Chapter 1
Saramaria
The words blur together on the page, black ink swimming before my eyes. I’ve read this document seven times now, and each pass through the legal jargon leaves me more confused than the last.
“To my beloved daughter, Angelina Cruz, I bequeath Meadowlark Ranch and all its holdings...”
My fingers trace the crisp paper of the will. It’s right there in writing. Angelina Cruz. My mother. Which means the ranch should belong to me, right? As her only child, her sole heir?
I rub my temples, willing the headache away. The city lights of Denver twinkle outside my office window. It’s all very different from the wide-open spaces of Wyoming I left behind eight years ago.
I’ve handled countless acquisitions at Hartman & Ellis, one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. I can dissect complex corporate contracts in my sleep. But this... this family document tied up in legal language and emotional baggage? It’s breaking my brain.
What the hell am I supposed to do with a whole ranch?
I push back from my desk, the leather chair groaning. My muscles protest as I stretch, arms reaching toward the ceiling. I’ve been hunched over this document for hours, the fluorescent lights of the office creating a sterile glow that does nothing to help my growing migraine.
“Ms. Cruz?” The intercom on my desk crackles to life. “Penelope is here to see you.”
A genuine smile touches my lips for the first time all day. “Send her in, Brenda.”
The door to my office opens moments later, and Penelope breezes in, her vibrant yellow dress a splash of color against the muted tones of my office. Her dark curls bounce with each step, and I’m already standing before she reaches me.
“Hey, you,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
Penelope hugs me back tightly. “Long day?”
“You have no idea.”
She pulls back, her eyes immediately landing on the document spread across my desk. “Don’t tell me you’re still looking at that thing.”
“I can’t help it.” I sigh, sinking back into my chair. “There has to be something I’m missing.”
Penelope perches on the edge of my desk, knocking a stack of files with her elbow.
She doesn’t seem to notice as I right them.
“Judge Matthews is driving me insane today. He keeps changing his mind about the admissibility of the evidence. I swear, he’s more indecisive than my teenage niece choosing what to wear to prom. ”
I manage a weak laugh. “At least your problems have solutions.”
“Yours does too,” she says, her expression softening. “Go home, Sara. Get some rest. You’ve been staring at that will for a week now.”
“I can’t,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Maybe you need fresh eyes on it?”
I nod. She does have a point. There’s no one I trust more than my boyfriend, anyway. “Is Richard around? I haven’t seen him all day.”
Penelope shakes her head. “Still in meetings. That merger case is taking up all his time. I’m supposed to pull more files for him before he gets back.”
“He’s lucky to have you.” Richard has been gushing over how happy he is to be working with my best friend. She’s the best paralegal in Denver, after all. “Tell him to text me as soon as he gets back, will you?”
“Sure thing,” she says, standing up. “But you need to go home. Get your rest in.”
I nod, the exhaustion suddenly hitting me full force. “Thanks, babe.”
I begin organizing my files, stacking them neatly according to case number and date. It’s a habit I can’t break—everything in its proper place. Penelope watches with an amused expression as I align my pens perfectly with the edge of the desk and wipe away a smudge on my computer screen.
“You know,” she says, “most people just leave their offices messy.”
“I’m not most people,” I reply without looking up.
“That’s for damn sure.” She laughs.
Once everything is in order, I grab my purse and follow Penelope out of my office. We walk down the hallway, our heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The building is mostly empty now, the rest of the firm having left hours ago.
“Are you sure you don’t want to grab a drink?” Penelope asks as we reach the elevator. “I know this new cocktail bar that just opened downtown. Their espresso martinis are to die for. That could help you take the edge off.”
“Maybe another time,” I say, pressing the button. “I really need to sleep.”
“Alright,” she says, pulling me into another hug. “But don’t stay up all night reading that will.”
“No promises,” I joke.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside. “Goodnight, Pen.”
“Night, Sara.”
As the elevator descends, I check my reflection in the mirrored walls. My dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun, my makeup minimal. I look professional, put together. Nothing like the wild girl who used to ride bareback through fields of wildflowers.
The lobby is quiet when I step out, only Franklin, the night watchman, sitting at the security desk.
“Ms. Cruz,” he says, looking up from his newspaper. “Working late again?”
“Just wrapping up,” I say with a smile. “How’s your wife, Franklin?”
“Better,” he says, his face lighting up. “The physical therapy is really helping.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. Have a good night.”
“You too, Ms. Cruz.”
The cool night air hits me as I step outside. I walk to the parking garage, my heels echoing in the concrete structure. My silver sedan sits where I left it this morning, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
As I drive home through the city streets, I allow myself a small smile. I like being a lawyer. I like the structure, the rules, the clear expectations.
When I first left Muddy Creek, I spent two years trying to make it as a chef.
I thought cooking would be my passion, my escape.
But the chaos of the kitchen, the unpredictability, the constant mess—it drove me crazy.
I found myself organizing the spice rack alphabetically and counting the number of basil leaves in each dish.
Law gives me order. It gives me stability. It gives me control.
The house Richard and I share is in a quiet suburb, all manicured lawns and matching mailboxes. I pull into the driveway, cutting the engine. The house is dark, which means Richard isn’t home yet.
I let myself in, dropping my keys in the designated bowl by the door. Everything has its place here, just like in my office. The couch cushions are perfectly fluffed, the magazines on the coffee table arranged by date, the remotes lined up precisely.
