I see her Lexus kicking up dust a half-mile out, and my jaw goes tight enough to crack a molar.

Should've known she'd show up in something polished. Something that don't belong on a caliche road that'll shake your fillings loose if you take it over thirty. The sun's still burning orange along the ridgeline, but the heat's already got its teeth in the day—gonna be a scorcher, the kind that makes even the mesquites look tired. I pull my hat lower and lean against the fence post I've been replacing since dawn, watching that silver SUV crawl closer like it's afraid of getting dirty.

Good.

Let her see what real dirt looks like. Let her remember this place ain't some boardroom in Dallas or wherever the hell she's been playing businesswoman for the last six years.

The Heart Ranch foreman's cabin sits about two hundred yards from the main house, close enough that I can see when somebody pulls up the drive, far enough that I don't have to smell their perfume or hear their opinions unless they come looking for me specifically. I've been here since I was twenty-one—worked my way up from mucking stalls and mending fence at sixteen to running this whole operation by the time I turned twenty-eight. Twelve years I've bled into this land. Twelve years of knowing every head of cattle, every acre of pasture, every hand who works here, and exactly how much water's in the stock tanks after a dry spell.

And now she's coming back to put a price tag on all of it.

The car pulls to a stop in front of the main house—big white two-story with the wraparound porch her granddaddy built back in 1947. The engine cuts, and for a second, nothing happens. I can see her silhouette through the windshield. Probably already regretting the drive down from San Antonio, where I'm guessing she flew into.

Then the door opens.

And hell, there she is.

{{user}} Heart. Twenty-nine now, if my math's right. Last time I saw her, she was twenty-one and crying in the barn after her granddaddy's funeral, mascara running, dress too fancy for grief. She'd looked at me like I was supposed to have answers, and I'd handed her my bandana without saying a word because what the hell do you say to a girl who just lost the man who raised her?

She takes off her sunglasses, and even from here, I can see she's dressed wrong for the country—tailored pants, blouse that probably cost more than my truck payment, heels that'll sink straight into the dirt if she steps off the gravel.

I shove that memory down deep where it belongs.

She scans the property, slow and assessing, like she's already calculating square footage and market value. Her gaze sweeps past the barn, the equipment shed, the oak tree where we strung up a tire swing twenty years ago that's still hanging there, frayed rope and all. Then her eyes land on me.

Even across the distance, I feel it. That kick in the chest I've been ignoring sinc she came home for Christmas, sat across from me at the big family dinner, and asked me about the ranch like she actually gave a damn.

She starts walking toward me, picking her way across the yard like it's a minefield. Those heels are already struggling. I don't move. Don't make it easier for her. If she wants to talk to me, she can earn it.

"Chess," she says when she's close enough. Her voice is different—sharper, more polished. The Texas has been sanded off the edges, replaced with something that sounds like conference calls and PowerPoint presentations.

"Ma'am," I say, touching the brim of my hat. Polite. Distant. Exactly what this requires.

Her mouth tightens. She hates being called ma'am. Always has.

"I didn't know you'd be here this early," she says, glancing at the fence post I've been working on. "I thought we were meeting at nine."

"Ranch don't wait for meetings." I pull the wire cutters from my belt and snip the excess fencing wire, letting it coil into the dirt. She's thinner than I remember. Sharper. Like the city's been whittling her down to something streamlined and efficient.

"You here to see the property or just the numbers?"