Tame Me Daddy

Chapter 1 #2

The truck slowed as we approached a massive wooden archway that spanned the entrance road. Thick beams of dark wood rose from stone bases, topped by a heavy crosspiece bearing the words "Warwick Ranch" in iron lettering. Below the name, a stylized cattle brand—a W with a curved line beneath it—had been burned into the wood.

"Welcome to Warwick," Maya said, her voice carrying a hint of pride though she'd only been here a couple months herself.

The entrance road stretched ahead, unpaved but well-maintained, bordered by white post fencing that gleamed in the afternoon light. Beyond the fencing, open pastureland rolled toward distant tree lines. The vastness of it stunned me—so different from the close, green valleys of Vermont.

"How big did you say this place was?" I asked, trying to take it all in.

"About two thousand acres, give or take. The Warwick family's been adding to it for generations."

We rounded a gentle curve, and the full vista of the ranch opened before us. My mouth actually dropped open.

In the distance, a large two-story house rose from a slight elevation—white clapboard with a wide porch wrapping around at least two sides, a steep roof with multiple dormers, and mature oak trees providing shade. Not ostentatious, but substantial. The kind of house that had stories embedded in its walls.

"That's the main house," Maya explained. "Grant lives there. His grandfather built it in the forties."

To the left of the main house stood a cluster of buildings—some modern metal structures, others older wooden ones with character. Pickup trucks and utility vehicles were parked in a graveled area. People moved between buildings with purpose.

"The big metal building is the equipment barn—tractors, trucks, tools. The red one beside it is the main horse stable. Beyond that are the cattle barns and handling facilities." Maya pointed as she spoke. "Grant's been upgrading everything systematically since he took over five years ago. New cattle chutes, better water systems, solar panels on most roofs now."

I tried to absorb it all, cataloging buildings and their purposes, trying to imagine myself moving confidently through this unfamiliar world.

"What happened to his father?" I asked, noting she'd mentioned Grant taking over.

"Retired to Arizona with Grant's mom. Some health issues, I think. Grant was running most of it anyway by then." She steered around a pothole. "The Warwicks have owned this land since the 1880s. Grant's the fifth generation."

The weight of that history pressed against me. Five generations of belonging somewhere. Of knowing exactly who you were and where you fit. The opposite of how I felt—rootless, disconnected, hiding essential parts of myself.

As we drove deeper into the property, I spotted three riders on horseback moving across a distant field, silhouetted against the sky. They guided a small herd of cattle with practiced ease. The scene looked like something from a movie—too perfect, too iconic to be my actual life now.

"That's the western crew checking fence lines," Maya explained. "We rotate cattle between pastures to prevent overgrazing. Grant's big on sustainable practices. Says his grandkids should inherit land as good as what he got."

The mention of future generations made me wonder about Grant's personal life. Was he married? Had children? The questions felt too personal to ask someone I'd just met.

We passed a large pond with a wooden dock extending into water that reflected the blue sky. Several ducks took flight as we approached.

"That's one of the water retention ponds Grant added. Helps during dry spells, plus good for wildlife." Maya slowed to let a tractor cross the road ahead. "He's partnered with some university program on regenerative agriculture. Lots of science behind what looks like simple ranching."

The more she talked about Grant Warwick, the more complex he seemed—not just a gruff boss but someone with vision, someone who thought about legacy and sustainability. I found myself curious despite my anxiety.

The main cluster of buildings grew closer. Now I could see details—weathered wood, metal roofs, equipment parked with military precision. Several dogs roamed the area, one racing alongside a utility vehicle.

"Working dogs," Maya explained, following my gaze. "Border collies mostly. Smart as hell. Don't try to pet them while they're working though. They take their jobs seriously."

I nodded, thinking how that would be my approach too—head down, focused on work, avoiding attention.

We turned off the main road onto a smaller track that curved behind the main house. Here, set back among a stand of mesquite trees, stood a long, single-story building with a covered porch running its length. Several smaller cabins flanked it.

