Chapter 6
Saramaria
The ache in my lower back is my alarm clock.
It’s a throb that starts at the base of my spine and radiates up, a direct result of nights spent folded like a pretzel on a sofa that wasn’t designed for sleeping.
This is the fourth day since I arrived, and my body hasn’t yet adapted to its new, lumpy reality.
I sit up, the blanket pooling around my waist. The house is quiet, but I know it won’t be for long.
I’ve learned their schedule. The first sign of life is the distant, rhythmic thud that vibrates through the floorboards.
Knox. His bull riding practice. It’s a sound that once sent a jolt of panic through me.
Now, it’s just my morning alarm. A reminder that I am an intruder in my own home.
I’ve also learned that asking for inclusion is a waste of breath.
The first morning, I tried to join them for their coffee ritual.
I walked out, offered a tentative “good morning,” and was met with a wall of silence.
They move around me like I’m a piece of furniture, a lamp they have to navigate.
Boone just lifts his coffee cup in a silent, sarcastic salute.
Knox offers a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Rhett nods before turning back to his conversation with Knox.
So now, I hide. I wait in the house, listening until the sound of their truck fades down the driveway. Only then do I make my move.
I grab my robe and my toiletry bag and sneak across the dew-kissed grass to Knox’s cabin.
His shower. It feels like a strange, intimate secret, this daily trespass.
I hate that I need this. I hate that they have something I need, something as basic as running water.
But the alternative is a cold sponge bath in a dusty house, and my lawyer-brain, even at this early hour, can calculate the cost-benefit analysis with brutal efficiency.
The temporary humiliation is worth the temporary comfort.
The drive into town is in a pickup I rented, a vehicle more suited to this landscape than the rental red SUV I arrived in. I drive straight to The Human Bean. The coffee cart has become my office, my sanctuary.
News travels fast in a town like Muddy Creek.
People know who I am. The girl who left.
The girl who came back. They say hey, sometimes.
The new mayor, a retired rodeo clown with a mischievous glint in his eye, even tipped his hat to me yesterday and called me “little Angelina.” I just smiled, the name a ghost on my tongue.
I work for a few hours, my laptop open, responding to emails from Brenda, reviewing documents from a distance. It’s a tenuous connection to the life I built, a life that feels more and more like it belonged to someone else.
Around four, I pack up and head back to the ranch.
The frustration has been building all day.
Miller, the land assessor, called me yesterday.
“So sorry, Ms. Cruz,” he’d said, his voice oily.
“Something’s come up. I’m swamped. I’ll have to reschedule.
” I’m not sure how the guys did it, but I have a feeling they are involved.
The other assessor, old man Hemlock, is a different story.
He’s by the book. He needs ranch documents.
Financial records. Tax returns. And Rhett has them.
He’s been managing the ranch’s finances for years.
He also hasn’t shared a single page with me.
I tried to find him yesterday, walking over to his cabin, but he was nowhere to be found.
Today, I see him in the distance, mending a fence line, his movements methodical and precise. I know if I approach him, he’ll give me the same silent treatment he gave me this morning. The stonewalling is infuriating, a passive-aggressive war of attrition.
So I go back to the house. The silence in the big, empty rooms feels physical. In the evenings, I eat whatever meal I brought from town—a sad salad, a container of soup—and curl up on my sofa and read. The romance novel, Her Highlander’s Surrender, sits on the small table beside me.
At first, I read it out of a sense of obligation to Dot and Pearl.
Now... now I read it because it’s easier than thinking about my own life.
It’s easier to get lost in a world of kilts and castles and overbearing, passionate Highlanders than to face the reality of my dilapidated ranch and the three hostile Alphas living on it.
I don’t know what the long-term plan is. I can’t sell the land without the assessments. I can’t get the assessments without the documents. I can’t get the documents without Rhett’s cooperation. And I can’t get Rhett’s cooperation without... what? Groveling? Suing him? The thought is exhausting.
So for now, I just exist. I work from the coffee cart.
I sneak into Knox’s shower. I eat my sad meals.
I read my book. I ignore the sound of bull riding in the morning and the sight of their trucks in the evening.
