Rick climbed the stairs to his home office. He peered out the window and flipped through a stack of mail he’d been avoiding. He stopped when he got to a thick envelope with a bright red stamp.
Rick lowered and tightened his eyebrows; then he released an emphatic sigh. He flung the letter the length of the office onto his weathered oak work desk with the grace of a Vegas blackjack dealer.
“Past Due? Get in line!”
Rick turned his attention to the world outside his window. He surveyed the new stables and training pens. Then his gaze turned to the rolling hills sloping into the tree line near Half Moon Creek at the south end of FireSky Ranch. He could feel the gravity of love and labor invested by two generations of Powells before of him like a weight vest on a scuba diver.
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