The desert wind didn’t cry at Monty’s funeral. It howled like a warning.

In a dusty West Texas cemetery, oil rigs blinked on the horizon like watchful sentinels. The town had gathered, but no one was mourning. Not really. Because Monty Norris wasn’t just a man — he was a king. And kings don’t die quietly. They leave kingdoms in chaos.

Tommy Norris stood at the head of the grave, his black suit clinging to sweat and grit. His face was stone, but his eyes flicked constantly — scanning the crowd. He wasn’t looking for comfort. He was searching for threats.

Demi Moore arrived late. Not by accident. Dressed in charcoal silk, she walked like thunder — slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. She didn’t take a seat. Instead, she stood near the casket, staring down at Monty like she was still waiting for an apology that would never come.

Behind her, a dark SUV rolled up, scattering dust. Out stepped Andy Garcia. Sharp. Silent. Dangerous. He didn’t approach the grave. He stood at a distance, lighting a cigarette and watching Tommy with the cold calculation of a man who’s come to collect a debt. Next to him, a coffin — smaller, older, faded by time. No one asked what was in it.

Then came the whisper — a ripple through the mourners:
“Sam Elliott’s here.”

He emerged from behind the chapel, slow but steady, a silhouette carved from the West itself. With each step, his boots stirred memories — of deals made, of land stolen, of truths buried deeper than any drill could reach. He nodded to no one. But everyone felt his presence. Because Sam Elliott held the last key to a secret Monty died protecting.

As the preacher began his eulogy, thunder cracked—despite a clear sky. The tension was thicker than the heat. Tommy’s jaw clenched as the preacher said Monty had died “peacefully.” Tommy knew better. His father’s death was no accident. It was a message.

Demi shifted. She wasn’t here to mourn. She was here to reclaim. Monty had promised her half of M-TEX before betrayal shattered their truce. Now, with Monty gone, the board was hers to play — and she held cards no one expected. Especially not Tommy.

Garcia leaned into his security detail. “Tell him,” he muttered, eyes locked on Tommy. “If he drills on our side of the ridge again — we don’t send lawyers. We send shovels.”

The preacher’s voice cracked. Sam Elliott stepped forward, interrupting. He looked down at the grave and spoke, not to Monty, but to the living.

“Monty once told me,” he rasped, “that what’s buried under Texas is more than oil. It’s bones. Lies. And the kind of greed that turns men into ghosts before they’re even dead.”

Then, silence. Until a distant rumble broke it — a drilling rig, just beyond the cemetery, kicked into motion.

Tommy’s phone buzzed. A single text:
“It’s started. The well is live.”

He closed his eyes.

The boom hit a second later.

A deafening explosion shook the ground. Dirt flew. People screamed. Flames licked the sky from a nearby rig — one of M-TEX’s own. It had been sabotaged.

In the chaos, Garcia was already walking away. “That’s your first warning,” he said over his shoulder.

Demi didn’t flinch. She watched the fire rise, a slow smile curling. “Let it burn,” she whispered. “It clears the field.”

Sam Elliott turned to Tommy, his eyes heavy. “You were born into a war, son. But now you’ve inherited it.”

As firefighters rushed in and mourners fled, Tommy stood at the edge of his father’s grave, framed by smoke and fury. The oil empire was his now — but so were the enemies, the secrets, and the blood that came with it.

West Texas wasn’t waiting anymore.

The war for the land had begun — again.

And this time, no one would be spared.

Landman Season 2 doesn’t simmer. It detonates. With a funeral as its fuse and betrayal beneath every layer of soil, Taylor Sheridan has crafted a Texas showdown where the oil is thick, but the revenge is thicker.