3. Oliver
Eliza’s jaw drops the second I walk in—mud splattered head to toe. She looks like she’s forgotten how to close her damn mouth.
“Don’t ask,” I growl, kicking off what used to be my polished boots.
I march straight to my room, fists clenched, muttering every curse word I know under my breath.
“Everything’s ruined,” I grumble, peeling off my soaked clothes one piece at a time. “Oughta just throw it all out.”
Knew it was a bad idea bringing that girl here. If she can’t handle a van, how the hell’s she gonna manage acres of hard, honest work?
I stalk into the bathroom and step under the shower. Mud slides off me in sheets—out of my hair, from under my nails, all over the damn floor.
The walls are stone, and the big window gives me a view of the land that keeps me breathing.
Miles of fields, now soaked and fading into autumn colors.
Spring and fall are the only times it rains this much in Dallas.
Folks think Texas is nothing but dust and cactus, but this stretch of it?
It’s alive. Green enough to steal your breath.
“Green Dallas,” I mutter. “My kind of color.”
I wrap a towel around my waist and head back to the bedroom. Astro’s waiting by the bed, watching me with that quiet dog intuition, picking up every ounce of my bad mood.
“It’ll pass,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears.
Astro’s a black English shepherd I pulled from a shelter three years ago. Back then, he was all paws and play. Now, if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was half wolf—dark coat, sharp eyes, and those long ears standing at attention.
I drop down beside him and let myself fall back onto the bed, staring at the wood-beamed ceiling. The anger’s still there, simmering low. But so is the image of Miss Saint-Clair looking at me this morning—half startled, half amused—while I tore into her with all the frustration I had left.
She looked at me like I was out of my mind… and maybe like it entertained her a little.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter, pressing a pillow over my face.
Maybe I went too hard on her.
Astro curls up next to me, pretending not to hear the exhaustion in my voice.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn him. “You know damn well you’re not supposed to be on the bed. I’m only letting it slide ’cause I’m too damn tired to care.”
He lets out a long, pointed sigh.
Figures.
My bedroom’s medium-sized, nothing fancy. The ceiling’s pitched and paneled in dark wood; the floor’s made of thick, rough boards the color of aged bourbon.
On the right side of the bed, there’s a floor-to-ceiling window with no curtains, no trimmings—nothing that reminds me I’m indoors.
I need to feel outside, always.
That’s why behind my bed, on the wall, hangs a massive black-and-white photograph of a forest. Makes the room feel open, like the trees are right there if I just take one step forward.
There’s a fireplace across from the bed for when winter hits, and a white armchair next to a pile of books I keep meaning to finish.
Don’t need much else.
Don’t want much else.
All that high-tech crap my brothers fill their houses with—no thanks.
Silas, the oldest, lives in New York with his wife, Lauren, and their boy, Julian. Their apartment’s some kind of eco-friendly fortress—solar panels, automated systems, all that. They barely gotta use their legs to move around.
Luca’s down in Miami with his wife, Emma, and their daughter, Mila. Same story—fully equipped, prepped like they’re expecting the end of the world any day now.
Then there’s Killian.
Single like me, living alone in a mansion up in the Oakland Hills. Spends more time on the road than he does in that house.
Not for the same reasons I do—at least, not that I know of.
Of all my brothers, Killian is the one I talk to the most. We check in with each other nearly every day, keeping that thread of connection alive despite the distance and all the differences in our lives.
Earlier today, he called me while I was caught up in a meeting, so I let it go to voicemail.
Now that I have a moment, I pick up my phone and dial his number.
He answers right away, not even letting it ring twice before picking up.
That’s just how it is with us—always ready to talk, always there for each other, no matter what’s going on.
“Hey, cowboy!” he yells through the speaker.
I roll my eyes. He’s been calling me that since we were kids, and it still grates on me.
“You called?” I ask, walking over to the big window. I rest my hand against the cold glass. The towel’s still tight around my waist. My eyes wander over the land outside.
“Yeah, man. Wanted to check on Lucien. Last time you mentioned him was, what—a month ago?”
My stomach tightens just hearing his name. I remember the night I came back from the hospital—nine p.m., bone tired and desperate. I’d called Kill and told him everything, unloaded on him like I hadn’t done in years.
“I don’t know,” I say, eyes fixed on Lucien’s house in the distance. From here, it looks small, tucked between the oaks. I can just make out Miss Saint-Clair’s van parked in front. I squint, trying to see more, but it’s no use. “Seems all right. At least, in his head.”