It is what it is. A strange, purgatorial limbo.
A holding pattern while I wait for the next move in a game I’m not even sure I know how to play.
A wet nose nudges my cheek, followed by a high-pitched yip that cuts right through my sleep-addled brain.
This is new.
I groan, swatting weakly at the warm, wriggling bundle of fur that has decided my face is an excellent place to wake me up. It’s Saturday. And my new alarm clock has no off switch.
The yipping continues, a frantic, staccato rhythm that matches the low, angry thud I can feel vibrating through the floorboards.
The bull. Knox’s practice. The puppy, a golden retriever I still haven’t figured out a proper name for, scrambles off the sofa, his little claws clicking against the hardwood as he runs to the front door.
He lets out a series of loud barks, his tail going a mile a minute, a tiny, fluffy soldier defending his territory from the monstrous noise outside.
I push myself up, the blanket pooling around my waist. For the past three mornings, the sound of the bull riding has sent a wave of dread through me, a signal to hide, to wait until they’re gone.
But not today. Today, there’s a warm, living creature in this house with me.
At least I don’t have to sleep alone anymore.
A spark of something hot ignites in my chest. It’s not just about the dog. It’s about the sofa. The kink in my neck. The stonewalling from Rhett. The smug smirk on Knox’s face. The cold, silent treatment from Boone. I’m done hiding.
I pull on a pair of the jeans I bought and a simple T-shirt. My hair, I just tie back in a messy ponytail. No point in trying to look professional for a bunch of cowboys. The puppy, who I’ve taken to calling Doggy in the absence of a better idea, dances around my feet as I head for the door.
“Come on, Doggy,” I say, my voice firm. “Let’s go say hello.”
The morning air is cool, carrying the scent of dust and exertion.
The scene in the practice arena is just as chaotic as I remember.
Diablo, the thundercloud-colored bull, is a dust-choked vortex of fury, his bell clanging a frantic rhythm.
Knox is a blur of motion on his back, his body absorbing the animal’s violent bucks.
Rhett circles them, a calm, watchful predator, his entire being focused on the safety of the rider.
I ignore Knox. Ignoring him feels like the first real power move I’ve made since I got here. I walk straight to the edge of the pen, right to where Rhett is standing.
The buzzer sounds, marking eight seconds. Knox bails off, hitting the ground with a practiced roll. Rhett moves in, a fluid, efficient motion that diverts the bull’s attention, giving Knox the space he needs to get to safety. It’s over in seconds.
“Where’d you get the dog?” Rhett asks. He’s not looking at me, his eyes still on the bull as it’s herded back toward the chute.
Doggy sits at my feet, panting happily, his tongue lolling out.
“His name is Doggy,” I say, the name sounding ridiculous even to my ears.
“And I rescued him. From a well.” My mind flashes to a dark, terrifying hole in the ground and a kind face smudged with dirt.
Willa. The new vet. Another piece of this complicated town puzzle.
Rhett finally turns to look at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.
I take a deep breath, channeling the lawyer I am in Denver. The one who doesn’t back down. “I need all the ranch documents,” I say, my voice clear and firm. “Financial records, tax returns, lease agreements. All of it. I need them before Monday.”
A flicker of something—respect? Annoyance?—crosses his face. “That’s a lot of paper to get together on a weekend.”
“I filed eviction papers last week,” I say, the words a weapon I’ve been waiting to use. They land with the intended impact. “So I suggest you make it a priority. I’d rather not have to add a lawsuit for obstruction to the list.”
His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that tells me I’ve hit a nerve. He doesn’t respond, just gives me a nod before turning to help Knox with the bull.
I walk away, my heart pounding, a triumphant surge of adrenaline coursing through me. I did it. I stood my ground. I made a demand.
But as I walk back to the house, the adrenaline fades, replaced by a familiar, nagging ache in my lower back.
I look at the lumpy sofa, at the makeshift bed I’ve been sleeping on, and a new determination takes hold.
I’m done with this. I’m the owner of this house.
And I won’t sleep on a sofa for one more night.
I grab my keys and whistle for Doggy. He comes running, his tail wagging. “We’re going on an adventure,” I tell him.