CHAPTER 03

west

I have to what ?” I demanded. There was no way in hell I’d heard the stupid attorney right.

“In order to benefit from the sale of Double Arrow Ranch, you have to work the ranch for no less than one year. If you don’t, you forfeit the money you’d make and everything automatically goes to Jackson Myles,” Charles repeated.

“The fuck I will!” I exclaimed, shooting to my feet. Just the idea of going back there made my skin fucking crawl. Was the room warm? It felt fucking warm. I paced the length of the table, desperate for something to do with the panic clawing at my chest.

I didn’t want to go back there. I didn’t need that shit.

“There sure as fuck better be a workaround,” Jackson growled. From the look on his face, he didn’t have a clue about Harrison’s change either.

Fuck, this was just one last ditch effort by my own fucking father to screw me over.

“There isn’t,” Charles said. “He has to work at Double Arrow Ranch—as an employee, not an owner—”

“Fucking hell,” I muttered. Of course, I’d have to work for Jackson. That steely look he shot me didn’t bode well for any of this. He was mad. I didn’t even fucking blame him. I didn’t have a clue what the hell Harrison had told him—probably made me out to be some fucking villain in Jackson’s mind.

After all, I had left him, too, hadn’t I?

“—in order to receive the money from the sale,” he finished as if I hadn’t said a word.

“How much?” I found myself asking. “How much would I forfeit if I just said fuck it?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be worth my time.

“To sell off the almost fifteen thousand acres, you’d be set to make almost fifty million plus what the business itself is worth—”

“We’re ready to sell for forty-seven,” Jackson interrupted.

“ Fuck, ” I groaned. That was more money than I could dream of. I wouldn’t have to scrounge for odd jobs just to put food on my table ever again. I could find some quiet fucking place off the grid and be alone for good.

“Now, hold on.” Charles sat taller. “The land alone is worth forty-nine million and some change. The business—”

“He ain’t getting a single penny from the fucking business,” Jackson snarled. “That’s my business. I’ve put my blood, sweat, and time into it for the better part of a decade while your client was off doing what? Getting drunk? Robbing people? He’ll be fucking happy I give him what I do for that land, and then he’ll walk the fuck away.”

“It’s his family business too—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the business,” I interrupted before the two of them went back and forth on shit I didn’t care about. If Jackson didn’t want to pay me for the business, I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted to walk away and never look back. “He can have it. The forty-seven is fine. I just don’t want to work a fucking year for this asshole.”

“Oh, I’m the asshole?” Jackson pushed away from the wall, fists clenching.

“Before we do the whole alpha male thing, boys,” Maggie snapped, “you have to understand there’s not a damn thing we can do to get around Harrison McNamara’s will. You two need to put on your big boy panties and act like men to figure out how the hell you’re going to get through the next year— if you’re going to get through the next year. ”

She chastised us like children, but maybe we deserved it.

“If I do this, I want to get paid. There ain’t no way I can pull off working for a year and not get paid.”

“You’ll be paid.” Charles nodded.

“There ain’t no way I’m paying him to work his own fucking ranch,” Jackson cut in.

“You’re paying him to work your ranch, Mr. Myles,” she corrected. “For this next year, the ownership of the ranch as far as Mr. McNamara is concerned is tied up in a trust. You’ll be the sole owner with full executive decisions—minus firing Mr. McNamara.”

“Jesus fuck,” he grumbled. “This is a load of fucking bullshit.”

I grunted my agreement. One year at the ranch in exchange for forty-seven million? Fuck, most of my goddamn demons stemmed from that place and from Harrison. I wasn’t sure there was enough alcohol in Oregon to help me get through.

“Fine,” Jackson said. “There’s no way he’ll stick around long enough to make it to a fucking year anyway. No skin off my back.”

“Fuck you,” I shot back. The problem was that he was right, even if he didn’t know it. The longest commitment I’d ever made was prison, and it wasn’t like I had a goddamn choice in that.

The fucking meeting had been a disaster. I went in hoping to sell and run, but instead, I was trapped. Yanking open the door to my truck, I fished my flask out from the inside door well. I tipped it back and took a long drink, desperate for the cheap burn and the relief that followed. Jackson was wrong. I wasn’t just good at leaving. I was damn good at staying drunk and functioning. I didn’t give a fuck. Alcohol chased away the demons in my head. The silence it offered was far better than the alternative.

One year. One fucking year. I could do this. I just had to keep telling myself that.

“Let’s you and me get one fucking thing straight,” Jackson damn near yelled as he stormed across the parking lot. His anger set my nerves on edge. I wanted to punch him in his stupid face and run all at the same time. I also wanted to knock that goddamn hat off his head and see if what they said about a cowboy and his hat were true.

Fuck, I was a mess.

“Fire away, boss, ” I snapped as I tossed my flask across the console. I reached for a piece of gum on instinct. Gum hid the smell of alcohol. No smell, no questions. I liked no questions.

“If you’re going to work my ranch, you’re going to respect my fucking rules,” he began, and I rolled my eyes. “Starting with that shit right there. I am your goddamn boss, and this is my fucking ranch. I say jump, you say how high. None of this rebellious fucking bullshit you got going on. I don’t need some felon coming in and fucking up what I’ve worked my ass off for.”

“You going to be my daddy too?” I demanded, crossing my arms. We squared off, and he looked ready to rip my head off. While Jackson looked tough, I’d win in a fucking heartbeat if he took a swing. I’d done a lot of shady shit in my life, which meant I knew how to survive—fist fights, team-ups, weapon fights, I was used to it all. I had the scars to prove it. “Do I have a curfew too? Got to call you to tell you everywhere I fucking go?”

“You haven’t in seventeen years, so why the hell would you start now?” he snarled. Low fucking blow. Maybe I deserved it.

“Whatever,” I muttered. Fighting him would get me nowhere, and all I wanted to do was find a bar to drown in. Ignoring anything else he said, I climbed into my truck and turned it on. The engine was too old and a little too broken to run quietly. It made for a great escape tool. Out the open window, I pointed to my ear and shouted, “Sorry, boss , can’t hear a fucking word you’re saying.”

From the way those blue eyes blazed with anger, Jackson heard every word. Good. I just needed him to stay pissed off and at a distance for one year. I wanted my money, and I wanted to get the fuck out of Oregon. I didn’t need Jackson Myles opening old wounds he had no business poking around in.