Tame Me Daddy

Chapter 1

The wheels of the Greyhound bus droned beneath me, a mechanical lullaby that—try as I might—I couldn't surrender to. It was three days since I'd fled home. Three days of holding myself together with nothing but stubborn will and fear. I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched as strip malls and suburban sprawl gradually gave way to stretches of scrubby fields and open sky. Everything I owned sat in the backpack by my feet and the single suitcase stowed overhead. Not much to show for twenty-three years of life.

My fingers curled around my phone, its battery hovering at thirty percent. The screen glowed with unanswered texts from my sister, Amber. The only family member who hadn't completely shut me out.

"Are you ok? Please tell me where you're going."

"Mom's a mess. Dad won't talk about it."

"I don't care what they say. I love you no matter what."

I thumbed the edge of my phone case, picking at a loose corner. I hadn't answered Amber yet. Didn't know what to say. How do you explain to your nineteen-year-old sister that your parents found your secret collection of pacifiers and plush toys? That they'd read your private journal full of thoughts about wanting to be taken care of, about age regression and your "little" side?

My throat tightened. The memory of three nights ago crashed over me like a physical wave.

"What the hell is this?" Dad had stood in my doorway, holding my baby-blue journal. The one I kept locked in my desk drawer. The one with the little silver key I wore on a chain around my neck.

Except the lock had been broken. My privacy invaded.

"That's private." My voice had come out small, already regressing under stress. A bad sign.

"Private?" He'd flipped to a dog-eared page. "'Today I bought a new sippy cup. It's pink with glitter. Nobody knows how much I need these things. How much I need to feel safe and small sometimes.'" His voice had gone from confused to disgusted. "What is this sick stuff? Are you some kind of pervert?"

Mom had appeared behind him, holding my favorite stuffed bunny by one ear like it was contaminated. In her other hand, a pacifier designed for adults. Her face had been worse than Dad's—not angry, but devastated. "Where did we go wrong with you, Cherry? What happened to our little girl?"

The irony might have made me laugh if I hadn't been breaking apart inside.

"It's called being a 'little,'" I'd tried to explain, words tumbling out. "It's not sexual, it's not—it's just how I cope. It makes me feel safe when everything gets too much."

"Safe?" Dad had thrown the journal at my feet. "You're twenty-three! You want to act like a baby? Drink from bottles? This isn't normal!"

"Please, just let me explain—"

"No." His hand had cut through the air. "Not in my house. This stops now, or you find somewhere else to live."

I'd looked at Mom for support, but her eyes had been wet with tears, her head shaking slowly. "It's not right, Cherry. It's not natural."

Three hours later, I'd been on my friend Lydia's couch, sobbing into her spare pillow, everything precious to me hastily shoved into a suitcase and backpack. I'd left behind the nursery furniture I'd saved for months to buy, hidden beneath my bed in flat-packed boxes. Left behind the custom onesies. Left behind the life I'd built in secret.

For two days, I'd searched job listings from Lydia's laptop, looking specifically for live-in positions. Something, anything to get me out of town, away from the whispers that would inevitably follow. What if my parents told the neighbors? What if word got around?

The Warwick Ranch listing had appeared like a miracle. "Ranch hand needed. Experience with animals preferredl. Accommodation provided." The salary wasn't much, but I wouldn't need much. I'd grown up helping at my uncle's small farm every summer until high school. I knew animals, knew hard work.

I'd called immediately, hands shaking.

"Warwick Ranch." The voice had been deep, masculine, with a hint of Texas drawl.

"I'm . . . I'm calling about the ranch hand position?" My voice had wavered despite my attempts to sound professional.

"Name?" Direct. No nonsense.

"Cherry Morgan."

"Experience?"

"Six years helping on my uncle's farm. Mostly horses and a few cattle. I'm good with animals, sir. I work hard."

A pause. "Why Warwick?"

The question had caught me off guard. I'd scrambled for an answer that wouldn't reveal too much.

"I need a fresh start. Somewhere I can work with my hands and contribute. The accommodation is . . . important to me right now."

Something in my voice must have communicated my desperation, because his tone had softened slightly.

"We start at five AM. Days are long. It's not easy work, Miss Morgan."

"I understand. I'm ready for that."

Another pause. "Email your details. We'll be in touch by end of day."

The acceptance email had arrived four hours later. Just a few lines confirming the position, the start date, and instructions to take the bus to a spot in Denton County where someone would pick me up.

Now I touched the email, saved on my phone like a talisman. The words "position confirmed" glowed back at me. My chest felt hollow, scraped clean of everything but raw nerve endings. I'd been awake for most of the past three days, running on convenience store coffee and fear.