"Workers' quarters," Maya said, pulling up in front of the main building. "Communal spaces in the big building—mess hall, rec room, laundry. Individual rooms in the wings and those separate cabins. Older hands get the cabins. You and I are in the east wing."

The building looked well-maintained but basic. White paint with green trim, metal roof that probably made a satisfying sound during rain. Rocking chairs lined the porch, and a large grill stood at one end. It looked . . . not like home, exactly, but like it could become something close to it.

"The mess hall serves breakfast at 5 AM, lunch at noon, dinner at 7 PM. Miss it and you're on your own." Maya killed the engine. "Bathrooms are shared but cleaned daily. Laundry room has three washers and dryers—Sunday's the best day to get a machine. Any questions?"

A hundred, but none I could articulate. Everything felt both overwhelming and strangely right—like I'd stepped into a life I didn't know I was meant for.

"It's a lot to take in," I finally said.

Maya nodded understandingly. "First few days are the hardest. Then routine kicks in." She grabbed her water bottle from the cup holder. "Oh, and fair warning—cell service is spotty. WiFi works in the main buildings but not great in the rooms. Satellite TV in the rec room for sports and weather."

Limited connectivity would make maintaining my online little community difficult. But maybe some distance from digital life would be good. Fewer reminders of what I'd left behind.

For the first time since leaving home, I felt a flicker of something like hope. Not just the desperate hope of escape, but genuine possibility. The ranch sprawled around me, intimidating in its size and unfamiliarity, but also offering something I desperately needed—purpose, structure, and anonymity. No one here knew me. No one had expectations based on who I'd been before.

"It's beautiful," I said quietly, looking out at the golden fields stretching to the horizon, the neat buildings, the sense of order and purpose. "Different than what I'm used to, but beautiful."

Maya smiled, seeming pleased by my reaction. "Wait till you see a Texas sunset. Like the whole sky's on fire." She opened her door. "Come on, let's get you settled before dinner. You look dead on your feet."

I was—exhaustion weighed every limb, made heavier by emotional fatigue. But there was also a strange exhilaration. I'd done it. I'd left my old life behind and landed somewhere entirely new. Somewhere no one looked at me with disgust or disappointment. Not yet, anyway.

As I climbed down from the truck, the Texas heat embraced me again—still intense but somehow less oppressive than at the bus stop. A slight breeze carried the scents of hay, animals, and dust. Sounds drifted from the nearby barns—machinery, voices, the occasional animal call.

"You'll meet everyone at dinner," Maya said, pulling my suitcase from the truck bed. "Don't worry about remembering names. Nobody expects that on day one."

I followed Maya toward the workers' quarters, trying to absorb everything around me—the layout of buildings, the paths between them, the rhythm of activity. My new world. My second chance.

*

Maya led me down a narrow hallway that smelled of pine cleaner and old wood. Doors lined both sides, each painted the same forest green with small brass numbers. She stopped at number seven and handed me a key attached to a plain metal ring. "Home sweet home," she said with a small smile. I turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

The space was small but not cramped—maybe twelve by fourteen feet. A single bed with a metal frame occupied one corner, covered in a plain navy blue blanket. A wooden dresser stood opposite, its surface bare except for a small lamp with a beige shade. A desk and chair sat beneath the room's sole window, which looked out toward a stand of scrubby trees. A closet with a sliding door completed the furnishings.

The walls were painted off-white, showing scuffs and patches from previous occupants. The floor was hardwood, worn smooth by years of use but clean. Someone had left a small braided rug beside the bed—the room's only decorative touch.

"Bathroom's at the end of the hall," Maya said, setting my suitcase near the dresser. "Just us two using the women's for now. There's a shower stall and tub. Water pressure's decent but hot water runs out if you take too long."

I nodded, taking inventory of my new living quarters. The simplicity appealed to me—no distractions, nothing unnecessary. And most importantly: private. A door that locked. A space that was mine alone.

"It's perfect," I said quietly.

Maya looked surprised. "Well, it's basic, but yeah—clean and functional. Most folks hang some pictures, add a few personal touches." She gestured at the bare walls. "Make it your own, you know?"

