Wellington Ranch Series Book 1: Dust Storm
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Riley I.
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50
CHAPTER 1
DECLAN
I fucking hate Jackson Ashwood.
Though my neighbor barely crosses my mind. He’s a pain in my fucking ass. His family’s farm is small. Inconspicuous. Insignificant.
Barely making it through, from what I’ve heard my entire life.
What Ashwood does have is a beautiful property. Stretches of plain land for miles hidden between lush green mountains. Long forage zones left unused and large water bodies everywhere fed by a river that meanders down my mountain and onto his land, splitting our properties in two.
It’s a stunning land that, when the sun is setting, it hits the grass at such an angle that it makes the leaves glimmer during dry seasons. As though it is filled with gold and riches.
I used to watch it as a kid from my little hiding spot in the mountains, wondering about running through the plains. How the grass would feel between my hands and legs. Wondering if it shone as brightly if you were up close.
Fantasizing about how fast my horse could race across it.
But aside from those thoughts when I was younger, I never contemplated much about the Ashwoods or their land. Not really. My utter dislike for the man doesn’t show up until much later.
The Ashwoods have been our neighbors for decades. Though Jackson is a few years older than I am, I never saw him much in town while growing up. Besides, his farm can’t be considered as competition or an ally.
They can sustain themselves, but nothing else. At this point, I believe he struggles to meet the demands of the few customers he has—one or two.
Instead, throughout the years, I have had other things to focus on, like my own family ranch. Keeping an eye on the cattle, making sure they are eating, healthy, and in the right place. Not scurrying around in a different forage.
Meeting buyers with my father. Going to the auctions to buy and sell off our livestock. Getting my hands dirty.
Learning the ropes of the family business until the day it came into my hands.
It didn’t take long for that day to arrive. Despite my father being a strong physical guy, he never had a strong heart. Pushing too much led him to an early death. Heart failure.
I mourned him for a while, but what kept me sane was work, making sure all he had worked for was worthy of his departure.
I work day in and day out. Waking up before the sun rises across the clear South Springs sky and staying up late until the stars are my only company. The moon coming to visit from time to time.
Wellington Ranch has always been among the best ranches in the industry, with organic grass-fed livestock. Handling elite contracts. We aren’t as large as many ranches that focus on quantity.
We are all about quality. If you want the best, we are the place. Whether it is for products or to buy elite livestock for your own ranch for finishing.
Despite the fame, I push. And scheme. And stay up late, thinking, planning, working. Until we are on top.
At forty-five, I would think I am at the top of the world, achieving my ultimate goal. Yet I am not.
I’m fucking threatened. By the new ranches that show up from time to time, making a dent in the market. By the other farms, expanding largely, supplying larger demands, growing faster and diversifying.
If I want to remain on top, I need to expand. I need space. I need more land.
And that’s when Jackson Ashwood and his golden land pop into my mind. Prices are rising, costs of land are turning unbearable. And he has so much land unused.
He won’t be able to sustain his farm in the long term.
It seems like a logical solution. A win-win situation for both of us. The man needs money to keep going, and I need the terrain.
However, Jackson Ashwood refuses to sell me one fucking strip. I’ve tried approaching him over the past few years to no success. To begin with, it is hard to encounter the man.
With the years, he’s become more of a recluse than anything else, keeping to himself at home with his wife and daughter.
The few times I’ve managed to find him in town, running errands, he won’t budge, stating nothing is for sale.
It doesn’t matter that rumors around town have grown louder about him barely making it through, he won’t change his answer. It is driving me insane.
I’m desperate for the land, and the man is being a fucking stubborn piece of ass who prefers to lose everything one day instead of giving a little land away.
However, I have never backed down from a plan. And I’m not about to start doing so.
My fists clench as I stand on his front porch. The wood is cheap and worn out from years of usage and exposure to the bright sunlight. I take a deep breath in, my chest inflating until it is suffocating before knocking on the door.
I wait impatiently for the idiot neighbor to open the fucking door.
There’s no way he’ll refuse me this time. I made sure his circumstances are dire—going behind his back, tampering with his business deals. Paying off buyers to drop negotiations with him, and instead, offering better prices elsewhere.
Not hard since he’s been struggling.
Ashwood has been cornered against a wall. Meanwhile, I’ve been counting down the minutes until Ashwood faces the reality that he is screwed.
