“Fuckin’ hell. Who left the damn gate open!?”

There are pigs everywhere: in the garden, the barn, down the gravel drive. I even found one in the house, a chunky little piglet rooting around in my kitchen, canvassing for crumbs. I snatched him up and walked out onto my porch to find half my ranch hands running low to the ground with arms outstretched, trying to catch as many pigs as they could before I noticed.

Pigs are squealing, ranch hands are tripping and cursing to high heaven, and the head gardener is over near the parsnips looking like an outmatched bouncer at a 21-and-up bar. It looks like a ridiculous rodeo sport that should involve elementary school-aged children, not grown-ass men.

“Max!” I shout, catching the attention of one of the younger guys as he runs in front of my porch. He stops pursuing a pig, whips off his baseball cap, and wipes sweat from his brow. “Weren’t you on hog duty today?”

His eyes go wide in fear. “I swear to God I closed the gate after the morning feed!”

“Might wanna take back that oath because it sure doesn’t look like you did.”

He frowns and looks away, swallowing slowly. His voice cracks with fear as he answers, “Damn sure I did, but I s’pose—”

I step forward and drop the piglet in his hands. “You have ten minutes to fix this. If these pigs aren’t put up by then, I’m docking your pay.”

“Yes sir.” He tips his head in a nod and then he’s off again, running full speed with the piglet in hand.

On another day, I’d find this scene amusing. Today, I’ve reached my wit’s end. It’s Monday and I’ve nearly lost my mind. My executive assistant, Helen, is gallivanting halfway across the world. My housekeeper quit last week to move closer to her daughter, and now my ranch hands are recreating Three Stooges skits on the clock. I have too much on my plate and I feel overwhelmed. I don’t like it. I’ve run Blue Stone Ranch for a decade and I hate to think I’ve gone soft in the last few years and relied too much on Helen. She warned me I wouldn’t be able to function with her in Paris, and now I regret giving her time off. Is it too much to ask that she work every damn day from now until she croaks? What’s so great about France anyway? That place made Van Gogh so depressed he cut his own ear off.

I stomp up to my office on the second floor and slam the door. My grandmother is downstairs, standing at the living room window, thoroughly enjoying the pig debacle taking place outside. The old bird takes too much pleasure in my problems.

I take a seat at my desk and heave a deep breath. My ball cap gets tossed onto the desk and I drag a hand through my hair, no doubt making it stand every which way. I need a haircut. Normally, Helen would’ve scheduled something. I sigh and put the cap on backward, saving that problem for another day.

There are 32 emails waiting for my reply. I don’t answer a single one of them. Instead, I turn my attention to the blinking red light on my work phone. I have no doubt I have enough voicemails to occupy my entire morning. Once again, I curse Helen for leaving me to fend for myself.

Blue Stone Ranch used to be a 1000-acre cattle ranch. In the late 1960s, during a bad drought, my grandfather sold off most of the cattle and started a restaurant, Blue Stone Farm. With its farm-to-table fare and world-class barbecue, it was an overnight success. My father expanded that endeavor with a winery, and since then, the company has grown tenfold. Now, families travel from all across the south to experience everything Blue Stone Ranch has to offer. We have a small luxury bed & breakfast, a vineyard, a restaurant, and a wedding venue. Some might call it being diversified; others might say it’s a good way to get stretched too thin.

It’s been ten years since I took the helm, and even with managers running each arm of the business, I still feel like I’m in over my head most days.

I start scrolling through voicemails, listening to a few seconds of each before I skip to the next one. When I get to one Helen left late last night, I try not to get my hopes up. Please say France sucks and you’re coming back to work.

“Hey Jack, call me when you get this. It’s urgent.”

I call her back immediately and she answers after the second ring.

“Missed me too much? Understandable. So when’s your flight home?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.

She sighs, annoyed. “Stop that. I’m not coming home.”

“Aren’t you sick of traveling yet?”

“We’ve only been here a week.”

“Paris can’t be that entertaining.”

“Brent and I are really enjoying it.”

