Page 9 of Dallas Rivals

His voice is low and rough, and the way he spins on his heel tells me this conversation is officially over.

He stomps off toward his spotless, luxury SUV—well, it was spotless.

“Crap,” I whisper, slumping against the seat. “Day one at Walker Ranch: ruined the driveway and assaulted my new boss with a puddle. Great start, Cala. Just great.”

Eliza’s jaw drops the second I walk in—mud splattered head to toe. She looks like she’s forgotten how to close her damn mouth.

“Don’t ask,” I growl, kicking off what used to be my polished boots.

I march straight to my room, fists clenched, muttering every curse word I know under my breath.

“Everything’s ruined,” I grumble, peeling off my soaked clothes one piece at a time. “Oughta just throw it all out.”

Knew it was a bad idea bringing that girl here. If she can’t handle a van, how the hell’s she gonna manage acres of hard, honest work?

I stalk into the bathroom and step under the shower. Mud slides off me in sheets—out of my hair, from under my nails, all over the damn floor.

The walls are stone, and the big window gives me a view of the land that keeps me breathing. Miles of fields, now soaked and fading into autumn colors. Spring and fall are the only times it rains this much in Dallas. Folks think Texas is nothing but dust and cactus, but this stretch of it? It’s alive. Green enough to steal your breath.

“Green Dallas,” I mutter. “My kind of color.”

I wrap a towel around my waist and head back to the bedroom. Astro’s waiting by the bed, watching me with that quiet dog intuition, picking up every ounce of my bad mood.

“It’ll pass,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears.

Astro’s a black English shepherd I pulled from a shelter three years ago. Back then, he was all paws and play. Now, if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was half wolf—dark coat, sharp eyes, and those long ears standing at attention.

I drop down beside him and let myself fall back onto the bed, staring at the wood-beamed ceiling. The anger’s still there, simmering low. But so is the image of Miss Saint-Clair looking at me this morning—half startled, half amused—while I tore into her with all the frustration I had left.

She looked at me like I was out of my mind… and maybe like it entertained her a little.

“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter, pressing a pillow over my face.

Maybe I went too hard on her.

Astro curls up next to me, pretending not to hear the exhaustion in my voice.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn him. “You know damn well you’re not supposed to be on the bed. I’m only letting it slide ’cause I’m too damn tired to care.”

He lets out a long, pointed sigh.

Figures.

My bedroom’s medium-sized, nothing fancy. The ceiling’s pitched and paneled in dark wood; the floor’s made of thick, rough boards the color of aged bourbon.

On the right side of the bed, there’s a floor-to-ceiling window with no curtains, no trimmings—nothing that reminds me I’m indoors.

I need to feel outside, always.

That’s why behind my bed, on the wall, hangs a massive black-and-white photograph of a forest. Makes the room feel open, like the trees are right there if I just take one step forward.

There’s a fireplace across from the bed for when winter hits, and a white armchair next to a pile of books I keep meaning to finish.

Don’t need much else.

Don’t want much else.

All that high-tech crap my brothers fill their houses with—no thanks.