2. Cala
A MONTH LATER
“Bed, chair, clothes, books… hmm, what’s this? Oh, right. Grandma’s china. Can’t forget that.”
I point at each box stacked inside the U-Haul, talking to no one in particular. “Alright. We’re ready,” I tell myself, even if I’m not sure I believe it.
It’s been a month since my dad had that unfortunate accident at the Walker Ranch.
Stormy night, horses broke loose out in the field, and he decided to go round ’em up.
Not his brightest moment, I’ll admit.
Pouring rain, thunder, lightning, pitch-black sky—even I, who don’t know much about ranch life, could tell that was a bad idea.
But Dad thought it was just another normal night.
Now he’s stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his days.
Don’t think about it, Cala. Don’t reason it.
A month ago, my life was… normal. Simple.
I was studying at Baylor University in Waco, Texas—getting my postgraduate degree in digital journalism.
I lived with my mom and helped her around the house while Daddy worked for the famous—or infamous—Oliver Walker.
Yeah, that Oliver Walker. The billionaire hermit who owns a mega-super-duper ranch in Dallas and barely talks to anyone.
At the time, I was dating a guy named Roger—met him at school. We’d been seeing each other for about six months. Nice guy, from a wealthy family, studying business management.
I worked at the Waco Tribune, interviewing small-town shop owners who were all about that new “Fixer Upper” farmhouse craze.
So, yeah—my life was heading exactly where it was supposed to: organized, quiet, average.
Until the world flipped upside down.
Now I’ve gotta leave everything I know behind to work at Walker Ranch.
Don’t get me wrong—I’d do anything for my parents. But my brain’s still catching up, trying to rewrite the future I had planned for myself.
Goodbye laptop, hello shovel.
Goodbye fitted office clothes, hello overalls.
Goodbye journalism books, hello manuals on farming, animals, and hard labor.
I close the truck’s double doors and pat them gently, like I’m reassuring a horse before a long ride.
Four hours to Dallas—just me, the road, and whatever’s waiting on the other end.
Mama’s back home at the old house, getting the cabin ready for the three of us.
We agreed I’d take care of moving everything, while she makes sure Daddy’s set up comfortably.
He wants to be close—to teach me everything I don’t know about running a ranch.
I start the engine, adjust my seatbelt, and take a deep breath.
“Here we go…”
Olivia Rodrigo’s “Good 4 U” blares from the radio, and before I know it, I’m singing at the top of my lungs down the Texas highway, shaking off every bit of bad energy I’ve been carrying.
My fingers reach for the lapis lazuli necklace Grandma gave me—blue with tiny golden specks that catch the light.
I smile, grateful Daddy’s still alive, grateful life keeps moving.
I stop for lunch somewhere off the road, poking at a salad with a plastic fork while reading a message from Roger.
When I told him what happened, he was more heartbroken than I was.
Said he’d move to Dallas to help me—though I’m pretty sure that was just talk. His life’s rooted deep in Waco.
And look, I don’t mean to sound cold, but I’ve seen enough long-distance couples crash and burn to know how that story ends.
Somebody always ends up in someone else’s arms, and everything goes to hell.
I don’t want that for myself.
I told him I’d visit when I could—just not anytime soon.
I’ve got a whole lot to learn before that happens.
Miss you already, Roger’s text reads.
Oh boy. This is gonna be tough—especially since I already have one foot out of the relationship, at least mentally.
My reply?
We all know that when you answer with an emoji you’re basically closing the conversation, right? Or is that just me? Anyway—better to end things clean and quick.
Two more hours on the road. I swap the radio for an audiobook some forum folks recommended about soil and land.
The narrator’s got that calm, deep voice—the kind that makes you think of every nature doc narrator on Netflix, or Mr. Walker’s voice for that matter.
For a second he almost fooled me into thinking he was the composed, sensible type during Daddy’s worst night ever, but when I found him outside trying to steady his breath with those lost eyes, I realized that calm was a mask—probably the rest of him is the same.
Those kinds of men are fake, everybody knows it.
Daddy defends him tooth and nail, but I can see that superior look in some people—the kind that tries to make you feel small.
Lucky for me, I’m immune to that nonsense.
I only care about doing a good job; I don’t have to like the man.
The GPS says I’m less than five minutes out. I look around—just an endless sea of green. Feels like nobody’s lived here for a hundred years.
“Where’s the ranch?” I whisper, both hands on the wheel, scanning like a lost tourist.
“Turn right if possible,” says the GPS.
“There ain’t no right here, Patricia!”—that’s what I call the GPS. Patricia makes her sound friendlier, but right now I want to throw her out the window.
On instinct, I turn right anyway. The road ahead is nothing but dirt, carved through with deep, mud-filled ruts left by heavy tires or recent rain.
I ease the truck forward, inch by inch, careful not to get stuck before I even arrive.
On either side, a dense stand of trees blocks my view, their branches arching overhead and casting long, shifting shadows across the narrow path.
Every bump and slip of the wheels sends my heart racing, but I keep going, hoping the ranch lies just beyond the next turn. A little farther in and—
“There it is!” I shout at Patricia. “Yes! Found it!” I singsong, all proud of myself, and drive down the lane until…
As I edge down the muddy lane, a sudden jolt shudders through the truck.
My heart jumps. “Goddamn it!” I blurt, realizing instantly that the truck has sunk deeper than I thought into the muck beneath the tires.
An uneasy dread settles over me as I press the gas pedal, hoping it’s just a minor slip.
Instead, only one wheel spins furiously, spitting clumps of mud and digging itself in even further.
