Page 4 of Dallas Rivals

I hate small talk.

“I… I’d like to…”

“It’s been a long day, Miss Saint-Clair. Spit it out.” My words are clipped and impatient, my tone betraying how worn down I am. She stands before me, looking so small and, for a moment, almost childlike. I’m not an old man by any stretch, but standing next to her, I can’t help but feel every year weighing on me.

“I’d like you to consider me as my father’s replacement.”

What?

She’s lost her damn mind. A woman can’t run a ranch.

“Not a chance.”

Her black eyes meet mine, soft with something that feels too close to pity. I have to look away. It’s uncomfortable as hell.

“Mr. Walker, my mother can’t work. My father will be paralyzed for the rest of his life. Someone has to take care of them.”

I click my tongue, pacing a few steps along the slick pavement, trying to come up with any excuse to get rid of her.

“Don’t you study or work somewhere? You shouldn’t be dropping everything right now.”

“Yes, but I’m willing to quit. I can start working on your ranch—if you’ll let me.”

“I said no, Miss Saint-Clair. Was I not clear enough?”

She steps closer. I stare at her like she’s crossed some invisible line. I don’t want people near me.

She squares her shoulders, determination flickering in her dark eyes. Her voice is steady, unwavering. “I promise I’ll give it everything I’ve got.” The words hang between us, heavy with sincerity. She’s not backing down—not even when I’ve tried to shut her out, not even when she knows how little I think of her chances. All I see is resolve, and for a moment, I have to wonder if maybe—just maybe—she believes she can do this.

“No. If this is about money, don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure your family’s taken care of.”

“Mr. Walker, you know my father. He’d never take charity. I have to do this. I need to.”

Damn it.

“Do you have any experience?”

“No, but⁠—”

“Then there’s nothing else to talk about.” I brush past her, my temper snapping loose, and head for the elevator.

Who the hell volunteers to work on a ranch without knowing a damn thing about it? She’s completely out of her depth.

When the doors open, a nurse leads me down the hall to Lucien’s room.

My friend’s lying there, broken and pale, wires and tubes running everywhere. His wife’s beside him, holding his hand tight.

My eyes drift to their fingers laced together. For a second, I wonder what it must feel like—to have someone there when your whole world falls apart.

Will it be any different? Or do you still end up feeling alone anyway?

When the doors open, a nurse guides me quietly down the hall toward Lucien’s room. The atmosphere is heavy with the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of machines. As I step inside, I’m confronted by the sight of my friend—Lucien—lying motionless, his face pale against the stark white sheets. Tubes and wires snake across his body, connecting him to a tangle of monitors that beep steadily, measuring the fragile rhythms of his life.

“Oliver…” Lucien’s voice is rough, barely there. His gaze drifts toward the door.

I walk closer, the weight of everything I haven’t said heavy in my chest.

“Why’d you go after them? Why the hell didn’t you call me?” The questions that’ve been running laps in my head since last night finally make it out.