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Jackson, Wyoming, is a place that never stopped being discovered.

Our family estate in Jackson comes at us in a completely different way than our Drybone ranch ever did.

The gates are similar—same wrought iron, same practiced grandeur meant to keep the world exactly where it belongs, on the other side of the fence—but everything beyond them tells a different story. The trees, the land, the river—that's the magic of western Wyoming, a magic Montana never quite figured out how to buy.

Aspens instead of cottonwoods, their leaves catching light like they're trying to outshine each other.

Not a creek carved dry by August, but a real river, cold, and moving, and full of trout that don't know how good they have it.

And those Tetons sitting over the ridge like God dropped them there Himself and then stepped back to admire His own handiwork, daring anyone to look away.

And the Jackson estate itself—it's somethin' else.

The lodge sits low against the land like it grew there instead of being built, log, and stone, and glass working together in a way that shouldn't feel this intentional and somehow does.

My mother never touched this place the way she touched the Ashby ranch—there's no staged hay bale, no perfectly distressed fence post angled for a camera. Just the house, doing what a house is supposed to do.

I forget, every single time, how big the windows are. Even though we haven't officially arrived yet, I can already picture the way the light throws itself across the floor, making the reclaimed wood look like it's glowing from somewhere underneath.

Six bedrooms split across two wings, and as a child, I remember getting turned around all the time. I was probably eight or nine before I could find my own bedroom without taking a wrong turn.

Legion goes slow as he approaches the drive-through portico and this gives me a chance to see that the willow fence around the garden is still standing. I used to sit on a stone bench in that garden as a kid and pretend I was in a fairy forest. And if you know anything at all about Wyoming, you also know that almost nothing about that state reminds anyone of anything connected to a fairy forest.

The whole state is a little over sixty-two million acres and probably about two-thirds of that is scrubland. Dry, brown, and rocky. Just lookin' at pictures of the entire eastern half of the state makes ya thirsty.

But the western side—and the Bighorns, I'll give them their due—the rest of those acres truly, truly are something out of a fantasy. You can almost believe that the fairy folk live in the pines.

This is the part of Wyoming rich people covet. They don't bother with Lander, though it's beautiful in its own way. Sheridan is a drive-through town. Pretty enough to say, Yeah, I could live there. Not really pretty enough to make that happen though. And while people do love a good trip out to Devils Tower, and it is a trip everyone should take at least once, no one is paying sixty million dollars for legacy ranches in the Black Hills.

Jackson is a class all its own and the Ashby property here has two very special things about it. The first is that the clear water of Ely Springs Creek cuts through the back edge of the land like a snake, which is ironic, since it feeds directly into the Snake River. Ely Springs Creek is a fly fisherman's wet dream. Water that's shallow enough to walk bank to bank in waders and calm enough to let a two-year-old float on a tube.

And out past all that glory are the Tetons themselves. Majestic and peak-y, they desperately want to kill you, regardless of season.

Legion parks under the portico and lets out a breath as his eyes try to take in what he's seeing. "Fucking hell, Savannah. I feel like I just jumped planets."

"Yeah," I laugh. "This place has that effect on people. Come on." I open my door and step out. "I can't wait to show you around."

Legion follows me, goin' for the cargo area first to get our luggage, but I say, "Leave it. This place comes with caretakers who get paid to live here. They'll bring it in once they realize we've arrived."

He lets out a big breath and I'm prepared for the class warfare. But he doesn't protest that he can carry his own suitcase and mark himself different the way he used to.

Maybe because he's not.

Maybe because he's just now startin' to realize he never really was the boy in the trashy trailer.

He's as much a part of Eleanor's estate as I am.

The front doors are heavy timber and iron, original to the build, and I push through both of them without breaking stride, already knowing what happens the second Legion sees the great room.

He stops and I watch his face do the thing I was waiting for.

The fireplace is stacked river stone floor to ceiling, big enough to walk into if you wanted, cold right now but still commanding the whole room like it's daring you to look anywhere else.

Except you can't, because the windows behind it won't let you—floor-to-ceiling glass. Just one unbroken wall of forest, and water, and mountain all stacked on top of each other like God got greedy and put it all in a single frame.

Ely Springs Creek catches the afternoon light where it bends past the tree line. The Tetons sit behind all of it, close enough to touch, sharp enough to cut.

"Jesus," Legion says, real quiet, like he's not sure he's allowed to talk in a normal volume in here.