“What the hell?” I mutter, panic creeping into my voice.
Again, I try the gas, but the wheel only churns up more mud, and the truck refuses to budge—completely stuck.
“Oh no. No, no, no…” I whisper, frustration and disbelief swirling inside me as I sit behind the wheel, helpless for a moment, staring at the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
I climb out with my heart pounding, boots sinking into mud, water sloshing up my jeans.
“Great.”
The wheel’s submerged at least six inches.
“This can’t be a good start,” I mutter.
Hands on my hips, I stare at the mess and try to think like Daddy would. Calling him isn’t an option; it would just freak him out and freaking him out won’t help one bit.
“Think, Cala, think. Men do this all the time, it can’t be that hard.”
I glance around, making sure nobody heard that joke, then roll up my sleeves like I actually know what I’m doing.
The air smells like rain-soaked dirt and hay. A cow moos somewhere in the distance, probably judging me.
I climb back into the van and hit the gas again.
The tires scream, spit mud, and—surprise, surprise—bury me even deeper. I try once more, praying under my breath. The only thing that moves is the tachometer.
“Well done, Cala,” I mutter. “Truly inspiring.”
I shove the door open and hop out, only for my boot to sink straight into the mud with a loud squelch.
The ground gives way beneath me, and I wobble, trying to catch my balance like a newborn calf unsteady on its feet.
My hand shoots out, grabbing the door handle just in time to stop myself from falling face-first into the mess.
I look down at my jeans—now streaked and splattered with mud, completely ruined in a matter of seconds.
I shake my head, muttering, “Oh, this is just beautiful. Real graceful.”
I start scanning the ground for a rock big enough to wedge under the wheel. Everything nearby’s either too small or big enough to crush me. I walk in circles around the van, trying not to slip, mumbling like a lunatic.
Then I see it.
The perfect rock—solid, flat, maybe ten yards out, just lying there like it’s been waiting for me all day.
I grin. “Don’t move, sweetheart, I’m comin’ for ya.”
I trudge across the grass, boots squelching, hair sticking to my forehead. I’m two steps away from grabbing it when—
“WHAT do you think you’re doing!? Stop right now!”
The voice snaps through the air like thunder. I freeze mid-crouch, hand out like a kid caught stealing cookies.
“Huh?” I turn, startled, and there he is—Mr. Walker himself.
He’s striding toward me with purpose, his steps quick and measured, the long tails of his coat whipping behind him in the breeze.
Every inch of him radiates frustration, his posture stiff and his expression carved from pure annoyance.
Even his boots seem to defy the muddy ground, gliding silently across the mess, which, of course, only adds to his imposing presence.
“Why is a van blocking the entrance to my property, Miss Saint-Clair?”
He’s wearing dark sunglasses, his beard trimmed to near perfection, and a tailored coat so sharp it practically declares him out of place. Everything about his appearance says he belongs in a glossy Manhattan high-rise, not standing knee-deep in Texas mud.
“Morning, Mr. Walker.”
He exhales like he’s already out of patience. “I’m waiting for an answer.”
“Uh, well, clearly the van’s stuck. I was just trying to—”
“And who on earth drives down this path without an off-road vehicle?” he mutters, half to himself.
“It’s a rental, sir. Not like I had a lotta options.”
I can’t see his eyes, but I swear I feel that judgy billionaire energy radiating off him. The man’s forehead probably has a permanent wrinkle from frowning at people.
“And what exactly were you doing here?” He gestures broadly at the scene, like it’s all my fault.
“Looking for a rock to—”
“Did you find one?”
Does this man have a thing against full sentences or what?
I point toward my new best friend—the rock—lying on the ground. No idea if this’ll actually work, but I already feel accomplished just finding it.
He exhales sharply and strides over, lifting the thing like it weighs nothing. Not even a grunt. He just turns and walks back toward the van like I’m not even there.
My jaw drops. I’ve met plenty of difficult people in journalism—folks with egos the size of Texas—but none this rude, this… aggressively unpleasant.
Halfway back to the truck, he stops and glances over his shoulder.
“Well? You planning to stand there all day, or am I doing all the work myself?”
“No!” I blurt, taking off at a run. “I’m coming!”
The oh-so-charming Mr. Walker sets the rock down into the puddle with military precision, then claps his hands clean, like he’s just solved world hunger.
“Alright. Try it now,” he orders.
Heart pounding, I climb into the van, not daring to protest. I grip the steering wheel tightly, turn the key in the ignition, and with a shaky breath, press down on the gas pedal.
For a tense moment, the tire does nothing but spin in place, the engine whining in protest as mud churns beneath the rubber.
Then, suddenly, the tire finds traction.
In an instant, a geyser of mud explodes outward, spraying in every direction.
I gasp as a full wave of brown slush arcs through the air and showers Mr. Walker from head to toe. Coat, pants, expensive shoes—gone. He’s a walking mud sculpture.
The van lurches free, but I’m frozen in the driver’s seat, hands over my mouth, staring in horror through the windshield.
He removes his sunglasses in slow motion, wipes his face with one muddy hand, and starts walking toward my window.
“Mr. Walker—oh my God—I am so sorry!” The words trip over each other as I speak. “But honestly, who stands that close to—”
“Get out of my sight, Miss Saint-Clair.”
His voice is low and rough, and the way he spins on his heel tells me this conversation is officially over.
He stomps off toward his spotless, luxury SUV—well, it was spotless.
“Crap,” I whisper, slumping against the seat. “Day one at Walker Ranch: ruined the driveway and assaulted my new boss with a puddle. Great start, Cala. Just great.”