I grab the binoculars I always keep near the window—habit from watching the horses—and bring them to my eyes, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Yeah, well,” Kill says, voice softer now, “I can’t imagine worse news than being told you’ll never walk again—especially for a man like him. Hell, for anyone.”
Through the binoculars, I spot Miss Saint-Clair trying to unload a damn bed—by herself.
“She’s lost her mind,” I mutter.
“Who?” Kill’s voice crackles through the phone.
“No one. I mean—nothing. Listen, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”
“What? You just called me, Oli—”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Eliza needs something. Bye.”
I hang up before he can say another word.
In record time, I pull on a pair of jeans and grab my jacket.
Crossing the kitchen, I catch Eliza giving me a look as I rush past.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks.
“To help the clumsiest girl I’ve ever met,” I shoot back.
By the time I pull up in front of Lucien’s house, Miss Saint-Clair loses her grip on the damn bed and lets it drop. The crack of splintering wood echoes through the air.
Jesus. She’s a walking disaster.
I slam the door shut and stride toward her, hands tucked into my jacket pockets.
“Got anything else you wanna break?” I ask dryly.
She’s staring down at the busted frame, but when she looks up, those dark eyes hit me—soft, guilty, too human.
Ah, hell.
Now I feel bad.
I sigh and glance away, my voice low.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got extra beds at the house.”
She climbs down from the van to inspect the damage.
“I think I can fix it,” she says. “Nothing a YouTube tutorial can’t handle.”
And just like that, the guilt’s gone—replaced by some weird, sparkly kind of optimism that doesn’t belong anywhere near this place.
What the hell? Who flips moods that fast?
A damn bipolar person, that’s who.
“Well, if it doesn’t work out, talk to Eliza. She’ll get you a new one.”
She nods with a smile, wiping her palms on her jeans—right across her thighs.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Walker?”
No, I came here to help you, sweetheart.
I motion toward the bed with my chin.
“Looks like you’re the one who could use a hand.”
“Ah, Texas hospitality,” she teases, like it’s something we’re all born with. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and just climb into the van instead.
It’s a mess. Boxes everywhere, half of them open, clothes spilling out, old appliances stacked on top of each other.
“Uh-huh… you sure you didn’t grab the wrong van? Looks like you’re donating to the Salvation Army.”
She laughs—a bright, easy sound that fills the cramped space.
Wasn’t trying’ to be funny.
“They’re my things,” she says, lifting a box. “Didn’t have much time to pack properly.”
I take another and follow her lead, both of us hauling box after box to the cabin door.
When we’re finally done, I take a step back, ready to get the hell out of here—until she says,
“Would you like to see my father? I’m sure he’d love to talk for a bit.”
Damn it.
I’ve been avoiding Lucien like the plague. One look at him, and it feels like a damn brick sitting on my chest.
I nod once, shoulders stiff, and follow her inside.
The cabin’s built for one person.
Now there are three.
The air smells like something cooking—vegetable stew, maybe. Simple, warm, domestic. The kind of scent that makes my stomach twist for reasons I’d rather not name.
The place’s too damn small for the three of them.
We had to rearrange everything so Lucien could live on the ground floor with his wife—practically next to the kitchen—while upstairs there’s just one bedroom and a bath. I’m guessing that’s where Miss Saint-Clair’s staying.
“Oh, look what the Lord brought home, Lucien!” Mrs. Saint-Clair cries out, voice full of drama like always.
I shove my hands back into my jacket pockets, waiting for my old foreman to roll toward me. The sight of him like this hits me harder than I’d like to admit, so I keep it hidden behind a neutral face.
“Hey, Lucien,” I say, awkward as hell.
He looks tired. Older. Sad.
I crouch down beside him, and he pulls me into a weak hug.
“Good to see you, son,” he says with a shy smile, wheeling himself toward the small table and nodding for me to sit.
Miss Saint-Clair keeps moving around upstairs, carrying boxes up the narrow steps, making enough noise to wake the dead.
“You manage with the bed?” Lucien asks.
I open my mouth to tell him what I saw, but her voice cuts through the air from above.
“Yeah! Easy as I said!” she shouts cheerfully.
I frown. That’s a damn lie.
Far from easy.
Looks like I’m not the only one who knows how to fake a situation.
“I’ll help her carry it up,” I mutter, mostly to make him feel better.
