Page 25 of Dallas Rivals

“And tidy this up,” he adds over his shoulder. “Every time you’re out here, I can’t find a single damn thing afterward.”

He turns dramatically, lets out a sharp breath, and walks off toward the house.

Honestly, it was a lot more fun when he just spied on me from the window. At least then he was silent.

On Wednesday, I argued with my dad again.

This time it was about the signs I made for the horses.

See, I kept forgetting which stall belonged to which horse—so I made little nameplates. Cute ones, with painted letters and flowers.

Apparently, that’s completely inappropriate behavior for a working ranch.

I’m not gonna cry about it again, though. He’s fighting his own demons, and I need to remember that.

So I decided to get out for the evening—ride into the nearest town for dinner.

Was that a good idea?

Absolutely.

Which is why I hopped on my bike and pedaled until my legs burned.

Downtown is lovely—small, bohemian cafés and cozy bars. I picked a place that claims to have the best cheddar grilled cheese in the country.

I’m not saying they’re wrong, but let’s just say I’ve had worse.

Getting out was the best decision I could’ve made. I feel lighter, calmer, like maybe the world isn’t all that heavy after all.

The problem is… now I have to ride back.

There are no streetlights out here, so it’s just me, my phone’s flashlight, and a level of exhaustion I didn’t plan for.

It takes longer than usual (turns out balancing a bike and a phone is not one of my special skills) but when I finally reach the dirt road to the ranch, I relax.

I can already see Mr. Walker’s mansion glowing in the distance—tall, silent, and dramatic, like everything else about him.

I’ve only been inside the kitchen so far, but even from the outside, it’s stunning. The lights shine upward, making it look even taller, and the windows are dark. The whole place is wrapped in silence, except for the crunch of my tires on the dirt road.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement on the terrace.

I stop pedaling and turn off my phone’s light, instinctively.

Something tells me I shouldn’t interrupt whatever this is.

And then I see him.

Up there on the terrace, Mr. Walker—breathing hard, the same way he did the night of my father’s accident.

“Trees… shrubs… vines… herbs…”

His voice is rough, his breathing uneven, listing names like he’s clinging to them.

He’s in pajamas, hair tousled like he’s been fighting his pillow.

I watch from the shadows, unsure whether to move closer or stay put.

He looks lost.