested this be put in a trust…” Cash glances up, and our gazes collide. I finally recognize the look in his eyes. Resentment. What? Why? I haven’t been in this town for twenty years. What could I have possibly done to him? “…all this is to say”—Goody inhales sharply, and Cash’s eyes cut to her—“Garrett last amended his will in April of this year. In that amendment, he stipulated that Lucky Ranch and all its operations be bequeathed to his only living relative, Mary Elizabeth Luck, nicknamed Mollie.”

“With all due respect, Goody, that’s incorrect. Garrett said the ranch would go to me.” My head spins. A fist grips my lungs and squeezes. “Excuse me?” “Garrett promised me the ranch.” Cash looks me square in the eye. “Many times, in fact.” Goody frowns. “We don’t have that in writing, I’m afraid.” I stare at Cash. “Are you delusional?” “Are you?” he fires back. “Goody, Garrett said he’d put it in his will. I can have all of Hartsville—every single person—vouch for me. Patsy and John B. The ranch hands. Sally and Tallulah, and, well, everyone heard Garrett say it. Think about it. I know Lucky Ranch better’n anyone. My family’s been in Hartsville for generations⁠—” “He was my dad.” Regardless of the fact that he and I barely spoke over the past decade. “I’m his daughter. What makes you think you’re entitled to his assets? I’ve barely even heard of you.” Cash’s blue eyes burn. “You would have if you’d called or spent any time on the ranch.”

“You know nothing about me.” My voice wavers. “And clearly, you know nothing about my family. The ranch belongs to me⁠—” “Lemme guess. You’re gonna sell it.” “That’s none of your business.” “Sure as hell is my business. I’ll be damned if our operation is sold to one of your idiot trust-fund friends who doesn’t know their ass from their elbow when it comes to ranching. You got no idea how much work we’ve put in⁠—” “I don’t care.” I clench my teeth. “Truly, I could care less about you or whatever work you do.” “You couldn’t care less.” “Excuse me?” His eyes bore into mine. “That’s the proper expression.” “What the hell is your problem?” “Where do I begin?”

“All right, y’all.” Goody raises her voice. “Let’s try and keep it civil, all right? Garrett wouldn’t want y’all arguing this way. We have to respect his wishes as he laid them out in his will. It is the law.” “I’m gonna fight this,” Cash says. I purse my lips. “I’d like to see you try.” Goody clears her throat. “May I finish?” Cash’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Go for it.” “The monetary assets—cash and the investment portfolio, which have been placed in a trust—will also go to Mollie.”

Cash lets out a dark chuckle. “See, City Girl? You got your money. Let us have the ranch.”

“However”—Goody flattens her palm on the table beside mine—“there is a stipulation.”

“A stipulation? Like I have to be a certain age or something to inherit the estate?” “Sort of.” She hesitates. “This stipulation…is unique, I’ll say that much. Your father is requiring you to reside on Lucky Ranch for one full calendar year before you can access any of the funds in the trust. He also requests you actively participate in the day-to-day operations as principal of Lucky Ranch Enterprises, Incorporated. If you do so, you’ll receive a generous monthly stipend from the trust for every month you reside in Hartsville.” I laugh. I throw back my head and laugh, hard, because if I don’t, I’m worried I’ll puke.

Lol uh oh

But Goody just looks at me and blinks. Totally unfazed. Oh, God. She’s serious. “That can’t be right.” Cash leans over to glance at the paperwork. “Doesn’t sound like Garrett.”

Goody tilts her head. “I was sitting in this very chair when Garrett said exactly those words back in April. We drafted the new will that day.” I blink back tears, my stomach pitching. “But why make me live on the ranch? Is that even legal? How can it be enforced?” Goody takes a long inhale and then holds out her hands, palms up. “It’s what your dad wanted, Mollie. I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you hoped to hear.” “What if I don’t do it?” Cash harrumphs. “Shocker.”

“I have a job. Like I said, I run my company back in Dallas. And I have a condo, and—and my mom lives there, and I—my friends, everything—I can’t just⁠—” “Leave?” Cash raises a brow. “You could try it, right now.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why don’t you take your own advice? My dad clearly didn’t leave you anything⁠—” “That’s not exactly true,” Goody interjects. “—so why don’t you get the hell out of here already?” Cash turns to the attorney. “I’m listening.” “Can’t you just release the funds, Goody?” I ask, desperate. “Even just a portion of them? At least until I can get Mom’s lawyers to look at the will.”

