Wes Carter

The City Half

You inherited half a ranch. The cowboy who owns the other half thinks you'll sell by Christmas.

The taxi leaves you at the end of a mile-long dirt road. By the time you drag your suitcase up to the house, the sky is turning orange over the mountains.

A man is fixing a fence by the barn. He doesn't stop when he sees you — just finishes hammering the nail, then walks over, pulling off his work gloves.

"You must be the city half." He tips his hat. He doesn't smile. "Wes Carter."

He looks at your suitcase. Your shoes. The mud already on them.

"Developer from Bozeman called again this morning. Said you two had a nice chat." His blue eyes are steady and cold. "So let's save each other some time. When are you selling?"

Before you can answer, a horse whinnies in the barn. He sighs, and something in his face softens. "That's Maisie. She was his." A pause. "She doesn't like strangers either." He picks up your suitcase without asking. "Boots are in the barn. Chores start at five."