I tried to imagine what "my own" even meant anymore. The posters and photos I'd left behind at my parents' house? The little decorations I'd accumulated over years? All abandoned. Anyway, it didn’t seem right to put a load of Little stuff up on the walls in a place like this.

"The schedule's pretty straightforward," Maya continued, leaning against the doorframe. "Breakfast at five, work assignments at five-thirty. Lunch break from noon to one. Workday ends at six most days, dinner at seven. Sundays are half-days—just essential chores like feeding. Saturday nights, some folks go into town, but you need your own transportation or to catch a ride."

I sat on the edge of the bed, testing its firmness. Not too soft, not too hard. Practical, like everything else here.

"The mess hall food's pretty good," Maya added. "Mrs. Hernandez has been cooking for the ranch for twenty years. Don't skip meals—you'll need the energy, especially at first. Everyone's expected to bus their own dishes."

She continued with practical advice—where to put dirty laundry (basket in bathroom), when the hot water was most reliable (early morning or late evening), which ranch hands were helpful versus which might try to pawn off their work on the new girl. I tried to absorb it all, but exhaustion made concentration difficult.

"I'll let you get settled," Maya finally said. "Dinner's in an hour. I can come by and we can walk over together if you want."

"That would be great. Thanks." The words felt inadequate for the kindness she'd shown me.

"No problem. Welcome to Warwick." She pushed off from the doorframe. "Oh, and lock your door when you leave. Not because anyone would steal anything, but privacy's hard to come by around here. Gotta protect what little you get."

After she left, I sat motionless on the bed for several moments, listening to the unfamiliar sounds—distant voices, machinery, the creak of the building settling. When I was certain I was alone, I allowed myself one deep, shuddering breath. Then another.

With trembling hands, I began to unpack. I arranged my limited wardrobe in the dresser—jeans, t-shirts, underwear, socks. Practical clothes for ranch work. My toiletry bag went on top of the dresser. I placed my laptop on the desk along with a notebook and pens.

Then I opened the inner pocket of my suitcase, where I'd hidden the few "little" items I couldn't bear to leave behind.

First, my small plush bunny. Not my favorite—that one had been too bulky to bring—but one I'd had since childhood. Its fur was worn thin in places, one ear slightly crooked from years of being clutched during difficult moments. I gently placed it at the bottom of the lowest dresser drawer, beneath my folded shirts.

Next, the adult-sized pacifier in its protective case. Not something I used often, but a comfort on my worst days. I tucked it into a sock and buried it deep in the dresser.

The collapsible silicone sippy cup went into another sock. My small coloring book and pack of crayons slid beneath the dresser itself—hidden but accessible.

Last was the baby blanket I'd had since infancy—now reduced to a six-inch square that I'd cut from the original. The fabric was faded and soft, the pattern barely visible after countless washings. This, I tucked into my pillowcase where I could touch it at night without anyone knowing.

These objects represented the part of myself I'd been told to be ashamed of. The part my parents couldn't accept. The "little" side that emerged when adult stresses became too much, allowing me moments of peace and security that I found nowhere else.

DDLG—Daddy Dom/Little Girl—wasn't something I could explain easily to others. It wasn't primarily sexual, though it could have that component. It was about comfort, regression, finding safety in childlike simplicity. Being cared for when the world demanded too much. Having clear boundaries and expectations instead of adult ambiguity.

I'd tried to explain this to my parents. They'd heard only perversion.

Once everything was unpacked and arranged, I sat at the desk and looked out the window. The view wasn't spectacular—just the trees and a slice of field beyond—but it was mine. My window. My view. The simplicity of that ownership felt profound after days of displacement.

A knock at the door startled me. I quickly shut the dresser drawer and crossed to answer it.

Maya stood there, now changed into clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. "Thought you might want to wash up before dinner. I brought you some towels." She held out a stack of mismatched but clean bath linens.

The simple kindness hit me like a physical blow. For days I'd been running on adrenaline and fear, holding myself together through sheer will. Now, faced with this small, normal generosity, I felt my control slipping.

