Chapter 69 No Time to Grieve
The sun had not yet lifted its full weight when Sierra slipped out of bed. The night’s desert chill lingered, a reminder that grief did not come with a thermostat. She paused, listening to the faint sigh of the old ranch house breathing in the early desert wind. In the silence, the absence of her father felt as palpable as the dust that clung to the floorboards.
She moved down the stairs to the kitchen.
Her first thought was coffee. The sound of the blades whirring as she ground the beans was a metronome against the static of her thoughts. She let the memory of her father’s hands, steady, rough, unyielding, fill the space between her ears. Her own hands, manicured for boardroom handshakes, trembled just enough to betray the calm she tried to manufacture.
With fresh-brewed coffee in a mug, Sierra went to the desk and pulled out the leather‑bound ledger her father had kept. She returned to the kitchen table and opened it, spreading it out like a map of a battlefield she had suddenly rejoined. Tucked inside were the folded sheets she’d printed out.
She stared at the entries in Cody’s hand, and a cold realization settled over her like the desert night that had just passed. The newer entries were riddled with a pattern she recognized all too well: over‑ordered feed, unapproved equipment rentals, duplicate purchases, and a cascade of “miscellaneous” entries that added up to a small but steady bleed.
A long sigh escaped her. The grief that had been a hollow ache in her chest now twisted into a tight knot of frustration. She remembered nights at the office, hands flying over keyboards, coffee cups stacking like barricades against the world. Her father had taught her, in his gruff but loving way, that the only way to keep the storm at bay was to stay moving. “You can’t mourn a dead man by sitting on his porch,” he’d said, eyes gleaming with stubborn resolve.
A sudden, slurred laugh cracked through the kitchen doorway. Cody stumbled in, a bottle of cheap whiskey clutched in one hand, his hair a tangled halo around his forehead. He stopped, eyes bloodshot, scanning the spread of ledgers as if they were a stranger’s diary.
“You’re playing CEO again, Si,” he shouted, the words spilling out more defensive than angry. “We’re supposed to be grieving, not crunching numbers like you’re at some Wall Street boardroom!” He flopped into the nearest chair. “Dad would have hated seeing you glued to a spreadsheet when his grave’s still warm.”
Sierra blinked, the coffee mug steaming between her fingers, a faint laugh escaping despite the tension. “Cody, I’m not trying to be anyone’s CEO,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “I’m trying to keep the ranch from drowning in the very thing dad spent his life fighting.” She leaned forward, pointing at a line where feed costs had spiked in the last month. “Look at this. We ordered twice as much as we needed. It’s a stupid mistake, but it’s a mistake.”
Cody’s shoulders slumped, his bravado melting into something softer. “I don’t want you to lose yourself in all this.” He took another swig, the bottle clinking against the wood. “We both lost dad. I’m still trying to figure out how to honor him. I thought I could take over, but I’m not…”
“...not ready,” Sierra finished, the words slipping out like a sigh. She reached across the table, taking his hand. “Dad wanted us to run this together. He didn’t want us to crumble. We can fix this, but we have to stop the bleeding.”
“We’ve already got the direct‑to‑consumer line set up. It’s working. We just need to tighten our expenses so the cash flow stays healthy. If we don’t, we lose the ranch altogether, and that’s the real grief, isn’t it? Losing what he built.”
A sudden, sharp ring interrupted them. Sierra’s heart leapt as she read the caller ID.
William Sterling.
“Sierra?” William Sterling’s tone was low, a mix of concern and urgency. “I know it’s early out there, and you may not be ready to deal with work yet, but the Albright Group just dropped a bomb. They won’t do the deal with anyone but you.” He paused. “We’ve been negotiating this for months. If we don’t lock it down, we lose a multi‑million‑dollar account. I can’t keep the team running without you, and Chloe is already stretched thin.”
Sierra pressed the phone tighter against her ear, the weight of the call anchoring her thoughts. “Sterling, the ranch… How soon do you need me?”
“Three days from now is the meeting,” he replied, his voice a thread of fatigue. “The deadline is non‑negotiable.”
She could hear the background hum of the office, the faint murmur of a conference call that had probably been left dangling. “I’ll be there,” she said, voice firm despite the tremor underneath. “I’m not sure how long I can stay.”
“I understand,” Sterling said, a sigh escaping his words. “I’ll have Chloe brief you on what we have so far. She can get everything organized for you, so all you have to do is show up and close the deal.” He paused again, the line sputtering for a beat. “I’m counting on you.”
He ended the call after his last statement. The silence that fell was heavy, like the desert heat that settled back in the corners of the kitchen. The coffee was a dark, bitter pool at the bottom of the pot. The ledger’s pages stared back at her, the numbers now stark and unforgiving.
The room swam with a chorus of thoughts: the impending Manhattan trip, the dwindling cash flow at the ranch, the looming financial bleed, and the raw, unprocessed ache of her father’s death. Yet, in the midst of it all, Cody’s half‑empty bottle sat on the table, his slumped shoulders a silent testimony to his own struggle.
“We start with the feed expenses,” he said, returning her attention to Cody, “ follow the inventory system I set up, and trim the waste. I need you to take charge of that.” He set the bottle down with a soft thud, his fingers lingering on the glass as if feeling the weight of a commitment he didn’t want to make.
Sierra inhaled, the scent of coffee and desert sage mingling in the air, a reminder that life still smelled of earth and ambition. The numbers on the ledger looked like a battle plan. She glanced at the morning light seeping through the kitchen window, painting the floor in amber.
She rose, the legs of the chair scraping gently against the worn floorboards, and walked to the window, looking out at the rolling mesas. A lone dove drifted across the sky, its wings beating against the wind, a small, stubborn reminder that flight was still possible, even when the ground was crumbling.
“Alright,” Sierra said, turning back to Cody, “let’s get these numbers straight. Just fix this feed problem. Don’t worry about anything else.” She paused, letting the weight of the request settle over him. “But you’re going to have to put that bottle away and step up.”
The moment stretched.
Cody nodded, a faint smile breaking through the tired lines of his face. “Let’s do it,” he said, rising from the chair.