Chestnut Ridge stretches wide. It creaks. It smells like sun-warmed wood, old sweat, saddle leather, and maybe something heavier buried under the barn.
We haven’t touched it yet. It feels too raw to rush. But we see it: the empty stalls, the fences leaning just a little, the kind of silence that’s not empty, just tired. There’s work to be done — not to shine it up, but to settle it in. Let it breathe like a place that’s been lived, not staged.
We’ll get there. Ranches take time. So do stories.