"Thank you," I managed, taking the towels. My voice sounded strange, constricted. I felt my face crumpling despite my best efforts.

Maya noticed—of course she did. Her expression softened with understanding. "Hey, first days are rough. I cried for an hour my first night here."

I fought the tears, fought the urge to regress into my little space where emotions were simpler and more permissible. My hands clutched the towels too tightly.

"I'm fine," I lied, the words barely making it past the tightness in my throat. "Just tired from the trip."

Maya nodded, pretending to accept this obvious falsehood. Her kindness in that moment—allowing me my dignity, not pushing or prying—nearly undid me completely.

"Why don't you take a quick shower? I'll come back in thirty minutes to walk you to dinner."

I nodded gratefully, not trusting my voice.

"Bathroom's empty now. Good timing." She pointed down the hall. "Left towel rack is yours. I'm the right."

After she left, I gathered my shower supplies and clean clothes, locked my door, and hurried to the bathroom. Only there, under the spray of hot water, did I allow myself a few silent tears—of relief, of fear, of exhaustion. I let them mix with the water and disappear down the drain.

By the time I'd showered and changed into my cleanest jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, I felt more composed. I brushed my damp hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail. Looking in the mirror, I practiced my normal-adult face again.

"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. "One day at a time."

When Maya knocked again, I was ready—or as ready as I could be. The small breakdown had actually helped, releasing some of the pressure that had built over days of constant vigilance.

"Feel better?" Maya asked as we walked down the hallway.

"Much. Thanks for the towels."

"Ready to meet the rest of the crew?" Maya asked.

No. But I nodded anyway.

*

The mess hall was pure chaos. The wall of noise hit me first – laughter, conversations, the scrape of cutlery on plates – followed by the smell of beef stew and fresh bread. My fingers gripped the door handle tighter, an anchor in the chaos. I counted to five in my head, a trick I'd learned to keep myself centered when the world felt too big, too loud, too much.

Twenty or so ranch hands filled the long wooden tables, their faces unfamiliar and their voices creating a jumble of sound that made my chest tighten. I stood in the doorway, mapping an escape route in my head, when someone called my name.

"Cherry! Over here!"

Maya's voice cut through the noise. She sat at a table near the far wall, waving enthusiastically. Her bright smile was a lighthouse in my storm of anxiety. I let the door swing shut behind me and picked my way between the tables, avoiding eye contact with the curious glances that followed me.

"Thought you might get lost," Maya said as I reached her. She patted the empty bench beside her. "Sit. Food's actually decent tonight."

I slid onto the wooden bench, grateful for her guidance. The worn wood was smooth beneath my jeans, polished by years of workers just like me. Except they all seemed to belong here.

"Everyone, this is Cherry," Maya announced to the table. "Our new ranch hand. Be nice or I'll tell your horses you talk trash about them."

A round of chuckles circled the table. Five faces turned toward me – three men and two women, all wearing the weathered look of people who spent their days under the open sky.

"That's Hank," Maya pointed to an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard. "Been here longer than the rocks."

"Not quite," Hank drawled, tipping his hat to me. "Welcome aboard, missy."

Maya continued around the table. "That's Lisa and Jen, they handle most of the training of new horses." The two women nodded, one raising her coffee mug in greeting. "And that's Diego and Tyler. They're on fence duty this month, which is why they look so miserable."

"Hundred miles of fence and every post needs checking," the younger of the two men groaned. "My hands are nothing but calluses now."

Names swam in my head, and I knew I'd forget half of them by morning. I mumbled hellos, trying to match each name with a face, storing details I might remember – Hank's beard, Lisa's turquoise bracelet, Tyler's scar above his left eyebrow.

A server appeared at my shoulder, plopping down a bowl of steaming stew and a thick slice of bread. The rich aroma of beef and herbs made my stomach growl, reminding me I hadn't eaten since my hasty sandwich at lunch.

"So, Cherry," Jen leaned forward, brushing her dark bangs from her eyes, "Maya says you worked a ranch in Oklahoma?"

"Just a small family operation. It was years ago," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Nothing like this."