The bus passed a faded billboard advertising "Jennings Western Wear - Outfitting Real Cowboys Since 1952." The peeling paint and sun-bleached colors made it look like a relic from another time. My reflection in the window looked equally worn—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, skin pale and tight across my cheekbones.

What was I doing? I knew nothing about Texas, nothing about ranch life beyond my uncle's modest operation. I'd never even been outside my home state on my own. But the alternative—going back, facing my parents' disgust, suppressing this essential part of myself—that wasn't living. That was slow suffocation.

Tears threatened, burning behind my eyes. I blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. The woman across the aisle already kept glancing at me with that awkward mixture of curiosity and discomfort people reserve for those they suspect might make a scene.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. Was I running toward something or just away? Maybe both. Maybe it didn't matter. I was moving, and movement was better than stagnation, better than rejection.

The backpack between my knees contained my laptop, phone charger, and the few "little" items I couldn't bear to leave behind—a small plush bunny, a silicone pacifier in a protective case, and a collapsible silicone sippy cup. My lifelines to the part of myself I'd been told to be ashamed of. The part that helped me process a world that often felt too harsh, too demanding.

The bus wheels continued their rhythm beneath me, carrying me deeper into Texas and toward Warwick Ranch. Toward whatever came next.

*

The bus wheezed to a halt beside a sun-bleached wooden bench that constituted the entire bus stop. The driver, a man whose face had collapsed into permanent creases, called out "Denton County" like he doubted anyone would be fool enough to disembark. I was that fool. I gathered my backpack, pulled my suitcase from the overhead compartment, and stepped into what felt like walking into an open oven.

The midday Texas heat slammed into me. My breath caught in my throat, the air so hot it seemed to scorch my lungs. Sweat beaded instantly along my hairline. I stood on cracked concrete as the bus pulled away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and diesel fumes.

The "station" consisted of the weathered bench and a faded sign on a metal pole. No shelter, no vending machines, not even a trash can. Just endless sky pressing down on flat land stretching toward a smudged horizon. A hundred yards away, a two-lane highway shimmered in the heat.

"Jesus," I whispered, the word evaporating in the dry air.

My cotton t-shirt clung to my back instantly. I wore jeans and canvas sneakers—city clothes completely wrong for this environment. The suitcase handle burned my palm. I'd packed for farm work, but my image of farm work came from Vermont summers, not Texas heat.

I dragged my luggage to the bench and sat, feeling the hot wood through my jeans. My phone showed two bars of service —barely enough to function. I opened the message I'd received that morning:

"Hi Cherry! I'm Maya, Grant asked me to pick you up at the bus stop around 2 PM. Blue pickup. Can't miss me, I'm the only woman ranch hand besides you now! See you soon!"

The exclamation points made me nervous. I checked the time: 1:47 PM. Thirteen minutes of sitting in this heat. I took a small sip from my water bottle, rationing it instinctively.

What the hell was I doing here? I'd run away from one problem and landed myself in . . . what exactly? The vastness of Texas stretched around me, indifferent to my presence. No buildings in sight except a distant water tower. No trees, just scrubby brush. Nothing familiar. Nothing safe.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my backpack. The worn ear of my plush bunny poked against the fabric. I jerked my hand away as if burned. No. I couldn't give myself away so easily. Those things were for private moments only now. That part of me needed to stay hidden if I was going to survive here.

I practiced my introduction in my head. "Hi, I'm Cherry Morgan. I'm a hard worker." Simple. Direct. Adult.

Not: "Hi, I'm Cherry. Sometimes I like to color and drink from sippy cups and be called a good girl." Definitely not that.

My parents' horrified faces flashed in my memory. The disgust in my father's voice. Would the ranch people look at me the same way if they knew? Would they fire me? Mock me? The thought made my stomach churn.

Ranch work was physical. Practical. No room for softness or childish things. I needed to be tough, capable, normal. I could do that. I'd been hiding parts of myself for years, after all.

At home, I'd had my locked bedroom door, private moments to indulge my little side when the pressure of adulting became too much. Here? I had no idea what privacy would look like. Would I share a room? Would there be locks on doors? Would people respect personal boundaries?

The heat made thinking difficult. Sweat trickled down my temples, between my breasts, along my spine. My heart pounded too fast in my chest. The beginnings of a panic attack fluttered at the edges of my consciousness.

I focused on my breathing. In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight. A grounding technique I'd learned years ago. I pressed my palms against the rough bench wood, feeling splinters catch on my skin.

"You're okay," I whispered to myself. "One day at a time."

The hard part was done, wasn't it? I'd already left. Already burned bridges. Already chosen this path. Now I just had to walk it.