“Wouldn’t be right, Mollie. I’m sorry. We do this how your dad wanted it done, or we don’t do it...

“As ranch life is”—Goody clears her throat—“clearly not a passion of yours, Mollie, I suggest you establish residency here in Hartsville as soon as possible. The sooner the clock starts, the sooner you’ll get your stipends, and the sooner you’ll be able to go back to your life in Dallas.” “She won’t last a week,” Cash mutters. “You’re not going to last another minute if you keep insulting me.” I open my eyes to glare at him. “I don’t know what my dad saw in you, but it’s obvious he was a piss-poor judge of character. Seriously, leave.” “I’m not goin’ anywhere until I know Lucky Ranch ends up in the right hands.” Goody rises. “How about we take five?” Jamming the cap back onto my pen, I throw it into my bag, along with my planner. “I’m done here. Goody, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” I hear Cash say as I stalk out of the conference room. “Wait, Mollie—Miss Luck—” Zach rises from behind his desk, but I zoom past him and out into miserable afternoon heat.

What the hell just happened? And how can I still smell City Girl’s perfume, even though she left? “You’re serious.” I turn to Goody. “Garrett left the ranch to her.” Goody nods as she folds a manila file. “That’s what the will says, yes.” “Then we’re fucked.” “You don’t know that.” “I do, though. If he’d left the ranch to me—” My voice catches. I look away, tapping the bottom of my fist against the table. “I’d take care of it. The people. The land. The animals. She’s in charge, all of that goes to shit.” “You don’t know that,” Goody repeats. She opens a zippered pouch on the table beside the folder. “She wore pink cowboy boots, Goody.” I wince. “Shiny ones. New ones.” “Be that as it may, let the dust settle, and then we’ll see what happens. We have to respect Garrett’s wishes.” Pushing up to my feet, I grab my hat. “I respect Garrett more’n anyone. That’s why I won’t let this stand.” “He did leave you something.” “What’s that?” She digs into the pouch and holds out a key. “A lockbox. It’s here at the Lonestar.”

Looking down at the key, my chest twists. What the hell was Garrett smoking when he wrote this will? “Any idea what’s in it? The lockbox?” I ask. Goody shakes her head. “Only thing he told me is that it was precious to him. He didn’t want to risk losing it, so he brought it to the bank.”

“I’ll give it a look.” I tuck the key into my pocket. “Thanks, Goody. Tell Tallulah I said hi.” Goody gives me a warm smile. “She misses seeing you at The Rattler, you know.”

Interesting

I was a Friday night regular at Hartsville’s infamous dive bar, until a line-dancing accident sent me to the hospital six years ago. The concussion kept me from working on the ranch for weeks, and shit hit the fan while I was away. Can’t risk that happening again.

I draw up short when I see the fancy SUV parked next to my truck. That wasn’t there when I ducked into the pharmacy before heading to Goody’s office earlier. The vehicle belongs to Mollie, no question. People in Hartsville drive practical cars. Ones that don’t have $500 tires and cost an arm and a leg to fix. The Range Rover is just as shiny and ridiculous as its owner. Rounding the front of my Ford, I jam my hat onto my head and resist the urge to roll my eyes at the grumble of the Rover’s supercharged engine. Mollie’s got the dang AC going full blast at all times, no doubt. A princess like her would wither in the heat. Did she drive this thing to the funeral? The one none of us—the people who knew Garrett best—were invited to?

The only six-figure sum I’ve ever seen was on the first Lonestar Bank & Trust Co. statement I opened after my parents passed. It detailed the amount of the home equity loan they’d taken out to cover the ranch’s losses after beef prices took a nosedive in 2010. I’m still paying that fucking thing off. Then again, paying that bill means we’ve managed to hold on to Rivers Ranch for another year. And my brothers and I have been able to pay because of Garrett Luck.

