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I don't say anything. I let him have it.

He doesn't look at me for at least ten seconds.

I could take him room to room right now—show him the wings, the bedrooms, the kitchen with the gorgeous birchbark cabinetry.

But none of that matters yet. Not compared to this.

So instead I catch his hand and pull him through the great room, past the fireplace, toward the back doors that open onto the patio.

He comes without resistance, still half turned toward the window like he's afraid it'll disappear if he looks away too fast.

Outside, the air hits different than Montana air ever has—thinner, colder even in daylight, carrying pine and creek water instead of dust and cattle. The patio's stone, wide and simple, no staged furniture arranged for a shot nobody's taking. Just space. Just quiet.

Beyond it, the stone paver path curves off through the willows, the kind my mother had hand-laid one summer when I was maybe nine, back before she decided the ranch needed her more than this place did.

It winds along the edge of the property, crossing the shallow braids of the creek where it splits and rejoins itself over smooth rock, narrow enough in spots you could step over it without getting your boots wet.

"C'mon," I say, tugging his hand again. "Walk with me."

He looks at me like he's about to ask why, or where, or how long we have—Legion's always cataloguing logistics even when he doesn't mean to—but he doesn't ask any of it. He just falls into step beside me.

The first tributary crossing is barely six inches deep, clear enough to see the rocks underneath, cold enough that I can feel it through the air alone. Legion pauses at the edge of it, looking down like the water might tell him something.

Then he looks up.

The pines here go up forever, dark green spires stacked against a sky so blue it looks painted on, and I watch something shift behind his eyes as he tips his head back to take them in—like he's trying to measure the distance between where he is now and every place that ever kept him smaller than this.

The wind moves through the canopy above us, a low hush of sound. A few shafts of light break through and land scattered across the path, gold coins spread by something generous.

"Damn," he finally says. "No wonder Destiny doesn't wanna leave."

Which makes me sigh. "I know. I get it. This place is very, very beautiful. But it's not a place to live if you're a girl from Montana. Even an Ashby girl can feel out of place here. Trust me, I know. It's a whole other class of rich, Legion. You do not want your sister and your niece living here. Visiting, yes. Absolutely. Whenever she wants. But live here?" I shake my head. "No. It can't happen."

He looks at me serious now. "Why, Savannah? Why do you preface this place with a warning?"

"Because the people who live here now aren't from here, Legion. They come here."

"Like us," he counters.

"Like us. If we were players on a global scale. And we are not. On purpose. We don't sell beef to fast food restaurants. Not because we're too good, or too expensive, or too proud. We don't sell because the beef is our soul, not our paycheck. These people here now? They're not ranchers. They're buyers. And they will buy your sister before she even knows she's up for sale."

"Well, that's not ominous. Why come at all, then?"

"Because there are very few places in the world this beautiful. And it's an hour closer than Tahoe."

Legion laughs. "Rich people."

"Agreed,” I say. "Fuckin' rich people. They ruin everything."

CHAPTER 7

I make the call to Destiny a little bit away from Savannah. Not because I don't want her to hear. It's just that my sister has a sixth sense about things and she'll feel someone hoverin', even if Savannah says nothin'.

So I walk the little creek that winds around the back side of the house, puttin' some distance between me and Savannah. Just enough ground to feel alone.

The creek's a tiny thing—maybe two feet across, no more than that, just a little ribbon of water cuttin' through the property. It's been groomed and the grass grows right down to the edge. No bank, no mud, no erosion—just a clean little dip in the earth with water movin' through it, quiet, and pretty, and managed within an inch of its life.

I stand there lookin' at it for a second. Even the water sounds polished.