Page 73 of Dallas Rivals

He does the same, except he takes one step back, putting a safe, deliberate distance between us.

“Oliver,” my father greets him, suspicious. “Everything all right?”

Of course. He’s never seen Oliver laugh before, which explains that look on his face.

“Yes,” Oliver says, clearing his throat and erasing the smile. “Actually, you’re the one I wanted to see.”

He gestures toward the box, and my father frowns.

“What’s that, Oliver?”

“A four-by-four,” I mutter under my breath and the two of us lose it again, laughing.

“It’s a new chair,” Oliver explains, regaining composure. “An electric one you can use around the property. Look.”

He points at the picture printed on the side of the box.

My father stares at it for a long moment, then gives a curt nod.

“Mr. Walker, thank you so much,” my mother says, her voice trembling somewhere between gratitude and relief.

My eyes stay on my father—the disapproval written all over his face—and for the first time, I feel the urge to speak up, to call him out for it.

“Now you’ll be able to chase me around the ranch,” I say, watching him carefully.

But he ignores me completely, his eyes fixed on Oliver.

“Deduct it from Cala’s paycheck,” he says flatly.

“What?” My blood starts to boil.

Oliver’s jaw tightens; his good mood vanishes instantly.

“Can I have a word with you, Lucien?” he says, his voice low and sharp.

My mother and I exchange a glance and immediately nod. We get out of there fast, not because I’m scared of Oliver anymore, but because I can feel the fury building in my chest like a pressure cooker ready to blow.

His eyes won’t meet mine.

His hands are gripping the wheelchair so tight his knuckles have gone white. I crouch down in front of my old friend, a man I barely recognize anymore. Bitterness and defeat have taken over, and I can’t just watch it happen.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes, and I won’t pretend I do,” I say, my tone sharper than I intend. “But I’m done watching you spiral. If I must be the bad guy to snap you out of it, fine, I can live with that.”

“Oliver…”

“I’m not done talking.” He nods once, silent. “You can’t do this alone. You can’t lock yourself away and drown in misery. I won’t allow it and neither will your family. This,” I point at the chair, “is just the start of what I’m planning to do to give you your life back. Monday morning, things change around here.”

I tear open the box and start assembling the wheelchair.

“What do you mean?” His voice wavers—angry but scared too.

“I mean we’re all gonna help you get better. You need therapy, movement, sunlight. There’s a rehab center that specializes in cases like yours, and I want⁠—”

“I’m not your responsibility, Oliver!” he snaps.

I ignore the outburst, lock the brakes, and place the new chair beside him. The frame gleams under the light, sturdy and sleek.

“You’re family,” I tell him flatly. “And I take care of my family because I choose to. If that hurts your pride, tough luck. Your daughter gave up her life to stay here and help you, and you’re paying her back with anger and complaints. That stops today.”