Right now, I just gotta pray the truck my daddy bought used back in ’96 makes it through another calving season. I keep my head down as I dig my keys out of my pocket and unlock the driver’s-side door. I don’t want to see Mollie as much as she don’t wanna see me. Even if I couldn’t stop staring at her back in Goody’s office. My stomach swoops at the memory of Mollie’s eyes. Same as her daddy’s, dark brown and deep set. Expressive. Gripping the chrome door handle, my bones go heavy. This grief—it’s gotta get gone already. I have too many people depending on me to keep feeling this busted up. I’m pressing my thumb into the button that unlatches the door when I hear a low moan.

For a second, I feel sorry for her. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even her. But then I remember she barely knew her daddy. I remember the sad look Garrett would get when he talked about her.

A voice sounds over the sobbing. Bluetooth, coming from the Rover’s speakers. Mollie’s on the phone. “Get out of that hellhole and come home,” a woman says. “That money belongs to you, sweet girl, and I’ll make sure you get it, come hell or high water.” “I don’t understand,” Mollie replies. “Why make me work for it this way?” “Your dad…he was always so damn difficult.” “That’s an understatement.” I climb into the truck and start the engine. I hold the steering wheel in a death grip, my knuckles white. I’m already sweating, my shirt sticking to my back. Mollie’s not upset because she lost a father. She’s upset because she didn’t get her money. That’s all Garrett was to her—an ATM. To me, he was everything. The father I lost. The mentor I needed. The friend who kept me sane when I was drowning in grief.

I just lost everything, but here’s this spoiled city girl, sobbing over the millions she has to wait a year to get while calling the man who saved my life and my family “difficult.” Mollie is pretty. Anyone with two eyes and a pulse can see that. But nothing turns me off more than her kind of carelessness. Her sense of entitlement.

If Garrett were still alive, we’d be in an ATV at this hour. Too hot to be on horseback if you don’t need to be. Probably over by the bend in the Colorado River that marks the western boundary of Lucky Ranch. We’d be surveying wildlife, maybe, or casting a line in a shady spot. Garrett loved the river. Almost as much as he loved hunting, nineties country, and spicy ranch waters. But he loved nothing more than the daughter he talked about often, but who never came to see him. Why the fuck did he say he was leaving Lucky Ranch to me if his will said something different? We talked constantly about the ranch’s future. He was obsessed with the place. Like me, ranching was in his blood. His granddaddy bought the first ten thousand acres that eventually became Lucky Ranch back in the early 1900s. It’s been in the Luck family ever since. Garrett took me under his wing when I was 19, right after my parents died. I’d dropped out of college to care for my four younger brothers and run our family’s ranch. He helped me set everything to rights. Even if that did mean selling off every last steer and spare tractor tire to pay my parents’ debts. I swore I’d restore Rivers Ranch to its former glory one day. But back then, it was about survival. With nothing left for us on our ranch, Garrett hired my brothers and me to work on his. It was fair pay, plus we got room and board. We couldn’t afford the upkeep on our family’s house on Rivers Ranch, so being able to live in the cushy bunkhouse Ga...

He loved us, same as we love him. Still, I never expected Garrett to turn to me one day and ask, “What do you say to taking over when I’m gone? Can’t think of anyone better to run the place.” My throat is tight. I slow when I approach Lonestar Bank, ducking my head to look out my passenger-side window at the building’s glass doors. The lights are on inside, but there’s a sign on the door. I don’t need to read it to know the manager, Harley, is “out handling business and will return in the morning.” Aka business was slow today, so he cut his staff loose and went four-wheeling out by Starrush Creek. Guess I’ll be checking out the lockbox another day, then.

Only my brother would ride to and from town when it’s this hot. And he’d only do it if he had money to collect from his weekly poker game. Wiping my eyes on my shirt, I stick my head out the window. “Please tell me you took some rich motherfucker for all he was worth.” Wyatt turns his head and grins down at me from the saddle. “You’re the only rich motherfucker left in these parts. How’s it feel, being owner of Lucky Ranch?” I squint up at my brother. A beat passes. He frowns, pulling on his horse’s reins. “Shit.” “Yep.” “What happened?” “No idea. Garrett forgot to update his will maybe? I don’t think he’d lie to me.” “He’d never lie to anyone.” “Ranch is going to Mollie Luck. She gets everything—the operation, the trust.” Wyatt’s eyes bulge. “She ain’t ever been out here.” “I know.” “She’s gonna sell it.” “I know.”

