The old McCallister gate is rusted shut with a padlock that's older than me. Granddaddy's key turns in the lock with a groan that sounds like forty years of regret.
I push the gate open and walk onto McCallister land.
The grass is different here. Taller, thicker, greener than ours. A spring-fed creek runs through the center of the property, feeding two stock tanks that are still full despite the drought.
I find him in the calving barn.
He's got his arm inside a cow.
"Little busy," he says without looking up.
"I can see that."
The cow moans. Cash mutters something under his breath, and then his whole body tenses.
"Come here. I need you to hold her head."
I don't think. I just move.
I grab the cow's halter and hold her steady while Cash does something that's either veterinary magic or ranch juju—thirty seconds later, there's a calf on the barn floor, wet and blinking and alive.
Cash sits back on his heels, covered in things I don't want to identify, and looks at the calf with an expression I haven't seen on his face before.
Pride. Quiet, exhausted pride.
Then he looks at me.
Cash McCallister is six foot two, dark hair a little too long, green eyes, stubbled jaw that belongs on a cologne commercial, and the kind of build that says he spends his free time wrestling cattle or lifting trucks. He's wearing a gray t-shirt that's seen better days and boots with actual mud on them.
He is, objectively, the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life.
Which is inconvenient, because he's also looking at me like I'm a rattlesnake in his henhouse.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Sutton Cooper."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. The Cooper name lands like a stone in still water.
"You're on my land."
"I climbed the gate."
"The gate was locked."
"I'm aware."
He pulls out his phone. "I'm calling the sheriff."
"Wait. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Five minutes, and if you don't like what I have to say, I'll climb back over that gate and you'll never see me again."
He studies me. Those green eyes move over my face like he's reading something written there.
"Five minutes," he says. "Start talking."
So I talk. I tell him about the ranch, the debt, the developer. I tell him about heritage beef and agritourism and the premium market. I tell him about his land—five hundred acres that are sitting underutilized while he struggles with the same problems we have.
His expression hasn't changed. "You drove out here to give me a market analysis?"
"I drove out here because both our ranches are drowning, and I think working together could save us both."
That gets a reaction. Just a flicker in his eyes.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Partnership. Our ranches, working together. Shared resources—your land, our infrastructure. We pool our cattle, develop a heritage beef brand, sell direct to restaurants and consumers."
"Fifty-fifty?"
"Sixty-forty, your favor. You've got more land."
His eyebrows go up slightly. "And you think you can convince your family to work with a McCallister?"
"I think I can convince my family that making money is better than losing their land."
He's quiet for a long moment. Biscuit—his dog, the ugliest cattle dog mix I've ever seen—sits at his feet, looking between us.
"Five minutes are up," he says.
"And?"
"And I'll think about it."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either." He turns toward the house. "Use the gate this time."
"Cash."
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"We've got five days. After Friday, this conversation is moot."
"I said I'll think about it."
He walks inside without looking back. The screen door slams.
Biscuit looks at me, whines, and follows his owner inside.
"Well," I mutter to the empty yard. "That went well."