I fished my hair tie from my wrist and pulled my blonde hair into a tighter ponytail. Straightened my t-shirt. Small actions of control in a situation where I felt none.

My phone buzzed with a text from my sister: "Please let me know you're safe."

I hesitated, then typed: "I'm safe. Got a job with housing. Will call when settled." I hit send, then turned my phone to airplane mode. I couldn't handle more questions right now.

The heat was making me light-headed. I took another small sip of water, feeling it warm in my mouth. I'd expected Texas to be hot, but not this oppressive, like the air itself had weight. The silence stretched around me, broken only by the occasional rustle of dry brush or the distant call of what might have been a hawk.

What would the ranch be like? Would the other workers be kind? Would they look at me and somehow know I was different? Would my boss—Grant, the man with the deep voice from the phone—regret hiring me? I imagined having to call my sister to wire me bus fare home after being fired. The thought made me nauseated.

The sound of an approaching engine cut through my thoughts. A dust cloud rose from the road leading to the highway. My heart jumped into my throat.

I stood, grabbing my suitcase handle. Stood taller. Squared my shoulders. Practiced my normal-adult face. This was it. First impressions mattered more than anything now.

The rumble grew louder. I squinted against the sun, watching as a blue pickup truck materialized through the heat haze. Country music drifted from its open windows, some upbeat song about dirt roads and cold beer. The truck slowed as it approached, tires crunching on gravel.

This was my new life arriving. Ready or not.

The truck stopped a few feet from me, Texas dust swirling around its tires. The woman behind the wheel killed the engine but left the radio playing—some country singer belting about trucks and heartbreak. She jumped out with the energy of someone who found the scorching heat invigorating rather than punishing. Her dark hair was pulled back in practical braids, and she wore a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tanned forearms. A smile split her face, genuine and warm as the day.

"Cherry, right?" She extended her hand. "I'm Maya Rodriguez. Welcome to the middle of nowhere, Texas."

Her handshake was firm but not aggressive. Mine felt clammy and weak in comparison, but if she noticed, she didn't show it.

"That all you got?" She nodded toward my single suitcase and backpack.

"Yeah. I travel light."

"Smart. Most folks bring way too much." Maya grabbed my suitcase before I could protest. "The quarters ain't huge anyway."

She hefted it into the truck bed with one smooth motion that made it clear she was used to physical work. I clutched my backpack—with its precious cargo—to my chest and climbed into the passenger seat. The vinyl was hot enough to sear through my jeans.

"Shit!" I yelped, then immediately blushed. "Sorry."

Maya laughed, sliding behind the wheel. "No worries. First rule of Texas: everything's trying to burn you in summer." She cranked the AC, which blasted hot air before gradually cooling. "You'll toughen up quick."

The truck smelled of hay, dirt, and something vaguely floral—maybe Maya's shampoo. The dashboard was cluttered with receipts, a small turquoise stone, and what looked like a partially unwrapped protein bar. Country music still played from the speakers, not too loud but persistent.

"Hope you don't mind the tunes. Gets lonely on these drives otherwise." She put the truck in gear and executed a tight turn, sending dust spiraling behind us.

"I don't mind." In truth, I preferred silence when anxious, but contradicting my new coworker and ride seemed unwise.

We bounced down the dirt road toward the highway. I gripped the door handle, not used to the truck's suspension—or lack thereof.

"So," Maya's eyes stayed on the road, "I'm guessing this is your first time in Texas?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She glanced at my canvas sneakers and jeans with an amused smile. "Just a hunch."

"I'm from Vermont originally."

"Ah, maple syrup country! Man, that's a long way from here." She shook her head appreciatively. "We need to get you some fucken boots, stat. Those sneakers'll be destroyed by week's end."

We turned onto the highway, and the truck picked up speed. The landscape scrolled past my window—golden fields dotted with occasional cattle, distant farm buildings shimmering in heat mirages, and endless sky. So different from Vermont's green mountains and dense forests. The emptiness had its own stark beauty, but it felt exposed, nowhere to hide.

"So what's the ranch like?" I asked, desperate to know what I was driving toward.

"Warwick? It's one of the best in the county. Grant runs a tight ship, but he's fair." Maya tapped her fingers against the steering wheel in time with the music. "About two thousand acres, mostly cattle operation with some horses. Grant's been modernizing things since he took over from his dad. Better facilities, more sustainable practices."

"How many people work there?"

"About fifteen full-time, more during busy seasons. Most of the guys have been there for years." She glanced my way. "It'll be nice having another woman around. Been just me for the past couple months since Darlene retired."

My stomach tightened. I'd be even more visible than I'd feared.

"What about the . . . living situation?" I tried to keep my voice casual.

