“And let them win?” Rusty slides a glance my way with only the slightest turn of his head. It’s the first and only time I’ve ever heard him say anything close to supportive. “You don’t believe you should do that anymore than I do.”
I shrug, a little surprised and a lot relieved. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It isn’t as if I can do anything right these days.”
He rests his arms on the white railing and purses his lips as he looks out at the horses in front of him. The whole perfect picture is framed by the trees behind them. “Permission to be frank?” he asks without taking his focus from the pasture in front of us.
“This isn’t the army. You don’t have to ask to speak.”
“True, but it isn’t my place either.”
I stare at his profile and wonder why it seems as if I’m spilling my soul to Deputy Chatsworth. Maybe because he’s the first person in forever besides Sheryl who actually seems like they understand.
“What is it, Rusty?”
“You’ve pissed a lot of people off.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I joke.
“Quite possibly, you’ve got some disgruntled employees.”
“Hence, why they no longer work for me.”
“True, but no one works for you now. You’ve run them all off.”
I open my mouth and then shut it to cut off the immediate rebuke on my tongue. To explain that I could be the best employer in the world and it wouldn’t matter is pointless. “When a person can’t do the job right, they get fired.”
Or when I can no longer trust them because they talk a little too freely in town about what’s going on here at the ranch.
He takes his time responding. “Yeah, but they all seemed to do a good enough job for Fletcher, right? He gave them the reins to do their work. So, obviously, they were good enough.”
Good enough that they hid Fletcher’s secrets from me too.
“Mmm.” It’s my go-to response because how do I explain what it’s like not to be able to trust anyone anymore? How do I tell anyone that my husband not only gambled away every last penny we had but also leveraged our property in the process? How do I explain what it’s like to be hated by every single person in town—first because of a misinterpreted article and then because my husband blamed our unpaid balances on me, convincing our local vendors that I was the one who held the purse strings? How do I begin to describe that the townspeople weren’t the only people he screwed over?
More importantly, how do I say any of that and not have red flags go up and have people start to question whether Fletcher’s death was a suicide instead of the accident they ruled it as?
“Look, I know Fletcher made a lot of promises to people and was a bit arrogant, but man, people liked him.”
“Your point?” I ask, a headache brewing behind my temples as my thoughts crash against the misinformation guiding his words.
“From an outsider’s standpoint, it appears as if it’s you who seems to be the problem.”
I chuckle in discomfort because what in the hell am I supposed to say to that? “I’m assuming that isn’t a compliment.”
He sighs as he struggles to find the words. “You deserve a chance here. I’m only saying these things because I want you to succeed.”
My laugh is louder, more disbelieving, this time. “At least one person in this town does.”
There’s sadness in his ghost of a smile. “You have to stop trying to do this all yourself. It’s impossible. You need to hire more—”
“I’m doing the best I can.” It’s all I can say without letting the frustration I’m hiding manifest into the tears threatening to well in my eyes. “I tried to make everything right. I tried to . . . I don’t know. All I know is that by paying everyone back, it—”
“It looked like you were happy your husband died so you could cash in on his life insurance and pay off your debts.”
“Yeah. And doing the right thing and paying those debts did nothing to change how everyone thinks of me.” I don’t hide the tears or the hurt from etching into the lines of my face. My smile is reticent, and my soul is exhausted from caring what they all think.
“You need to win the town back over if you hope to survive—”
“I’ve got it handled, but thank you,” I cut him off, not needing him to tell me what to do when I’ve done more than I should only to be rebuked time and again. By ranch workers. By accounts in town. By what feels like freaking everyone. No matter what I do, nothing makes anything better or easier and I don’t have the energy to keep trying.
“Being stubborn isn’t going to help, you know?”
“Permission to speak revoked,” I joke.
He laughs, but the look of concern never leaves his eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve had anyone on the payroll?”
Too long.
“I have help. Sylvester comes up a couple of times a week to do what he can. Supplies are on delivery for me. Good ol’ Amazon. Feed is on a regular delivery from Lone Star Feed. Doc comes up on a schedule or as needed,” I explain and am grateful for them because it allows me to avoid running errands in town so I don’t have to venture there. I shrug. “I don’t need someone full time.”
“And what about help with the horses? The feeding, the exercise, the mucking of stalls . . . all of the daily work that’s way more than enough work for one woman? I know Sylvester helps, but he’s limited in his capabilities.”
It sounds crazy coming from his mouth, almost as if he’s trying to shine a spotlight on how much my life has changed in the past year. As if he’s flicking the thin thread I’ve been hanging on to while waiting for the upcoming breeding season so I can prove I’m not a failure.
“I’m getting by as best as I can.”
“So I see.” He shifts on his feet and adjusts his hat again. “But the calls about the welfare of your horses, Tate. Someone seems to be mighty pissed off at you to keep lodging baseless complaints.”
“Being pissed off at me is far different from being concerned about my horses, which are healthy and well taken care of. They’ll get over it.”
This is why I don’t go into town. This is why I stay here where I don’t have to listen to unsolicited opinions and unwelcome judgment.
“Hmm.”
It’s his only response, and if he does it to make me ask what it means, it works. “Hmm?”
“Just that I’m only the first step.”
“First step?”
“Yeah. I’m the first rung on the ladder. Who knows who else this person or persons may be calling and complaining to? Are they creating a legal record as recourse to try to get you shut down if they aren’t successful in running you off?”
“Rusty.” His name is a sigh of disbelief, but it isn’t anything I haven’t already thought of before. Hickman Ranch on the opposite side of town used to warn Fletcher of encroaching on their territory. The Destin twins and their protests to us buying the land when we moved here. So many sharks in these waters.
“I know you as best as you let anyone know you, Tate. I know you’re up here busting your ass all by yourself and that even if ranching isn’t your first love, you wouldn’t hurt a damn fly.” He tilts his head from side to side. “But the rest of the town doesn’t see what I see when it comes to you. They’ve never taken time to. Lone Star is a small town. You know that better than most. One mistake, and you’re judged. People talk, exaggerate, and pretty soon, the rumor becomes someone else’s version of reality. Then by mistake number two . . . you’re vilified.”