The Good Life

By Sean Michael

Jack Henneson hung up the phone and made a notation on the papers in front of him. He almost had all his ducks in a row and would be able to list the property soon. Maybe even as early as next week.

He shook his head and pushed his chair away from the heavy old desk, stretching the kinks out of his back. Almost eight months since Uncle Billy had died and he was only just getting everything together. It hadn't helped that he wasn't familiar with what paperwork was needed on livestock and crops, so he'd been scrambling from the start. It also didn't help that Pacer Williams, Uncle Billy's main ranchhand (and gift from God to listen to people around here talk) was a full-sized asshole. The man had been rude, unhelpful, growly...

Jack appreciated all the man had done, keeping the place running between Uncle Billy's death and his being able to deal with all the paperwork of putting the place on the market, but Pacer had been unhappy to see him from the get go.

He walked out to the veranda, pulling off his glasses and putting them in his pocket to look out over the ranch. He still couldn't believe he'd managed to inherit the place.

What the hell was he going to do with a ranch?

He was an finance officer for God's sake. He sat at a desk and pushed paper. And he was damned good at it, too. Which was exactly why he was selling the place as soon as he had all the paperwork together. He headed back for his desk.

"Where the fuck is the green John Deere?" His office door slammed open, followed by tall, dark and dusty. "Jim Anderson rented it last week and it's fucking gone out of the barn."

"The what? You lost me after green." He looked Pacer up and down. He was a good looking man, with the most amazing green eyes in a deeply tanned face. Too bad he was such a jerk.

"The. Green. John. Deere. Tractor." Those green eyes flashed. "You know? The one I rebuilt from scratch? The one that we lease out for haying? Where the fuck is it?"

"Oh, that'll be the tractor I sold to the dealership. They gave me a great price for it." Not that that was any of Pacer's business.

"You did what?" Pacer's voice went deadly quiet, the set of that lean jaw almost frightening.

"I sold it." He tilted his own chin up.

Pacer held his gaze, just lifted the walkie talkie up without dropping his eyes. "Cooter? Tell Mr. Anderson that the tractor's gone and give him his money back."

"What?" The answer was confused, scratchy.

"Tell him the brainless jackass that's trying to destroy everything Billy worked for his entire goddamn life sold it."

He sputtered. "Tell him the owner sold it."

The only reason he hadn't fired Pacer yet was because he didn't know a thing about running a ranch and he wanted it in working order while it was on the market.

Pacer just watched him, put the radio back on his belt. "The owner of this place is turning in his grave."

"You are such an asshole, you know that? Look, I know Uncle Billy was your friend as well as your boss, but yeah, he's dead now and I'm the new owner. Deal with it." He glared. He could do angry and intimidating, too.

"Bill was more than my boss and if he'd lived another month you wouldn't be the boss of dick and you fucking know it." Pacer growled, not backing off a bit. "This whole damn town knew Bill and me had an agreement."

Jack snorted. "You were ripping him off, buying the land far under value. All I want is a fair price."

"Fuck you, you money-grubbing little prick. I was doing no such thing." Pacer shook his head, dust flying. "You know I've offered you all I got."

"All you've got is not enough. I told you I was willing to sell to you at fair value rather than putting it on the market -- where I could make a killing if I was a money-grubbing little prick."

Damn, those eyes were green when the man was angry. Which it seemed he always was.

"You didn't work for this land, didn't spend your life making it what it is."

"And I didn't ask for it, but it's mine now. Look, I'm sorry Uncle Billy didn't change his will or make his deal with you before he died, but I've got land taxes to deal with, inheritance taxes. I can't just turn around and give it to you. You can't pay me fair value. Ergo, I'm selling it."

"So you sell off the fucking equipment we need? The things that make this place work?" One hand slammed into his desk, actually shaking it. "I spent months rebuilding that tractor for Bill."

"You were renting it out! I needed to make payments. I needed the money or the only one getting this place was going to be the bank! Not that its any of your fucking business!"

Damnit, he was out of his league here -- he knew he was -- but given the attitude he'd been getting from this man from the start, he'd be damned if he was gong to ask Pacer for help.

