Coldhearted Boss(90)
“Honestly? I’ve been better.”
I nod. “Same here.”
“Just this?”
She’s pointing to the can of peanuts. I look down and the light catches brightly on my diamond wedding ring. It’s my last tie to the life I’m trying to leave behind, the last vestige of a man who for five years covered me with shiny things while trying his damnedest to dull my own sparkle. I could sell it and use the money as a cushion—Lord knows I need it—but I won’t. I don’t want any more of his money. Besides, soon, I’ll have my own. I basically just got hired at Blue Stone Ranch. I can see it now: me in full denim overalls, bandana tied around my neck, wheat stalk between my teeth. I will be the best employee that ranch has ever seen, just as soon as I get there.
Without a shadow of hesitation, I slide the heavy jewel off my finger and drop it on the chipped linoleum counter with a clack.
“Get a good price for that,” I say, shaking the can of nuts. “I know I did.”
Chapter 2
Jack
“Fuckin’ hell. Who left the damn gate open!?”
There are pigs everywhere: in the garden, the barn, down the gravel drive. I even found one in the house, a chunky little piglet rooting around in my kitchen, canvassing for crumbs. I snatched him up and walked out onto my porch to find half my ranch hands running low to the ground with arms outstretched, trying to catch as many pigs as they could before I noticed.
Pigs are squealing, ranch hands are tripping and cursing to high heaven, and the head gardener is over near the parsnips looking like an outmatched bouncer at a 21-and-up bar. It looks like a ridiculous rodeo sport that should involve elementary school-aged children, not grown-ass men.
“Max!” I shout, catching the attention of one of the younger guys as he runs in front of my porch. He stops pursuing a pig, whips off his baseball cap, and wipes sweat from his brow. “Weren’t you on hog duty today?”
His eyes go wide in fear. “I swear to God I closed the gate after the morning feed!”
“Might wanna take back that oath because it sure doesn’t look like you did.”
He frowns and looks away, swallowing slowly. His voice cracks with fear as he answers, “Damn sure I did, but I s’pose—”
I step forward and drop the piglet in his hands. “You have ten minutes to fix this. If these pigs aren’t put up by then, I’m docking your pay.”
“Yes sir.” He tips his head in a nod and then he’s off again, running full speed with the piglet in hand.
On another day, I’d find this scene amusing. Today, I’ve reached my wit’s end. It’s Monday and I’ve nearly lost my mind. My executive assistant, Helen, is gallivanting halfway across the world. My housekeeper quit last week to move closer to her daughter, and now my ranch hands are recreating Three Stooges skits on the clock. I have too much on my plate and I feel overwhelmed. I don’t like it. I’ve run Blue Stone Ranch for a decade and I hate to think I’ve gone soft in the last few years and relied too much on Helen. She warned me I wouldn’t be able to function with her in Paris, and now I regret giving her time off. Is it too much to ask that she work every damn day from now until she croaks? What’s so great about France anyway? That place made Van Gogh so depressed he cut his own ear off.
I stomp up to my office on the second floor and slam the door. My grandmother is downstairs, standing at the living room window, thoroughly enjoying the pig debacle taking place outside. The old bird takes too much pleasure in my problems.
I take a seat at my desk and heave a deep breath. My ball cap gets tossed onto the desk and I drag a hand through my hair, no doubt making it stand every which way. I need a haircut. Normally, Helen would’ve scheduled something. I sigh and put the cap on backward, saving that problem for another day.
There are 32 emails waiting for my reply. I don’t answer a single one of them. Instead, I turn my attention to the blinking red light on my work phone. I have no doubt I have enough voicemails to occupy my entire morning. Once again, I curse Helen for leaving me to fend for myself.
Blue Stone Ranch used to be a 1000-acre cattle ranch. In the late 1960s, during a bad drought, my grandfather sold off most of the cattle and started a restaurant, Blue Stone Farm. With its farm-to-table fare and world-class barbecue, it was an overnight success. My father expanded that endeavor with a winery, and since then, the company has grown tenfold. Now, families travel from all across the south to experience everything Blue Stone Ranch has to offer. We have a small luxury bed & breakfast, a vineyard, a restaurant, and a wedding venue. Some might call it being diversified; others might say it’s a good way to get stretched too thin.
It’s been ten years since I took the helm, and even with managers running each arm of the business, I still feel like I’m in over my head most days.
I start scrolling through voicemails, listening to a few seconds of each before I skip to the next one. When I get to one Helen left late last night, I try not to get my hopes up. Please say France sucks and you’re coming back to work.
“Hey Jack, call me when you get this. It’s urgent.”
I call her back immediately and she answers after the second ring.
“Missed me too much? Understandable. So when’s your flight home?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.