5
Talia had checked her email seventeen times before noon.
That was not an estimate.
She knew because she had started counting after the fifth time, mostly to shame herself into stopping.
It had not worked.
Her inbox remained stubbornly empty of anything from Stanley Ranch. No polite rejection. No request for a second interview. No offer letter. No carefully worded message from Edye Stanley thanking her for her time while explaining that they had chosen another candidate.
Nothing.
Talia sat at her desk at the Houston Chronicle with her laptop open, her phone beside her, and a cold cup of coffee she had forgotten to drink.
Around her, the newsroom carried on with its usual rhythm.
Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. Someone laughed too loudly near the copy desk.
Martin’s office door opened, then shut. A printer groaned like it had personal problems.
Talia heard all of it and none of it.
Her mind was still at Stanley Ranch.
The guest suites near the pool. The new cottages. The medical center. The helicopter. The learning center with children’s drawings in the windows. Cody and Sierra’s side of the ranch. Eli’s easy grin as he waved and hollered at half the people they passed.
The way the place had felt.
Not like a business.
Not even like a ranch, not only.
Like a family large enough to need roads, housing, medical access, childcare, and a scheduling system Edye Stanley probably guarded like national intelligence.
Talia pressed her fingers to her temples.
She needed to hear from them.
That was the part she hated admitting, even to herself. She needed to know whether she was still in. Whether her plan had worked. Whether she had been charming enough, qualified enough, careful enough to slip inside before anyone looked too closely.
Except Luke Stanley looked closely by nature.
And Edye Stanley looked like she could find a buried secret with a calendar reminder and a polite smile.
Talia’s stomach twisted.
Maybe she had underestimated them.
Her cell phone rang.
She glanced down, expecting Martin, a source, or maybe her sister calling at the worst possible time.
Unknown number.
Her pulse jumped.
She stared at it for two rings, then snatched it up.
“This is Talia”
A quiet male voice answered. “Miss Monroe.”
Her spine straightened. The caller said her real name.
She hadn’t heard the voice before, but she got the deep southern drawl and figured it had to be someone from Stanley Ranch.
Her breath caught, but she forced herself to remain still. If he knew her name, he knew the truth.
“Yes?”
“This is Gordon Windgate.”
Talia closed her eyes briefly.
Stupid.
His tone gave her nothing.
No anger. No warmth. No curiosity.
That was worse.
She glanced toward Martin’s office, then turned slightly away from the newsroom. “Mr. Windgate.”
“Gordon,” he said.
“All right. Gordon.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Luke and Edye know.”
Talia’s hand tightened around the phone.
Her face warmed.
There it was.
The trapdoor opening beneath her feet.
“They ran a background check,” he continued. “Found out you work for the Houston Current.”
Talia said nothing.
What could she say?
That she had intended to tell them eventually? A lie.
That she was sorry? Too soon.
That she had done what reporters did? True, but thin.
Gordon’s voice stayed level. “You came to the ranch under false pretenses.”
“Yes.”
The word came out quieter than she intended.
He seemed to register that.
“You’re not going to deny it?”
“No.”
“Good. That saves time.”
Her embarrassment sharpened into irritation, which was useful. Irritation had better posture than shame.
“If you’re calling to confront me, you’ve done it.”
“I’m not calling to confront you.”
That surprised her.
She sat back slowly. “Then why are you calling?”
“Because I’m going to give you the interview.”
For a second, she thought she had misheard.
“What?”
“You wanted a story,” Gordon said. “You were willing to lie your way onto the ranch to get it. I’m not rewarding that. But I am willing to put the story where it belongs.”
Her heart began to pound.
“With you,” she said.
“With me.”
Talia’s gaze moved across her desk without seeing anything clearly. “You’ll talk to me.”
“Yes.”
“On record?”
“Yes.”
She stood before she meant to. Her chair rolled back and bumped the desk behind her. A copy editor glanced over. Talia turned away.
“Why?”
Gordon did not answer immediately.
When he did, his voice had changed. Not softer exactly. More grounded.
“Because I owe Luke and Edye more than hiding behind them. They gave me a place when my name was not easy to welcome. They gave me work. A chance to be useful.”
Talia remembered Eli saying something about Stanley Ranch being full of complicated people.
“I pay for that with my hands,” Gordon said. “Not by letting them stand between me and every hard thing. If someone is going to write about me, I would rather look that person in the eye.”
Talia swallowed.
That was not the answer she expected.
It was better.
More dangerous too.
“What are your conditions?” she asked.
