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"And are you any better? I don't see you giving up your golf game or your trip to wherever to be with the girls," Caitlyn sneered.
"It's just a recital, Ace, stop being so difficult," Deb commented. "You'll be there, so that'll be fine."
Ace looked guiltily at his plate of food. "I…I have a thing."
"Oh, so you have a thing, but I have to give up my party?" Caitlyn fired back.
"I have a conference in Billings that I have to go to. It's work-related," he bit out.
I'd call bullshit on that, but this wasn't my marriage. Not my circus, not my monkeys! Fuckin' hell.
"Mom, can you?" Ace asked.
"Ah…Ace, you know I—" Deb began.
"I'll take her," I announced. He could've asked me straight away, but he felt I already did so much and didn't want to impose. I was Amy and Carla's uncle, there was no fucking imposition. And, yet, we did this dance way too many times for my liking—but I let him, and he capitulated after he assuaged some of his guilt.
"You can't; you have the RMS event to go to," Deb interjected.
I drank some wine.
The Rancho Margarita Summer Event was a shitshow some California tech bro had been throwing every year in his mansion since he'd moved to Montana. He'd bought a ranch that he was running into the ground. But he was rich as Midas, so he didn't mind losing money on a multi-million dollar ranch. It was a shame, really, but I wasn't complaining. I had bought part of his herd, and by next year, I'd buy the rest of it and some of his land. He had good pastures, and the water management systems introduced by the previous owner were top-notch.
"I'm not going to the event," I stated quietly. "I'll take the girls."
"You know, Rowan, they're not your children." Deb banged her hand on the dining table.
I finally looked at her and was, as always, amazed at how she and Caitlyn looked so alike. They must have the same plastic surgeon, I deduced, and hairdresser. They were blonde, and I didn't care to know if the carpet matched the drapes, but I doubted it. They always wore make up, and yet compared to Isha who hardly wore any, they paled. Even exhausted and sitting in a pair of loose shorts and a tank top with her hair up on her head in a messy bun, Isha was a vision to behold.
"I know, Deb."
"Then let Ace and Caitlyn figure it out. These events are important for the social standing of the Ledger family. You know that. Your father knew that." Deb's face was pinched with disapproval.
"I'll take the girls," I repeated. I finished my wine and rose. "Goodnight."
I ignored Deb's footsteps behind me and her calling my name as I walked to the front door. My truck was parked outside. My place was a good twenty-minute walk and a seven-minute drive from the house by design. I hadn't wanted to be too close, but near enough so the girls could walk over.
I got into the truck but before I could get the hell out of dodge, Deb knocked on the driver's side window. I rolled it down.
"I'm not going to some stupid party, event, gala or whatever the hell else you want me to. I don't give a fuck about society and standing. Trust me, no one cares about that shit. We care about our land, our herd, and keeping said land and herd."
She was fuming. "You have a responsibility, Rowan."
"To the ranch, Deb."
"But it's not ranch work that's in your way. You'd rather go to a kid's stupid piano recital over a networking opportunity?"
"Yeah, Deb, cause your definition of stupid and mine ain't the same."
I started the truck, and she moved away, teetering on her high heels. Why the fuck would a woman dress this way to eat in her own house, I didn't know. But what I knew was that I was tired. Real ranch women were practical. They loved the land, cared for it, and preferred filing down a horse's hooves rather than their nails. Deb, I understood. She was from New York. But Caitlyn was born and raised in Montana. How she'd turned out to be such a loser would be a mystery if I didn't know her parents as well as I did. Caitlyn and her sister were spoiled rotten. Neither had any desire to understand the business that paid for their lives.
I wondered how Isha would fit into ranch life.
I smiled at the thought.
I knew she'd get along with the ranch hands. She'd probably have physical therapy day every week to take care of their various ailments. She'd ride with me. I couldn't imagine her worrying about fucking gala events.
She'd want us to have dinner as a family. She'd want us to have what neither she, who grew up in an orphanage, or I had—a sense of family and belonging.
