Page 11 of Cash

“And the cutting?—”

“Got it done. Also, John B and Sally were just arriving as I left to look at the four cows we were worried about. Sally thinks it’s just a virus. I reckon they’re about wrapped up with their examination by now.”

“Good work. See you at supper, then.”

Wyatt smiles. “Patsy’s making her cottage pie. See? It don’t all suck.”

Just mostly, I think as I hit the gas.

The sun-bleached pavement glimmers in the heat. I feel short of breath. Throat tight, pulse drumming.

I hit the knob that turns on the stereo and crank it as loudas it’ll go. I’m able to rein in my runaway heartbeat as the opening notes of “My Maria” fill the truck.

I fucking love Brooks & Dunn. Been into them ever since Garrett introduced me to their first album,Brand New Man.

I have a lot to do back at the ranch. Chat with John B—short for John Beauregard, his middle name—about those cows. I should check on the fence some ranch hands were supposed to repair in the southeast pasture. I need to call the mechanic to schedule routine maintenance on our feed trucks. Text our farrier to remind him of our appointment tomorrow. Dude always mixes up his dates.

Ryder said his throat hurt this morning. I wonder if he got strep from Ella? We keep passing that shit around.

Maybe it’s because I have so much to do that I drive right past the manicured entrance to Lucky Ranch, its gnarled oaks providing much-needed shade to the vibrant green brush below.

I need a breather. Time to think. I keep waiting to feel less anxious—less overwhelmed. Garrett passed months ago. I should at least be able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time by now. But I’m worried that if I stop moving—stop doing all the things for all the people—something bad will happen again.

It’s a waste of gas, but I know I’ll fall apart if I dive back into the chaos right now. And the last thing everyone needs is a foreman—a brother—who can’t do his job.

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 readsRivers 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, weworked 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.

Instead, that money is going into Mollie’s pocket. I can only imagine what she’ll spend it on. A newer Range Rover? More shiny cowboy boots that wouldn’t last a day on a working ranch?

I turn onto the road, wincing when the truck lurches as I hit a divot. That’s new. The empty front pasture stretches out on my left. A fence, long since abandoned to the elements, sags in several places.

I’m hit by a memory: my dad helping me pull on my work gloves before he squatted beside me next to that fence. He was teaching me how to repair it. It was early morning, spring. Lots of sunshine. Warm enough to leave Duke in his car seat in the back seat of this very truck, the windows rolled down. I remember him singing to himself as Dad patiently helped me dig a deep hole in the ground, the dirt softened from all the rain we’d gotten that year.

I will never forget how proud I felt when the post was up, and Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Now that’s one fine-looking fence, son. Well done.”

Duke had started to fuss, so we climbed back into the truck and headed to the house. Mom fed us a laughably huge lunch: burgers slathered in pimento cheese, homemade sweet potato chips, broccoli casserole. All washed down with toothache-sweet lemonade.

For dessert, there was—what else—Texas sheet cake. Pretty sure my brothers and I polished off the whole thing. Ryder had so much frosting smeared on his face and arms that Mom had to hose him down in the backyard. Then she hooked up the sprinkler, and we spent the afternoon running around in it like the little lunatics we were.

Those were good times.

The best.

My chest hurts even more knowing they’re gone for good, and so is Garrett.

I turn down the music and take a lap around the ranch. House looks okay, but everything else has gone the way of the fence. The hay barn is missing its roof, thanks to a tornado outbreak five years back. The irrigation system quit working ages ago, and now every pasture I pass is barren.

I want to make more memories here so badly. To preserve the memory of my parents and honor all the hard work they put into Rivers Ranch. To create a place where my brothers can thrive and feel safe.

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.