I let out a breath. Sweat rolls down my temples. The inside of my truck feels like an airless oven. “She’s gotta live on the ranch for a year—Mollie. Play pretend as the boss lady. Only way she’ll get her money. It’s in Garrett’s will.” Wyatt stares at me. “That makes zero sense.” “No shit. Garrett and Mollie didn’t talk much, sure, but he would’ve told me if she ever expressed any interest in the ranch. She would’ve visited, you know? To put her in charge of everything…” I shake my head. “Seems reckless.” “Garrett was not reckless.” “Exactly. Makes me feel like he’s sending us a message.” So does the whole lockbox thing. I decide not to tell my brother about the key in my pocket. I don’t want to get his hopes up. Figure I’ll see what I’m working with and go from there. “Maybe.” Wyatt lifts a shoulder. “Or maybe he just wanted to keep the ranch in the family.” We are his family. I’m certain of that.

No way I’m working for her. Then again, do I have a choice? What am I gonna do if she actually comes to live on the ranch? Yeah, I’m the foreman, which means I call the shots when it comes to pretty much everything that goes on at the property. I oversee a staff of fifty. I manage budgets, repairs, equipment maintenance, our calving operation and veterinary programs, not to mention hundreds of thousands of acres of land. I get shit done. But ultimately, the person who owns Lucky Ranch is the one who signs my paychecks and those of my staff.

Music blaring, I drive another ten minutes. A dirt road appears on my left, the land around it blistered and broken, a shade of gray-brown that makes my chest hurt. The rusted wrought iron arch above the road reads Rivers Ranch Est. 1904. Once upon a time, this land was well tended to. Granted, it wasn’t as green as Lucky Ranch. Few ranches are. Garrett took his role as steward of the land seriously. Together, we worked with conservationists to make the ranch a haven of biodiversity. I’d love to do the same for Rivers Ranch. But that kind of project takes time. And money. Lots and lots of money. Money I thought I’d have in hand today. Between the cattle and oil operations, Lucky Ranch is a highly profitable enterprise. Even with Mollie receiving Garrett’s monetary assets, the ranch generates so much income, I’d have plenty left over to revive Rivers Ranch. It’s a smart investment; combining the two ranches would allow me to add lucrative revenue streams to our portfolio. I could increase the size of our cattle and oil operations. Add a hospitality element, maybe renovating my childhood home into some sort of event venue or bed-and-breakfast. Set up a hunting camp that could be rented out or used by local schools for wildlife projects. It’d be an enormous undertaking, but a worthy one. It would bring revenue to our community, making Hartsville a destination for hunters, weekend travelers, wedding parties.

Sometimes, late at night, I even catch myself fantasizing about raising a family of my own here, alongside my brothers and their families. Life wasn’t easy on the ranch, but it was a magical place to grow up.

She wants war, I’ll give her war. I still got some fight in me. Fight’s all I got left.

Then again, I’ve had some stomach ailment or another for close to five years now. I’ve seen every gastroenterologist in the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area. And everyone says the same thing: they don’t know what’s wrong, but I should manage my stress better and try a few different diets to see if I have any food-based triggers. I haven’t found any so far. As for managing my stress, well, that’s a work in progress.

The way she tells it, ranch life was isolating and monotonous, especially after I was born. She was alone, caring for a colicky newborn, while Dad was out on the ranch, doing his cowboy thing. Mom is from Dallas, and like me, she’s a city girl through and through. She wasn’t used to the quiet or the loneliness of life in the country. She tried her best to assimilate. She learned how to ride horses, and as I got older, we were able to roam around the ranch more often, sometimes with Dad. Still, she found it difficult to meet people, and she missed the vibrancy of city life. She was depressed and unhappy. She also didn’t love the schools in Hartsville, so when it was time for me to go to kindergarten, she gave Dad an ultimatum: move to Dallas or get a divorce. Really, she begged him to move to Dallas with us. For all her vitriol toward Dad—as long as I can remember, she’s never had a nice thing to say about him—I think she was genuinely heartbroken by his choice to stay on the ranch. I remember my grandmother telling me how crazy in love Mom was with Dad when they met. But he chose to stay in Hartsville. To this day, I still don’t understand why. How could anyone choose to live alone in the middle of nowhere instead of being with his family? How could Dad choose some cows and a desert over us?