He hasn’t shown up at my place yet to request the offer. And I have grown tired of waiting. So here I am, demanding to see the man.
It takes a few seconds longer for him to show up behind the door.
Despite being inside, he’s still wearing a brown cowboy hat, covering his white hair. His fifties haven’t been graceful to him. Every time I encounter the man, he looks older.
Probably from all the stress he’s been shouldering lately.
Though I’m to blame, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt as I look down at him. I’m a desperate man after all, and I’ll do anything to keep Wellington Ranch on top. My dad didn’t kill himself working hard for nothing.
Ashwood’s brow furrows in confusion at seeing me on his property. A rare occurrence. This might be the one time I’ve stepped onto his land.
“Wellington?” he questions, voice low and raspy. “What are you doing here?”
I force a smile on my face. My cheeks feel stiff from lack of use. “Ashwood.” My head inclines forward as a greeting. “A word?”
Ashwood lingers by the door for a second, wavering whether to let me in or shut me out. I hope he’s not an idiot for once. Much to my relief, he nods before stepping aside and allowing me entrance.
The house is small and old. Suffocating. Old ornaments packed in the tiny place.
As I trail after Ashwood, I take in the wooden stairs on the right, leading to the second floor. To the left, there’s the living room and a simple dining table for four people. The furniture is basic and run-down.
I’m not surprised that Ashwood hasn’t been able to afford new stuff to renovate.
At the back of the house, he has his office. The door creaks as he pushes it open and heads to the desk. The room is a mess with books lying everywhere.
Papers are stacked on his desk. And the smell of cigars bothers my nostrils. There’s one window, and it looks like it is never opened.
A shame. The room could use fresh air.
I decide to take a seat on one of the leather couches despite knowing this meeting won’t take long.
“Want something to drink?” he asks, but I shake my head.
“I’m good.”
He nods. “All right. What is it, Wellington?”
“Have you given a thought to selling me a piece of land?” I cut to the chase, my eyes trained on him, hoping to find surrender.
Wrong.
He sighs, dropping his shoulders as though he’s tired of the same dynamic. Rejecting me on every single approach. “I’m sorry, Wellington,” he begins.
It takes a Herculean effort not to grit my teeth and shout. You have to be fucking kidding me. The man is lacking neurons.
He’ll go bankrupt if he doesn’t do something about his finances. Yet here he is, declining my offer. A generous one. Value above market.
“I can’t do that,” he finalizes.
For the first time, I snap. “Why?” My tone comes harsher than expected. I clear my throat to release the tension in my face. “I don’t understand. I’m proposing one of the boundaries between our properties. The part that you don’t use for production.” Not that there is much production going on in this land.
Ashwood runs a hand across his beard. Then, he stares at me for a long beat, silent. My back hackles, but I remain unmoved, waiting.
“I think you understand,” he concludes.
I arch an eyebrow. “I actually don’t. I’m willing to pay handsomely.”
I throw the bait. Nothing. My neighbor shakes his head.
“It’s my family land. It’s been for decades. Generations. I can’t sell it. It has no price. I think you’d feel the same way about Wellington Ranch. You’d try to do everything to keep it in your possession. It’s our legacy.”
The man is not wrong. I will fight mercilessly to keep Wellington Ranch in my hands. I’ve been doing that for the past twenty years. Yet the statement aggravates me.
I breathe hard, thinking about how to convince him. Because if he goes bankrupt, it’ll be years before I can acquire the land. Even then, there might be a minuscule possibility of someone else acquiring it first.
Unforgivable.
I don’t have the luxury of time. I don’t have the patience either. I’ve waited long enough.
And that’s when it clicks. Family. Ashwood and I might be completely different.
But we value family. Family comes first. Keeping our legacy intact. Make sure generations to come get to cherish our lands.
Ashwood won’t sell… But maybe if we join the families…
The idea only occurs to me. Though I should inquire with Weston first about his standing, his willingness to the plan, I decide to propose it to Ashwood first. The idea is sound.
The opportunity to ask Ashwood is here. Who knows when else I can meet with the man. Besides, I know my son, and Weston is likely to agree to the plan.
He’s like me—will do anything for the ranch. For the family.
“What about this then?” I lean forward, propping my elbows on my arms. “A different alliance between Ashwoods and Wellingtons.”
