Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Still, if the ranch is still in dire straits—and I assume it would be if McGraw has to battle the costs of our unjust healthcare system—he might be willing to help if a large sum of money was involved. Luckily I have most of my inheritance put aside for this.
Cold Stream Drive runs along a river, a small, forested hill rising to one side. It’s pretty here, the ponderosa pine and sage brush dotting sunbaked grass and thistles, the occasional stand of quaking aspen giving the landscape a burst of shimmering yellow. I roll down the window, sweet autumn air filling my nose, smelling of some long-forgotten memory or nostalgia for something I never had.
Eventually the road gets bumpier until the pavement gives way to dirt and the SUV bounces along dips and bumps, dust rising in my wake. The forest seems thick here, enough that it blots out the sun, though that could be because it’s just dipped behind the mountains, and the temperature outside drops enough that I have to roll up my window.
Just when I think I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, a gate appears with a wooden arch over it that says Lost Trail Ranch with symbols on either side that look like a cattle brand. The wood is worn and weather-beaten, the words barely visible. I drive under it, the dirt turning to gravel for a bit as the road takes me through the trees until it opens up, just out of the shadow of the mountains.
Lost Trail Ranch sprawls across the ponderosas like something out of an old western, all weathered wood and rusted metal gleaming in the sun. The main house sits on a rise, a two-story craftsman with a wide porch, dark green with wood trim. At first it looks just as old as the sign but as I pull my car up beside a rusted GMC truck, I spot security cameras tucked under the eaves, reinforced locks on the front door, and a carefully maintained roof. Someone’s invested heavily in this place.
The driveway splits at the house—one fork leading to a gravel parking area where I’ve parked, the other winding down to the barn and outbuildings. The barn itself is massive, the wood looking new, with neat stacks of hay bales visible through the open doors. More cameras. More locks.
A lot of security for a working ranch.
Behind the barn, the land opens up into paddocks and pastures, dotted with horses grazing in the autumn grass. The Sierra Nevadas loom beyond the pastures, their peaks already dusted with early snow. Pine forests climb the slopes, dark and dense. The ranch sits at the edge of civilization, that razor-thin line between tamed land and wilderness. No neighbors in sight. No passing traffic. Just miles of forest and rock stretching toward Donner Pass.
A creek cuts through the property somewhere, the sound of it mingling with wind in the pines, the distant cry of a hawk. At surface level it’s certainly peaceful, yet there’s something about this place that has me on edge and I don’t know why.
Movement catches my eye—a man in a round pen, working with a horse.
I carefully get out of the car, closing the door softly. I want to walk toward him but I don’t want interrupt what he’s doing, so I stay by my car, watching. I wonder if it’s Jensen McGraw.
The horse is young, a red bay stallion with wild eyes. The kind of horse that I’d want to stay far away from (my relationship with equines is complicated to say the least).
But the man moves with the kind of liquid confidence that comes from years of doing something dangerous. No rope, no bridle, no saddle. Just him and the horse circling each other in the dusty arena.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. His attention is fixed entirely on the stallion, reading its movements, anticipating each shift. Cowboy hat, worn jeans, white T-shirt dark with sweat despite the autumn chill in the breeze.
The horse suddenly charges, shiny coat rippling in the sun. The man pivots, a matador’s move that turns the stallion at the last second. There’s a grace to it that doesn’t match his size. The man is tall—six-two maybe—with the kind of hard muscle that comes from manual labor, not a gym. His muscles flex as he moves, tattoos visible on his arms, and if this wasn’t such a shitty situation I think I’d be in big trouble. He’s exactly the kind of man I’d die to bring home, especially with that scruffy beard.
Calm your hormones, Aubrey, I chastise myself.
“Easy,” he murmurs to the horse, voice carrying across the yard. It’s sonorous, low and gruff, making my spine tingle. The horse’s ears flick forward, considering. Then the man and the horse move together like dancers, the man drawing closer with each turn, radiating confidence and calm energy, until his hand brushes the stallion’s neck.