"The payments come from renting out the tractor and selling the fucking hay that's going to go to seed now in the east pasture. This place has been a working ranch for forty years and in six goddamn months you've driven it into the goddamned ground."

"You're supposed to be running the place! I'm the fucking city-boy, remember?"

Pacer had glared at him at the funeral and he was glaring now and Jack was pretty tired of it. He'd not asked to inherit the ranch, it had only been the fluke accident taking his mother along with Uncle Bill that had seen it land in his hands. Bill had left the ranch to his mother, who'd left everything to him.

"Excuse me? Running the place?" Pacer stood, the laugh humorless and bitter as ashes. "You took my purchasing power away. You took the books from me. You fucking ask me to move out of the rooms that have been my home for fifteen years. You tied my hands and are a royal dimwit with the rest.  Now you're selling my equipment, and I'm supposed to run things? Christ, boy. God Himself couldn't fix the mess you've made."

"Look, a condition of the will might have been to keep you on here, but I don't have to like it. And if you don't? I can accept your resignation at any time!"

Damn that fucking codicil guaranteeing Pacer his job at the ranch.

"Fuck you. Whether or not you're man enough to admit it, this land is mine and I will wait your motherfucking ass out." Pacer glared and pushed the phone over to him. "Now you get on the phone and find us a goddamned tractor so that we have feed for the winter or I will stomp a mudhole in your ass and walk the son of a bitch dry."

"It was an extra fucking tractor! You were renting it out!" He was not going to let this man walk all over him, damnit. He might not be some goddamned high and mighty cowboy, but that didn't mean he didn't have his pride.

"Yes. And we'll be renting out the main tractor now. Those men depend on us, damn it. Jim's cattle don't eat, he doesn't rent a tractor. Old Harry and Lou? They count on that tractor. And I tell you what, George Benton? When the fucking septic went over two years ago? Let us pay out for months through the lean season. This isn't the goddamn Metroplex, asshole. This is real fucking life."

God, he just wanted this all to go away, which was why he'd started selling stuff. Well that and the taxes were about to kill him. It had been sell stuff off here or sell his condo back home. "Fine. You find something to rent and I'll approve the payment. But only as much as its needed, I know you think I'm made of money, but I sold that tractor because I had to."

"You find it. You caused the problem; you fix it."

"You're the fucking manager of the place -- you find it." Not to mention he wouldn't know where to start, aside from calling up the damned dealership and renting the fucking thing back off them.

Maybe he should have asked Pacer what to sell for the cash needed. Of course one look at the man's face had him rethinking that.

Pacer shook his head. "How the fuck did one of Billy's kin end up so fucking pointless? Let me tell you what, you ask someone who knows his ass from a hole in the ground before you go selling the shit we need. Doesn't fucking have to be me, but ask before you take everything Bill made and destroy it before a fucking year is out."

"It'll be sold before a fucking year is out!" Either that or he and Pacer were going to kill each other, he was pretty sure of that.

"Yeah. You'll have your cash and I'll lose everything I've worked for for twenty years. You're a helluva man, there. A real honor to know." Pacer turned and headed for the door, just dismissing him.

"I don't need approval from an asshole like you!"

Pacer turned, gave him a long, slow look, lip curling in distaste. "Good thing. The only fucking thing you got going for you is that you were related to a real man."

"Just go away, Pacer. Preferably to hell." Because he was not going to cry in front of this man, oh, no he wasn't.

"Shit, it's been that for eight fucking months, since they come to tell us about Bill." Pacer turned and left, the door shaking on its hinges as it was slammed.

Jack sighed and closed his eyes, trying, unsuccessfully, not to think for a few minutes.

He was pissed off. He was really pissed off. And he hurt. His mother had died in that accident, too, this wasn't a picnic for him, he wasn't enjoying himself or even trying to make anyone's life a hell.

He picked up a little vase that had been sitting on the corner of the desk since he'd arrived and he threw it at the door. The sound as it shattered felt fitting.

"Damn you, Bill Warren, why the fuck didn't you change your goddamned will and leave all this crap to Pacer?"

And now he was talking to a dead man. He had to get rid of this place before he totally lost it.

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