“You come back to Stanley Ranch.”
She froze. “For the interview?”
“For the story. You stay at the ranch until it’s complete.”
Her pulse kicked again.
Stay at the ranch.
The guest suites.
The table.
The people.
The family she was supposed to observe without belonging to.
“How long?”
“That depends on you.”
“Gordon, I can’t just disappear from the paper.”
“You wanted access. This is access.”
She pressed her lips together.
He was right, and she hated that.
He continued, “Everyone will be civil to you. Luke and Edye agreed to that. No one will be rude. No one will make you sleep in a barn or eat outside the gate.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s more than generous considering how you got there.”
Her face burned hotter.
Fair.
Too fair.
“But you are not there to interview anyone else about me,” he said. “Not Luke. Not Edye. Not Eli. Not the ranch hands. Not my family. Not anyone connected to the Windgate name unless I agree to it.”
Talia’s reporter instincts flared. “That limits the piece.”
“It protects people who did not volunteer to become material.”
The words struck clean.
She went still.
Material.
She had thought that word before, though not proudly.
Gordon went on. “I will be your source of information. You can ask me anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
“And if you don’t want to answer?”
“I’ll say so.”
“That’s not the same as access.”
“It’s the access I’m offering.”
Talia turned toward the window beside her desk, looking out over Houston traffic moving below. “You understand I’m not a public relations writer.”
“I’m counting on that.”
Her brows lifted.
“I don’t want a puff piece,” he said. “I don’t want pity either. I don’t need you making me into the good Windgate because that sounds easier for readers. I’ll tell the truth I choose to tell. You write the truth you can prove.”
Her heart thudded once, hard.
There was steel in him.
Quiet steel.
“And I get to review the article before you submit it,” he said.
Talia stiffened. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is if you want this interview.”
“I don’t give sources approval.”
“I didn’t say approval. I said review.”
“That’s a fine line.”
“It’s my line.”
She breathed out through her nose.
He waited.
No pressure. No pleading. No attempt to charm her.
He was not Eli.
He would not make this easier with jokes.
“I’ll let you review it for factual accuracy,” she said. “You can flag errors, context concerns, or anything that violates the boundaries we agree on. But you don’t get to rewrite my work.”
“Agreed.”
That was too fast.
She narrowed her eyes. “You already knew that distinction.”
“I spoke with Luke and Edye.”
“And their lawyer?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Talia almost smiled despite herself. “Of course.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. It tells me you’re not being impulsive.”
“I try not to be.”
But something in his voice told her there was more to that.
A man trying not to be impulsive was sometimes fighting what he wanted.
Talia sat back down slowly.
She should say no.
She should tell him the conditions were too restrictive. She should call Martin first. She should think through the optics, logistics, the risk of living under the roof of people who knew she had deceived them and had agreed to tolerate her anyway.
Instead, she heard herself say, “I agree.”
The silence on the line shifted.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’ll come to the ranch. I’ll stay until the story is complete. You’ll be my source unless we agree otherwise. You can review the article for factual accuracy and boundary concerns before I submit it.”
“And you come as a reporter,” Gordon said. “Not as an applicant. No more pretending.”
Her stomach dipped.
“No more pretending,” she said.
“Good.”
She expected him to hang up then.
He did not.
Instead, he said, “You should buy jeans and boots.”
Talia blinked. “Excuse me?”
“If you’re shadowing me for a while, city gear won’t last long.”
She glanced down at her tailored pants and heels beneath the desk. “I own jeans.”
“Do they look like something you bought because you might one day stand near a horse for a photograph?”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Gordon said, “That was a yes.”
“It was not.”
“It was.”
Her embarrassment shifted, just a little, into something warmer and more irritating.
“I can handle buying jeans, Gordon.”
“Good. Boots too. Not fashion boots. Work boots.”
“Anything else?”
“A hat, if you burn easy.”
“I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Fine. Then jeans and boots.”
She leaned back in her chair, unexpectedly fighting a smile. “Are you always this bossy?”
“No,” he said. “Usually Luke handles it.”
A laugh escaped her.
Small.
Uninvited.
On the other end of the line, Gordon went quiet.
Talia felt that silence differently.
As if he had heard more than laughter.
As if he had been listening for it without knowing.
She cleared her throat. “When do you want me there?”
“Tomorrow, if you can manage it.”
Tomorrow.
Her pulse sped again.
“I’ll need to speak with my editor.”
“Then speak with him.”
“I will.”
“Call Luke’s office when you know your arrival time. Edye will arrange the room.”