Page 2 of The Mountain Echoes

The air carries that sharp, wet smell of melting ice and dormant earth waking up slowly, telling you with each gust of cold wind how far you are from summer.

The church ceremony is for close family and friends only, according to Nadine, who told me this with a roll of her eyes.

She’s not a big fan of my sister and would have left Longhorn Ranch a long time ago if it weren’t for my father.

Papa and Nadine were close, like siblings, not lovers, though Celine sneered that Nadine was Papa’s whore.

But that was just Celine being a mean girl, tossing out insults like confetti. Her real problem with Nadine was that she couldn’t manipulate her the way she did everyone else in Wildflower Canyon—not with that sugar-sweet, goody-two-shoes act.

Oh, Celine has everyone fooled. To them, she is thesaint. I’m the devil who ran off and left the ranch and our father for the brighter lights and warmer days of California.

But I didn’t leave. I was kicked out of my home.

Papa told me to pack up and leave. He never asked me to come back.

Of all the things he did to hurt me, this was the most wounding.

He chose silence over reconciliation, pride over love, and my sister over me.

I scan the cemetery, eyes skimming familiar faces. Most I know, despite having been gone ten years, and it shows. People have new last names, new wrinkles, new allegiances—but I know who they are, except for one man.

“Who’s that standing next to Kaz?” I ask Bree Keaton, one of my oldest friends and one of the few people from Wildflower Canyon whom I've kept in touch with after I left.

“Maverick Kincaid,” she murmurs, leaning close to me.

Recognition flares. Nadine told me about him last night. He’s the man who wants to buy Longhorn Ranch.

He’s not from Wildflower Canyon. He moved here after I left. He owns Kincaid Farms, which he’s grown by acquiring ranches and farms. It is now the second-largest spread in Wildflower Canyon, trailing only behind the old-money sprawl of Wilder Ranch.

From the quick research I did after speaking with Nadine, I learned that Kincaid Farms is part workingranch, part certified-organic farm, and part global supply chain player.

The cattle are grass-fed, antibiotic-free, and sold to premium markets across the U.S.—restaurants in Denver, Austin, and New York with menus that charge $85 for a steak and brag about where it came from. His dairy herd is smaller, but artisan creameries in Boulder and Telluride prize the milk and cream.

He got into organic crop production early, long before anyone else in Wildflower—rotating hay, hard red winter wheat, sweet corn, and heritage potatoes.

His onions and apples go to natural food co-ops all over the Mountain West.

And then there are the horses.

He runs an enviable breeding program, at least according to aWestern Horsemanarticle I read.

You can take the girl off the ranch, but you can’t stop her from browsing horse websites.

The man’s got money. He’s got land.

So why does he want Longhorn?

We’re a neighbor, sure. But we’re not a major player. We’re mid-sized…weremid-sized. From what I can see and what I have heard, the ranch and its operations have shrunk.

I don’t have all the details yet, but I plan to get them.

Maverick nods at me, seeing that my eyes are on him.

I return the greeting with a tight jerk of my chin.

His eyes fall on Celine, and he smiles.

She smiles back at him.