"Workers' quarters are behind the main house. Small rooms, but private. Shared bathrooms, one for women, one for men. Common area with a TV, kitchen privileges though most folks eat in the mess hall." She must have noticed my expression because she added, "Don't worry—people respect privacy. We all work too hard to have energy for nosiness."

I exhaled slightly. Private room. At least that was something.

We passed a weathered sign for a cattle auction. The highway stretched empty before and behind us.

"We're vaccinating the southern herd tomorrow," Maya continued. "You ever done that before?"

I shook my head.

"No problem. I'll show you. It's easy once you get the hang of it." She adjusted her side mirror. "I was a vet assistant before this, so I handle most of the medical stuff. You'll be on restraint duty—holding the calves while I stick 'em."

My experience with cattle was limited to my uncle's small dairy herd. The thought of wrestling angry beef cattle made my palms sweat.

"They're big animals," I murmured.

"Yeah, but there's a technique to it. Grant's good about training new folks properly." She pronounced his name with a respect that caught my attention.

"What's he like? Grant, I mean." I'd only heard his voice on the phone—deep, authoritative.

Maya considered this. "Fair, like I said. Expects a lot but gives a lot too. Not much for small talk, but he notices everything." Her voice carried that tone again—admiration, maybe even affection. "He's the kind of boss who works alongside everyone else. Never asks someone to do something he wouldn't do himself."

"He sounded . . . intense. On the phone."

Maya laughed. "Oh, he can be. Especially with new folks. But once he sees you're serious about the work, he softens up." She turned down the radio slightly. "Just don't mistake his quiet for disapproval. Man's just thoughtful."

The way she described him made me picture someone older, weathered by years of outdoor work. Someone stern but fair. Someone perceptive—which made me uneasy. Perceptive people noticed things. Things like someone fighting to stay in their adult headspace when stressed.

"How long have you been at Warwick?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Just a couple months. I was the newbie until you showed up." Maya smiled. "City life was burning me out. Needed open spaces." She cast me a sideways glance. "What about you? What brings a Vermont girl all the way to Texas cattle country?"

The question I'd been dreading. I gave her the practiced half-truth I'd rehearsed on the bus.

"Needed a change. Family situation got . . . complicated." I stared out the window, hoping she wouldn't press. "I've always been good with animals. The accommodation was a big factor too."

I felt Maya's eyes on me briefly before returning to the road. She had a perceptiveness that made me nervous, like she could see the ragged edges of my story.

"Well, sometimes a fresh start is exactly what a person needs." Her voice held no judgment, just understanding. "And complicated family shit? Join the club. Half the ranch has that in common."

She didn't push for details, and gratitude washed through me. Maya seemed to instinctively know when to let something lie.

"Though I should warn you," she added with a small smile, "I've never seen someone look so terrified at the mention of cattle restraint."

I flushed. "That obvious?"

"Little bit. But hey, we all start somewhere." She shrugged. "I was scared of horses my first week. Now I help with the training."

"I'm not exactly scared of cattle," I lied. "Just . . . respectful of their size. Plus they’re hungry for blood."

Maya laughed. "Hungry for blood?”

“Everyone says it.”

We laughed together for a while. If felt good.

The conversation drifted to music, then to the local town—small but with "the best tacos you'll ever eat" at a place called Elena's. Maya talked easily, filling silences without demanding much in return. It was a kindness I hadn't expected but desperately needed.

The landscape grew more varied as we drove—clusters of trees, small rises in the land, occasional creeks. I caught glimpses of cattle in distant fields. The vastness was both intimidating and oddly calming. So much space to breathe.

"That's Johnson Creek," Maya pointed to a ribbon of water glinting in the distance. "Runs through the northern edge of Warwick property. Good fishing, if you're into that."

I wasn't, but I nodded anyway.

"There's a swimming hole too. We sometimes go after work in summer. Nothing better after a day of dust."

The idea of socializing after work made me tense. When would I have time to decompress? To let my little side out even briefly? I'd need to establish boundaries carefully, find excuses to have alone time.

"I'm not much of a swimmer," I said.

"No pressure. Some folks just bring a beer and watch the sunset." She glanced at me. "Ranch life can be intense, but we make sure to have some fun too. Otherwise, what's the point, right?"

Her easy acceptance made me wish, not for the first time, that I could just be normal.

But I wasn't.

The truck turned off the highway onto a narrower paved road. A wooden sign announced "County Road 22" in faded letters. Maya rolled down her window slightly, letting in the scent of dust and wild sage.

"Almost there," she said. "About ten more minutes to the ranch entrance."

I took a deep breath and tried to quiet the storm in my chest—fear and hope battling for dominance. For better or worse, this was my life now.

*