His wife sets down a plate of food—greasy, salty, and the best thing I’ve smelled all day—then disappears behind a curtain that serves as their bedroom wall, giving us a bit of privacy.
I begin to ask Lucien about how he’s recovering, about the house, and about the everyday things that fill their lives now.
Each question leaves a bitter taste, a feeling of guilt gnawing at me with every word I speak.
The reality of their situation is impossible to ignore—they’re packed into this small space, barely enough room for the three of them, living on top of one another like sardines in a can.
Meanwhile, I’m surrounded by empty halls and unused rooms in a mansion, the silence echoing through spaces meant for laughter and family.
There are entire rooms I once prepared for my nephews, imagining the joy they’d bring.
But those rooms have stayed empty for years, gathering dust instead of the life I hoped for.
Behind me, I hear Miss Saint-Clair curse. Something crashes.
Lucien looks up, startled, then glances at me, embarrassed.
When I turn, she’s kneeling on the floor, trying to gather the contents of a box that’s split open.
“Let me help you,” I say, stepping closer.
“Oh, no, please don’t—”
Too late. I’ve already picked something up.
A giant tampon.
My brain freezes.
I glance down. The floor’s covered in nothing but feminine products. Hell, it’s a damn minefield.
She snatches the tampon from my hand, tosses it into a bag, and whispers, “Please… just let me handle it.”
Something in her voice—soft, pleading—stops me cold. She looks small, cornered.
I straighten up fast and take a step back, like she’s about to blow.
When I sit again, Lucien’s got that tight smile, the kind that says I saw that.
I want to leave.
“How’s the temp worker doing?” he asks, wrapping his hands around a mug.
“Not as good as you, if that’s what you’re asking,” I mutter, grabbing an olive dripping with oil.
Lucien chuckles, but his eyes sharpen.
“Cala’s gonna do just fine. You’ll see. I’ll teach her everything. Those young bones’ll work better than mine ever did.”
I nod and grab a cup, just to keep my mouth busy. Saying what I really think would make me sound like a bastard.
So, I drink coffee instead.
Because if I open my mouth, I’ll say the truth—that someone that clumsy doesn’t belong on a ranch.
And eventually, everyone’ll see it too.
Just like always.
“The ranch hand’s gonna help her at first, until she finds her rhythm,” I say, not giving him a choice. I’m not about to leave my ranch to the inexperienced.
Lucien nods, accepting the small defeat.
Then I hear noise again—Miss Saint-Clair feet thumping down the stairs in a hurry.
“You ready to carry the bed up?” I call over my shoulder.
Out of the corner of my eye I see her nod without a word. I stand up and the two of us head off after the broken frame. She’s holding one corner, completely bent over.
“Miss Saint-Clair, you can’t lift a bed like that. Bend your knees so you don’t wreck your back,” I tell her.
“Here comes the mansplaining…” she mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing!” She bends her knees. “I’m ready.”
Mansplaining. Right. Whatever that is.
We mimic the motion and lift together. She walks backward and I watch, braced, because she’s about to trip every second.
“Careful—there’s a step,” I warn.
She rolls her eyes like she thinks I can’t see, which only makes a murderous urge simmer under my skin for the first time in my life.
She climbs the two steps to her place fast enough to shove me against the wall.
“Slow down!” I growl.
“Sorry!” she yells.
We get to the upstairs and the angle’s all wrong.
“Did you measure that bed before you tried to bring it up?” I hiss. My arms are strong, but I can’t carry this damn thing all day.
Killing people’s illegal, Oliver.
“I can’t believe this…” I mutter so Lucien won’t hear.
“Don’t despair, Mr. Walker,” I hear her say from the other side of the frame. “We can fix it.”
“Yeah—by taking it apart.”
She ignores me and starts forcing the bed around boxes, and I’ve got no choice but to move with her or end up tumbling down the stupid steps. A few feet later she finds a spot to set it down in the tiny room.
My bathroom’s bigger than this.
She wipes her hands on her jeans and beams.
“Done!”
I look at her—bored, annoyed, borderline threatening—but she acts like I’m invisible and starts stacking her boxes. I glance around, just curious, and the open boxes are full of heavy books. Big ones. And I feel a pang of guilt—this girl should be studying, not hauling her life up rickety stairs.
Maybe I could put her to work in my office instead of out here…
No, Oliver. Are you serious? That’s like letting a bull loose in a china shop.