Page 7 of Dallas Rivals

I told him I’d visit when I could—just not anytime soon.

I’ve got a whole lot to learn before that happens.

Miss you already, Roger’s text reads.

Oh boy. This is gonna be tough—especially since I already have one foot out of the relationship, at least mentally.

My reply?

We all know that when you answer with an emoji you’re basically closing the conversation, right? Or is that just me? Anyway—better to end things clean and quick.

Two more hours on the road. I swap the radio for an audiobook some forum folks recommended about soil and land. The narrator’s got that calm, deep voice—the kind that makes you think of every nature doc narrator on Netflix, or Mr. Walker’s voice for that matter. For a second he almost fooled me into thinking he was the composed, sensible type during Daddy’s worst night ever, but when I found him outside trying to steady his breath with those lost eyes, I realized that calm was a mask—probably the rest of him is the same. Those kinds of men are fake, everybody knows it. Daddy defends him tooth and nail, but I can see that superior look in some people—the kind that tries to make you feel small. Lucky for me, I’m immune to that nonsense. I only care about doing a good job; I don’t have to like the man.

The GPS says I’m less than five minutes out. I look around—just an endless sea of green. Feels like nobody’s lived here for a hundred years.

“Where’s the ranch?” I whisper, both hands on the wheel, scanning like a lost tourist.

“Turn right if possible,” says the GPS.

“There ain’t no right here, Patricia!”—that’s what I call the GPS. Patricia makes her sound friendlier, but right now I want to throw her out the window.

On instinct, I turn right anyway. The road ahead is nothing but dirt, carved through with deep, mud-filled ruts left by heavy tires or recent rain. I ease the truck forward, inch by inch, careful not to get stuck before I even arrive. On either side, a dense stand of trees blocks my view, their branches arching overhead and casting long, shifting shadows across the narrow path. Every bump and slip of the wheels sends my heart racing, but I keep going, hoping the ranch lies just beyond the next turn. A little farther in and⁠—

“There it is!” I shout at Patricia. “Yes! Found it!” I singsong, all proud of myself, and drive down the lane until…

As I edge down the muddy lane, a sudden jolt shudders through the truck. My heart jumps. “Goddamn it!” I blurt, realizing instantly that the truck has sunk deeper than I thought into the muck beneath the tires. An uneasy dread settles over me as I press the gas pedal, hoping it’s just a minor slip. Instead, only one wheel spins furiously, spitting clumps of mud and digging itself in even further. “What the hell?” I mutter, panic creeping into my voice. Again, I try the gas, but the wheel only churns up more mud, and the truck refuses to budge—completely stuck. “Oh no. No, no, no…” I whisper, frustration and disbelief swirling inside me as I sit behind the wheel, helpless for a moment, staring at the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

I climb out with my heart pounding, boots sinking into mud, water sloshing up my jeans.

“Great.”

The wheel’s submerged at least six inches.

“This can’t be a good start,” I mutter.

Hands on my hips, I stare at the mess and try to think like Daddy would. Calling him isn’t an option; it would just freak him out and freaking him out won’t help one bit.

“Think, Cala, think. Men do this all the time, it can’t be that hard.”

I glance around, making sure nobody heard that joke, then roll up my sleeves like I actually know what I’m doing.

The air smells like rain-soaked dirt and hay. A cow moos somewhere in the distance, probably judging me.

I climb back into the van and hit the gas again.

The tires scream, spit mud, and—surprise, surprise—bury me even deeper. I try once more, praying under my breath. The only thing that moves is the tachometer.

“Well done, Cala,” I mutter. “Truly inspiring.”

I shove the door open and hop out, only for my boot to sink straight into the mud with a loud squelch. The ground gives way beneath me, and I wobble, trying to catch my balance like a newborn calf unsteady on its feet. My hand shoots out, grabbing the door handle just in time to stop myself from falling face-first into the mess. I look down at my jeans—now streaked and splattered with mud, completely ruined in a matter of seconds. I shake my head, muttering, “Oh, this is just beautiful. Real graceful.”

I start scanning the ground for a rock big enough to wedge under the wheel. Everything nearby’s either too small or big enough to crush me. I walk in circles around the van, trying not to slip, mumbling like a lunatic.

Then I see it.

The perfect rock—solid, flat, maybe ten yards out, just lying there like it’s been waiting for me all day.

I grin. “Don’t move, sweetheart, I’m comin’ for ya.”