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He’d drummed it into me—told me that we had to protect the land because it was more than just dirt and fences. It was a legacy, a piece of something bigger than us, wild and untamed, that needed to stay that way.
“I know, Nokoni.”
He glared at me like I was no different from the settlers who had pushed west in the mid-1800s, shaking hands with the U.S. government while treaties were broken, land was taken, and promises to the Native Americans meant nothing.
He had every right to look at me that way. This land was mine now—the same land his ancestors had beenforced to leave, the same land I was planning to sell to the highest bidder.
But I wasn’t some reckless developer looking to pave over everything in sight. I believed in land development. It was a business, and I knew that sometimes it meant gutting the land, cutting down every tree, and choking the rivers dry. Squeezing money out of the land, big pots of it, could not always be done respectfully and responsibly.
“Nash took care of the land,” he told me, his words laced with bitterness. “He taughtyouto take care of it.”
“I didn’t spend much time with Nash, Nokoni. You know that.” I kept my tone light because I understood his pain. He was the one who’d have to watch what was left of his ancestors' land turn into a high-end mall, hotel, ski resort…essentially, another Jackson Hole.
“You know the history,” he growled. “You know because I taught it to you.”
I did know. I knew that God and everyone else had screwed his people over.
The Treaty of Medicine Lodge from 1867 had promised the Comanche a reservation in Indian Territory, present-day Oklahoma, and the right to continue hunting buffalo. But that promise was broken as soon as buffalo hunters, backed by the government, began slaughtering the herds. A few years later, when the Comanche and other Plains tribes were forced into a last stand during the Red River War, the U.S. forces destroyed villages, killed horses, and burnt food supplies, essentiallyleaving the Comanche with no choice but to surrender and relocate to reservations.
With the native population displaced, the land was divided up through Homestead Acts, land grants, and outright theft. Settlers, ranchers, and railroads took what they wanted.
By the time John Wilder claimed this land, it was already a done deal. Paperwork had been filed, fences had been built, and the past was buried beneath cattle trails and branding irons.
My ancestors didn’t outright steal the one-hundred-thousand acres on which the ranch now stood with their own hands—but they certainly didn’t question how a land once ridden by Comanche hunters had become theirs to fence and tame.
They took what was available, benefiting from broken treaties and forced removals without ever dirtying their own hands. They built a legacy on land that had already been bled for, fought over, and lost by those who came before them.
And now it was mine to do with as I pleased.
“Nokoni—”
“I’m here for Nash. You sell this place as you’re planning, you destroy everything your father stood for, and you stab the heart of the Comanche nation—that’s on you andonlyyou.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving me alone with the sound of laughter—coming from a group of people talking to Senator Jessup—which didn’t belong here during this solemn occasion.
"Darlin’, you have to come meet Piper Novak." Fiona slid her hand into the crook of my elbow.
Fiona was the perfect hostess, floating between guests with a grace that reminded me of Mama when she was with those she wanted to impress. Like my mother, Fiona laughed at the right moments, touched arms just enough to be charming without beingovertlyflirtatious, and smoothed over awkward silences before they had time to settle.
She was everything a woman in my world was supposed to be. I should’ve felt proud to have her on my arm.
Instead, I felt…disconnected and a little ashamed to be with someone this shallow because what it said about me wasn’t complimentary.
Fiona led us to the woman who wasn’t just part of the business—she was the one pulling the strings.
Piper built empires on stolen horizons. She was in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, and she carried herself like someone who had never lost a negotiation and didn’t plan to either. Her auburn hair was sleek and sharp, like everything else about her, and the silver at her temples looked more like a fashion statement than age.
She dressed like a woman who knew the power of understated wealth—tailored slacks, an expensive silk blouse under a fitted blazer, and jewelry just subtle enough to look intentional. Nothing gaudy. Money spoke louder when you didn’t have to flash it.
We shook hands; her grip was firm without trying to get into a pissing contest about who had the bigger dick.
“Mrs. Novak, appreciate you coming to see my father off."
“Call me Piper. I’m sorry for your loss.” Her voice was effortlessly smooth, the kind that negotiated billion-dollar land sales over dinner and convinced old ranch families to sign away their birthrights before dessert. Piper didn’t run cattle. She ran numbers, deals, and the future of places like Wildflower Canyon. And she looked at me as if I were already halfway to signing my land away, which irked me. I had no reason to be displeased. She was here because Fiona, upon my instruction, had put out feelers that I would be selling Wilder Ranch.
“I had dinner last night with Senator Jessup and Congressman Thornton,” Piper informed me. Name-dropping was part of the game. With land deals this expensive, you had politicians whoring themselves for a piece of it. “I’m very interested in helping you with Wilder Ranch.”
I could see Fiona all but ready to do the happy dance. Everyone knew that when Piper Novak offered her services, she made you a whole hell of a lot of money.