Page 16 of Dallas Rivals

At the old house, my room had a door. Which meant privacy.

Here, my “bedroom” is more like an attic loft. Everything that happens downstairs echoes right up through the floorboards.

It reminds me of that book Grandma made me read when I was twelve, The Kybalion.

It talked about the laws of the universe, and one of them said: As above, so below; as below, so above.

Well, that’s our house in a nutshell.

We might live on different levels, but it feels like we’re all sharing the same damn room.

At twenty-eight, I’d pictured myself living alone, maybe in some tiny apartment, living the wild life—eating whatever I wanted, binge-watching Supernatural, staying in pajamas all day.

But life, as my grandma used to say, has a funny way of flipping your plans upside down—and I’ve gotta say, she was right.

Don’t think, Cala.

I run my fingers through Ruby’s mane— a horse with the soul of a cow, black-and-white spots and all.

I smile.

Spending time with the horses has become my favorite part of the day.

There’s something noble and almost mystical about them. Or maybe that’s just me imagining them with horns and glittery wings.

“All done, sweetheart,” I whisper, taking her reins and leading her back into the stall.

“Well,” Dad says, watching from a few feet away, “this week you’ve done just about everything. Now you just need to work on your timing.”

Knowing he can’t see my face, I let out a dramatic sigh. His comments are never exactly encouraging—he always has to point out what I did wrong first.

I cover Ruby with her special night blanket, smoothing it over her back, then pat her soft muzzle.

“Goodnight, little cow.”

She tosses her head up and down, like she’s answering me, and I grin as I walk away.

I grab the handles of Daddy’s wheelchair and start pushing toward the house.

It’s not far, but my feet are screaming, and all I can think about is getting upstairs, falling on my bed, and dying there until Monday—when it all starts over again.

Mansplaining. I look it up. A mash-up of “man” and “explaining.” When a guy talks down to a woman—paternal, condescending—’cause he figures she’s less capable than he is.

What the hell?

I stare at my phone in the dark, mouth half open.

She called me patronizing. To my face.

Heat crawls up my neck. Sun’s not even up and I’m already boiling.

Damn it.

The nightmares did it again, yanking me out of sleep well before my alarm was set to go off. They have a way of showing up whenever I’m strung out, as if my mind can’t handle the tension without conjuring up something dark. By now, their return is almost routine—something I anticipate, the way you instinctively flinch when a line drive comes straight at your face. But knowing they’re coming doesn’t make it any easier. Each time I wake in the dead of night, heart racing, I find it nearly impossible to drift back to sleep. No matter how often this happens, I can’t seem to settle my nerves enough to find rest again.

It’s four a.m. My alarm’s set for five. So yeah, I’m Googling nonsense.

Only reason I’m not outside is the kind of trouble Texas serves after dark. Folks call this place the “Australia of the States” for a reason. We’ve got snakes, coyotes, scorpions, gators, fire ants, big cats… plenty to convince a man night work ain’t smart. Don’t want my animals roaming either—too easy for something mean to cross my fence line.