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I pushed back from the table.

My shoulder burned. The empty sale barn, the bank call, Dad’s chair, that yellow-pad figure—all of it pressed behind my ribs looking for somewhere to go.

“I know,” I said.

My voice came out quiet.

Boone watched me.

Wyatt did too.

I put both hands flat on the table, pain and all.

“I know exactly what it isn’t. I’m not asking you to run it. I’m not asking Boone to run it. I’m not asking the ranch to save me from a bad bet. I’m telling you I can produce one good day that brings people through our gate and money onto a separate ledger. If Meridian wants outside income, I’ll give them income they can’t mistake for a calf check.”

Wyatt’s gaze stayed on mine. “And if it costs you the hay crop?”

“It won’t.”

“If you get hurt?”

“I won’t.”

Boone’s expression changed.

Wrong answer.

We all knew it.

I exhaled through my nose. “If I get hurt, the work still has to run without me. So I build it that way.”

That was better.

Harder, but better.

Wyatt looked from Boone to me.

Then to the yellow pad.

October.

Year end.

Outside income.

The last sun came through the kitchen windows and laid gold across Dad’s empty place. Dust moved in it. Beyond the glass, the ranch settled after sale day—cattle calling, creek running, wind worrying the eaves.

“If this interferes with operations, I shut it down.”

“Understood.”

“You will provide me a budget.”

“That feels discriminatory toward my artistic process.”

“Cash.”

“Budget. Yes.”