"Warwick's one of the biggest in the county," Hank said with pride. "You'll learn plenty here."

The conversation flowed around me like water around a stone. They talked about a heifer that had given birth to twins the day before, about a section of fence that kept getting knocked down by something – "Bet it's that old bull from the Carson place," Diego insisted—and about someone named Ellie who'd left last month to get married.

"Lasted six months," Tyler said, shaking his head. "Bet she doesn't last six months in marriage either."

"That's cold," Maya threw a piece of bread at him. "Just because she turned you down—"

"She didn't turn me down," Tyler protested. "I never asked! Not properly."

Their easy banter continued as I picked at my stew. It was good – chunks of tender beef and vegetables in a rich broth – but anxiety squeezed my appetite into a tight ball. My fork pushed the food around my bowl as I tried to act normal.

Normal. The word echoed in my head. I'd spent my whole life trying to be normal, to hide the part of me that wanted to curl up with a stuffed animal and be taken care of. The part that made my family look at me with disgust when they found out. The part I'd promised myself would stay buried here at Warwick Ranch.

I felt it rising now, that familiar retreat into my little space. The urge to make myself small, to speak in a higher voice, to seek comfort and safety. My fingers tightened around my fork. No. Not here. Not now. I forced myself to take a bite of stew, to focus on the flavor, the texture, anything to ground myself in the present.

". . . don't you think, Cherry?"

Maya's question yanked me back to the conversation. I blinked, realizing everyone was looking at me.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, don't you think it's better to start with the gentler horses when you're new? Tyler here thinks you should just jump on whatever's available."

"Oh." I cleared my throat. "I mean, I guess it depends on experience, but—"

My response died as the mess hall suddenly quieted. The change was subtle at first – a few conversations trailing off, then more, until there was a noticeable dip in volume. Heads turned toward the entrance, and I followed their gaze.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, surveying the room with a calm, assessing look. Even from across the hall, his presence filled the space. Conversations resumed, but at a lower volume, with a note of respect that hadn't been there before.

"That's him," Maya whispered, nudging me. "The boss. Grant Warwick."

I couldn't look away. Grant Warwick moved with the confidence of a man who knew every inch of his domain. He nodded to people as he passed their tables, stopping occasionally for brief exchanges. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his face tanned and weathered from years outdoors. He wasn't smiling, but there was something approachable in his expression – a quiet authority rather than stern intimidation.

"Doesn't eat with the crew often," Hank commented. "Must be checking on how the new folks are settling in."

My heart thumped against my ribs. New folks. Me. I was the only new hire this week, according to Maya. Would he come talk to me? What would I say? My palms grew damp, and I wiped them against my jeans under the table.

Grant stopped at a table across the room, resting his hand on an older ranch hand's shoulder as they spoke. His hands were large, with visible calluses even from this distance. Serious hands. Boss hands. I watched him laugh at something the ranch hand said, the seriousness of his face transforming for a moment.

My stomach fluttered. Something about him made me feel small in a way that had nothing to do with my little side. He exuded a natural authority that triggered a response in me – a desire to please, to be good. I looked down at my half-eaten stew, suddenly aware I'd been staring.

"He'll probably come say hello," Maya said, reading my discomfort. "Don't worry. He's not as scary as he looks."

But that was just it. Grant Warwick didn't look scary to me. He looked . . . safe. And that frightened me more than any gruff cowboy ever could.

I tracked Grant's path through the mess hall like prey watching a predator, though the danger I sensed wasn't about harm. It was about being seen—really seen. His boots made deliberate steps across the worn floorboards, his posture straight without seeming stiff. A quiet word here, a nod there. The room shifted around him, conversations adjusting to his presence without him demanding it. He moved through his kingdom with the ease of a man who'd earned his crown through sweat and calluses rather than inheritance.

"Don't stare," I whispered to myself, forcing my gaze down to my cooling stew. But my eyes betrayed me, drawn back to him like metal to a magnet.