I text Richard: Just got home. Miss you. Hope your meeting went well.
Then I head upstairs, shedding my work clothes as I go. By the time I reach the bathroom, I’m down to my underwear. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it’s just right.
Steam fills the room as I step under the hot spray, closing my eyes. The water cascades over my shoulders, easing the tension that’s been building all day. I’ve been working so hard lately, between the will and the new merger case at work. I need this break.
But even as the water washes over me, my mind drifts back to the will. To Meadowlark Ranch. To the life I left behind.
I haven’t been back to Muddy Creek since the day I drove away in my mother’s truck. Eight years ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Other times, it feels like yesterday.
I can still see Boone standing by the barn as I drove away.
I often wonder what happened to him. If he’s still working at the ranch. If he ever thinks of me.
Probably not.
I shake my head, water flying everywhere. I need to stop thinking about the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. I have a life here. A good life. A structured life.
And yet... the will sits in my briefcase downstairs, a connection to a world I thought I’d left behind forever.
I turn off the shower, grabbing a towel.
As I dry off, I catch my reflection in the foggy mirror.
For a moment, I see a different face—younger, freckled, with wild red hair like my mother’s.
But then I blink, and it’s gone. It’s just me again.
Saramaria Angelina Cruz, lawyer. Structured.
Controlled. Exactly who I’m supposed to be.
Exactly who I need to be.
I wrap myself in the plush white robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
My phone is on the counter, and I pick it up, scrolling through my calendar.
Tomorrow is packed with back-to-back meetings, but I make a mental note to call my stylist first thing in the morning.
My roots are starting to show, and I can’t have that. Not when I have a deposition on Friday.
The house is quiet as I walk to the kitchen, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.
Richard and I keep our fridge meticulously organized—fruits and vegetables in the crisper drawer, dairy products on the middle shelf, meats on the bottom.
It’s one of the many things I love about him. He understands the need for order.
I pull out leftover grilled chicken from last night, a container of cooked brown rice, and some mixed greens.
My knife glides through the vegetables as I chop them—cucumber, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers—each piece uniform in size.
I toss everything in a bowl with a light vinaigrette I made over the weekend, the aroma of lemon and herbs filling the air.
I serve myself a portion on one of our good plates, the one with the blue rim that matches the kitchen backsplash. After eating, I wash the dishes immediately, placing them in the drying rack with precision. No messes left overnight. That’s our rule.
The sitting room is my favorite part of the house.
Rich cream-colored walls, dark wood furniture, and shelves lined with law books and classic novels.
I sink into the deep sofa, pulling a soft throw blanket over my legs.
The TV flickers to life, and I scroll through the channels until I find what I’m looking for—The Philadelphia Story is just starting.
Classic romance movies are my guilty pleasure, a small rebellion in my otherwise structured life.
I’ve just finished my salad when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s Richard.
Miss you too. Sorry, but I have to finish up some work. Will be home late.
A frown touches my lips. Late again? This is the third night this week. The thought of my Alpha, my Richard, eating cold takeout in his office while I’m here in our perfectly organized home makes something uneasy curl in my stomach.
I remember our first night together, after we’d both been working late on the Peterson case.
The office was empty except for us, the city lights twinkling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
One minute we were reviewing documents, the next his hands were on my waist, his mouth claiming mine.
He’d bent me over his desk, papers scattering everywhere, and it had been so fucking hot. So spontaneous. So unlike either of us.
Between our demanding schedules, we haven’t had sex in over a week. The realization hits me with surprising force. We’re usually so in sync, but lately... lately we’ve been like two ships passing in the night.
An idea forms in my mind, bold and impulsive. I can surprise him at the office. It’s only 11 p.m. I could be there by midnight. A smile spreads across my face. It would be perfect.
I hurry back to the bedroom, shedding my robe and pulling on the little black dress that Richard loves so much.
It hugs my curves in all the right places, the fabric soft against my skin.
I spray on my perfume, the one with notes of vanilla that enhance the natural sweetness in my scent.
The thought of him undressing me, maybe bending me over his desk again, has my heart racing.
I pack the leftover chicken and rice salad in a container, along with a bottle of water and some silverware. Real food, not the greasy takeout he’d probably otherwise eat.
The drive to the office is filled with anticipation. I rehearse what I’ll say, how I’ll surprise him. Maybe I’ll sneak up behind him while he’s working, wrap my arms around his neck...
The elevator dings as it reaches the 34th floor. The firm is dark except for a light coming from Richard’s corner office. My heels click softly against the marble floor as I approach, the container of food in my hand.
I push open the door slightly, a playful smile on my lips. “Surprise,” I start to say, but the words die in my throat.
Richard is there, but he’s not alone. He’s on his knees, his head buried between Penelope’s legs as she leans back against his desk, her fingers tangled in his hair. Her yellow dress is hiked up around her waist, her eyes closed in ecstasy.
For a moment, I can’t process what I’m seeing. My brain refuses to accept the image before me. Richard. My Richard. With Penelope. My best friend.
The container of food slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. Chicken and rice scatter across the pristine marble. “What the fuck?”
Richard looks up, his blue eyes twinkling.
All he says is “Shit!” as I stand there frozen, my entire reality crumbling before my very eyes.