“Seen the Mona Lisa yet? Starry Night? Stuff’s all on Google, hi-res and everything.”

“Jack—”

“Right, well, did you hear that Mary left two days after you did? Yeah, moved back to Houston to be closer to her daughter. I’ve lost my assistant and my housekeeper in one fell swoop, so I don’t really have time to chat about how much you’re enjoying your vacation. I have enough on my plate as is.”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling—I have a solution for that. I found you a temp.”

“I told you I don’t need one.”

“And I think you do.” She trudges on before I can argue. “My sister will be there later today and she’s going to fill in for me while I’m gone.”

“Sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

I lean back in my chair, suddenly interested. I imagine Helen 2.0: an older, no-nonsense brunette with a tight bun. Picture your favorite elementary school teacher, the hard-ass who managed to wrangle a group of disobedient nine-year-olds and teach them long division—that’s Helen.

“Yeah, well, I don’t talk to her much, which is probably why you didn’t know she existed. She’s ten years younger and we didn’t grow up together. In fact, I hardly know her. Still, she says she needs a job, and it’s perfect timing since you sound like you’re pulling your hair out without me running the show.”

I can hardly believe my luck. I didn’t think I’d survive three months without Helen, and here she is, fixing my problems from across the pond.

“Perfect. Send her my way. If she’s anything like you, she’ll save my ass.”

Helen laughs. “Bad news: she and I couldn’t be more different if we tried.”

“Well if she has even half your work ethic, she’ll still be a pretty damn good employee.”

There’s a pregnant silence that gives birth to a 10lb-4oz baby silence. Helen should be singing her sister’s praises, but she isn’t, and I’m suspicious.

“Helen, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t want to taint your image of her before she even arrives.”

“If you want me to hire her, you’d better start talking.”

“Well…I guess I just don’t want you to expect her to be like me. Meredith is…” She sighs. “Meredith is one of those lucky people who life comes a little easier for. She was spoiled rotten growing up. We have different moms, and she looks just like hers: petite, beautiful, you know the type. Our father and—hell, half the world always gave her more attention.”

“Is this leading somewhere?”

I can practically hear her roll her eyes.

“Anyway, she moved to California for college, married some rich movie producer right after graduation who dotes on her nonstop. All I’m saying is she’s used to a certain kind of life. Don’t expect too much…grit.”

“Now I’m confused. Why the hell does she need a job working for me?”

“Apparently she’s up and left her husband.”

“The doting, rich movie producer? Makes sense.”

“Exactly. There’s no way she would have left him willingly. If you ask me, I bet Meredith got herself into some kind of trouble. Maybe she has a spending problem or a boxed wine habit and he threatened to cut her off. Rich people always find some way to fill up their time with vices. I wouldn’t be surprised. Like I said, she was spoiled when we were younger. This is what happens when you’ve never wanted for anything.”

As she drones on, I swear another ten emails pile up in my inbox. I have too much to do to be sitting on the phone listening to a story about some woman I have no plan to employ.

I sit up and sandwich the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can start replying to the first email. “Well, you’ve given quite the glowing recommendation for this suspected overspending alcoholic. Good thing she’s someone else’s problem.”

“Jack, I already promised her I’d get her a position with you.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“She’s family. If I were there, I’d help her.”

“Let’s compromise: you get on a flight home, and I’ll consider it. Deal?”

“Jack.”

She sounds exasperated, but then so am I.

“I gotta go. My assistant left me high and dry and I have emails to answer.”

“She’s my sister.”

“And?”

“And I’m calling in a favor. I’ve worked for you for six years and have never once called in a favor.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to waste that on some spoiled brat who’s bound to go crawling back to California when she gets her first splinter?”

“Isn’t that what you want? The sooner she leaves, the sooner you get your peace and quiet back.”

She makes a good point.

“You owe me.”

“I’ll log in to your email remotely and answer those emails you have stacked up. How’s that?”

“Let’s see if the princess shows up first. Something tells me she’ll take one look at the place and suddenly decide her valley girl life doesn’t look quite so bad anymore.”