Now that he was closer, I could make out more details. Grant Warwick was in his early thirties, I guessed, with dark hair touched by silver at his temples. His face was all angles – strong jaw, straight nose, high cheekbones that caught shadows in the mess hall's warm lighting. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, a counterpoint to the serious set of his mouth. He wore a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

But it was his hands that caught my attention most – large, strong, with blunt fingertips and prominent veins. Working hands. Capable hands. Hands that could build or break, comfort or command. I swallowed hard, feeling a strange tightness in my chest.

"Hey, Grant!" Maya's voice jolted me from my daze. She was waving, gesturing him over. "Come meet our new ranch hand!"

My heart stumbled. The fork slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the bowl. Heat flooded my face as I fumbled to retrieve it, nearly knocking over my water glass in the process.

"Easy," Hank chuckled. "Boss doesn't bite."

But Grant Warwick was already changing course, heading directly for our table. His eyes – brown, I now saw, a deep, rich shade like coffee – found mine across the shrinking distance between us. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. He'd caught me staring, and now he was coming over, and my brain was short-circuiting like a doused electrical panel.

"Get up," Maya hissed. "Shake his hand."

I scrambled to my feet, knocking my knee against the table's underside. Pain shot up my leg, but I barely noticed it through the thundering of my pulse. Grant Warwick stood before me now, taller than I'd realized, topping my five-foot-four frame by at least a foot. I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

And suddenly, I felt small. Not just physically, but in that other way – that secret part of myself I'd promised to keep buried. The little girl inside me wanted to hide behind Maya, to speak in a higher voice, to seek approval from this man who radiated authority. I balled my hands into fists at my sides, fighting the urge.

"Mr. Warwick," Maya said, "this is Cherry Morgan, our new ranch hand."

Grant extended his hand, his expression neutral but attentive. "Welcome to Warwick Ranch, Miss Morgan."

I forced my arm to move, reaching out to take his offered hand. His palm was warm and dry against mine, the calluses on his fingers catching slightly against my skin. His grip was firm but calibrated – strong enough to convey confidence, gentle enough not to overwhelm. My smaller hand disappeared in his, and for a fleeting second, I didn't want him to let go.

"Thank you, sir," I managed, trying to inject professionalism into my voice. "I appreciate the opportunity."

His eyes narrowed slightly, studying me. I had the unsettling feeling he was seeing more than I wanted to show. "It’s great to have you here."

There was a timbre to his voice I hadn't expected – deep and resonant, but with an underlying gentleness that contradicted his imposing presence.

"I hope Maya's shown you everything you need," he continued, finally releasing my hand. I resisted the urge to flex my fingers, to preserve the feeling of his touch.

"Yes, she's been real helpful," I said. "Showed me the bunkhouse, the stables, the equipment sheds."

"Tomorrow you'll meet Ryder, our foreman. He'll assign your duties for the first week."

"I'll be ready, sir."

A slight smile softened his features. "No need for 'sir' around here. Grant will do just fine."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. Something about his presence made me feel simultaneously steady and off-balance, like standing in a fast-flowing stream with solid rocks underfoot.

"Any questions before tomorrow?" Grant asked.

A thousand, but none I could actually voice. I shook my head. "No, I think Maya covered everything I need to know for now."

"Good." He gestured to my barely-touched food. "Finish your dinner. Long day ahead tomorrow."

The instruction was casual, but something in his tone made it feel like more than a suggestion. It triggered that same confusing response in me – a desire to comply, to earn approval. I found myself reaching for my spoon before I'd even processed the thought.

"I'll check in with you at the end of the week, see how you're settling in," Grant said. He glanced around the table, acknowledging the others with a nod. "Evening, all."

A chorus of "Evening, boss" and "Night, Grant" followed as he turned away, continuing his rounds through the mess hall. I sank back onto the bench, tension draining from my shoulders.

"See? Not so bad," Maya said, nudging me with her elbow.

I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Does he always... look at people like that?"

"Like what?" Maya asked, spooning the last of her stew into her mouth.

"Like he can see right through them."

She laughed. "That's just Grant. Nothing gets past him on this ranch. But don't worry," she added, lowering her voice, "his bark is worse than his bite."

I wasn't convinced.