While Mom and Dad shared custody of me, Dad pretty much disappeared from my life once I moved to Dallas. Granted, I was in school, so it’s not like I could visit him at Lucky Ranch whenever I wanted. Still, he could have tried harder. I was supposed to spend every other weekend with him, but for some reason or another, it never happened. Dad never came to pick me up, and Mom never offered to drive me. She hated the idea of me going back to the ranch. I think she was worried I wouldn’t be safe there, as Dad wasn’t exactly a hands-on parent. He was always so busy working. At first, I was crushed Dad didn’t push harder to bring me back to Hartsville. Unlike my mother, I didn’t hate life on the ranch. I enjoyed riding horses, and I liked being outside around all the animals there.

Once in a blue moon, Dad would show up in Dallas and take me out to lunch or dinner. But that was only when he was in town on ranch business—buying livestock in Fort Worth or meeting with his bankers downtown. Once I hit my angsty teenage years, the loneliness and the hurt morphed into anger, just like Mom’s did. What was wrong with this man, never showing up to my recitals? My graduations? Why didn’t he help Mom more? Couldn’t he see how hard it was for her to raise me on her own? I stopped answering Dad’s calls, hell-bent on sending him the silent message that I was pissed. He came to Dallas to try to talk things out, but I refused to see him. Mom didn’t push the issue. After that, he stopped calling altogether, and our only touch point was the money he’d send for whatever I needed: boarding school tuition, a car, textbooks for my college classes. As fucked up as it sounds, I felt like money was something he owed me for not showing up more. Mom made it clear that Dad was a very, very wealthy man, so I knew he wouldn’t miss it. He apparently didn’t miss me, either.

I would give anything to have Dad back. Truly anything to fix the way he and I fucked up our relationship. I have so many regrets and so much anger left over from the things we did and didn’t say to each other. He should’ve pushed to see me more. I should’ve had the courage to tell him how much I wanted to see him. The fact that I lost the chance to ever make things right keeps me up at night. I haven’t slept well in…months. Since Dad’s funeral, really, which took place in a depressingly bland church near Mom’s office. Dad offered to invest in Bellamy Brooks, but I was too angry—too determined to hold my grudge—to give him a chance. Once he became an investor, he and I would have to communicate again, which meant patching up our relationship. I wasn’t ready for that yet.

“What if I don’t get the money, though?” I ask Mom. “Without living in bumfuck nowhere first?” Yesterday, I received a packet from Goody, detailing the monthly stipend I’d get if I lived on the ranch. It is definitely generous. Generous enough to keep Bellamy Brooks afloat for several months. Am I willing to actually live in Hartsville to get that stipend? With so much on the line…I mean, I could work remotely for a bit. Drive back to Dallas on the weekends. Goody didn’t mention anything about travel restrictions, right? Honestly, I’d consider returning to Hartsville just for the satisfaction of firing that prick Cash. I’d love to see the look on his face when I tell him to get the fuck off my property. Who does he think he is, believing he’s entitled to my family’s ranch?

“You’ll live on the ranch over my dead body.” Mom glances at her phone, which sits screen-up beside her silverware. “That place will chew you up and spit you out. I had to go through hell there, and I won’t see you go through it too.” I frown. “I just wish I understood why Dad wants me there so badly.” “Lord forgive me for speaking ill of the dead again”—Mom glances around, like Jesus might be eavesdropping at a nearby table—“but nothing could drag your father away from the ranch. I’m not surprised he wants to drag you there too.”

“Did Dad ever mention the name Cash to you?” I ask. Mom dips the tines of her fork into her light vinaigrette before she digs into her lettuce. “Sweetheart, it’s been a long time since I spoke to your dad. But Cash—wasn’t he one of the neighbors’ boys? The Rivers, I think. There were so many of those kids, I couldn’t keep track. They just kept having them.” “Cash was at the reading of the will.” “Really?” That gets Mom’s attention. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Your admin said you were booked solid this week.” “Ah. Right. So what about this guy Cash?” “He’s Dad’s foreman. Apparently, Dad told him he’d inherit the ranch.” Mom laughs, rolling her eyes. “Of course a cowboy would say that. Your dad was an idiot, but not that much of an idiot. I’ll give you some advice, Mollie. Don’t listen to a word those cowboys say. They’re sweet-talking sacks of shit.” My turn to laugh. “Not to put too fine a point on it. Trust me, I have zero interest in cowboys. Least of all Cash. He wasn’t a sweet talker anyway. He was an absolute dick.” Mom harrumphs. “Their moods are the worst. I’m sorry you got to witness that firsthand. Trust me, sweet girl, my lawyers will have this all straightened out ASAP. You won’t ever have to deal with Cash again.”

I’m not proud of using a bottle of Opus One to lure Palmer to my apartment later that week. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

I prop my feet on the table’s ledge and angle my laptop closer to my face. Scanning the spreadsheet, my eyes ache. I need to take out my contacts, but I don’t want Palmer to see me in my glasses. “I thought you said you needed to de-stress?” I glance up to see Palmer resting a shoulder against the jamb of the bedroom door. He’s gotten dressed, his suit jacket hanging over his arm. He bears no sign of the sex we just had, other than his undone collar and slightly swollen lips. They’re curved in a smirk. I grin. “Mission accomplished.” He strides across the room, all commodities-trader cockiness. “But diving back into Excel is going to reverse all those feel-good endorphins I just gave you.” “You can’t give me endorphins.” “I gave you something better.” Leaning over the couch, he presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth. “That was good, Mollie.” “But your lines”—I laugh against his lips—“they’re pretty bad.”

Palmer and I ran in the same circles in college, although we were more acquaintances than friends. A couple of months ago, we ran into each other for the first time since graduation. Three hours and one dance-floor make-out session later, I asked him to come home with me. We’ve been hooking up ever since. It’s exactly what I need: good, no-strings sex that requires very little effort on my part. He’s not interested in dating me—like most twenty-something-year-old guys making Wall Street money, he’s not interested in monogamy, period—and I’m definitely not interested in dating him. He’s a little too corporate for my taste. A little too full of himself.

Without thinking, I hit his number and bring the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, until, finally, his voice mail picks up. Goose bumps break out on my arms at the sound of his gravelly timbre. “You’ve reached Garrett Luck. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good one, y’all.” My face crumples. His voice mail beeps. If I’m still so angry, why can’t I stop fucking crying? Anger means yelling. It means frosty silences and heated exchanges. It does not mean crying your eyes out every time you think about the person you loved but hated, too. I hang up, wishing all the while I could ask him why he put that stipulation in his will. Maybe I wouldn’t hate the idea of living in Hartsville so much if I understood why he wanted me there. He had his chance to bring me back to the ranch—many chances, in fact, over the course of many years—but he never did. Why insist on it now? The thought comes out of nowhere: Cash might have the answer to that question. He said he was close with Dad. Who better to ask than the man who apparently worked side by side with Dad for over a decade? Too bad Cash is a jackass. I’d rather pry my eyeballs out of my head with a rusty spoon than talk to him again. I just wish I had other options.

There are hundreds of them. Some are compiled into little green booklets from the pharmacy. Others are stacked together, bound with rubber bands. Still, others are loose, tossed into the safety-deposit box, seemingly without order. The one thing that unites all the pictures: they’re of Garrett, Aubrey, or Mollie, or some combination of the three. Who goes through the trouble of actually developing physical photographs anymore? And why lock them away in a bank when they’re clearly meant to be enjoyed?

The fact that Garrett, a wildly wealthy man, considered these some of his most prized possessions has me feeling short of breath. He was a damn good human being. A flawed one too. I know he regretted letting Aubrey and Mollie go. But far as I know, he never chased after them like he should’ve. The regret is killing you, I told him once. Go get them. But the next morning, he’d still tacked up his horse, Maria, clearly intent on staying in Hartsville. I think so much time had passed that he didn’t want to disrupt the new lives Aubrey and Mollie had built in Dallas. I think, more than anything, he was scared. And stubborn. And he used the excuse of running the ranch to avoid confronting his feelings. His failings, too. Pot, meet kettle.