5. Oliver
Mansplaining. I look it up. A mash-up of “man” and “explaining.” When a guy talks down to a woman—paternal, condescending—’cause he figures she’s less capable than he is.
What the hell?
I stare at my phone in the dark, mouth half open.
She called me patronizing. To my face.
Heat crawls up my neck. Sun’s not even up and I’m already boiling.
Damn it.
The nightmares did it again, yanking me out of sleep well before my alarm was set to go off.
They have a way of showing up whenever I’m strung out, as if my mind can’t handle the tension without conjuring up something dark.
By now, their return is almost routine—something I anticipate, the way you instinctively flinch when a line drive comes straight at your face.
But knowing they’re coming doesn’t make it any easier.
Each time I wake in the dead of night, heart racing, I find it nearly impossible to drift back to sleep.
No matter how often this happens, I can’t seem to settle my nerves enough to find rest again.
It’s four a.m. My alarm’s set for five. So yeah, I’m Googling nonsense.
Only reason I’m not outside is the kind of trouble Texas serves after dark.
Folks call this place the “Australia of the States” for a reason.
We’ve got snakes, coyotes, scorpions, gators, fire ants, big cats…
plenty to convince a man night work ain’t smart.
Don’t want my animals roaming either—too easy for something mean to cross my fence line.
Before the day kicks off, I clear a few emails. Pretty sure my secretary sent weekend paperwork that needs my signature.
I’m never bored. Never still. If my mind’s not busy, my body is.
First light bleeds over the horizon. I head down to the kitchen and tug open the fridge.
And just stand there, staring at the cold glow like an idiot, wondering why the hell I came here in the first place.
“Breakfast, Oliver. Breakfast…” I mutter to myself, grabbing the milk and a loaf of bread for toast.
Weekends are mine.
The ranch is mine.
And I don’t want anyone here. No visitors, no chatter, just me doing what I love most.
Harvesting. Feeding. Walking the land.
Being alone.
Alone—meaning no one.
Eliza knows I don’t want her hanging around on weekends. Lucien used to drive to Waco, and now that he’s living here with his family, I still barely see them. Not because I’m avoiding them. I just…need quiet.
I pull on my work jeans—worn, torn, and soft from use—slip into my boots, and button up a flannel shirt.
Maybe it’s a stereotype, but there’s a damn good reason cowboys dress like this.
Those jeans are comfortable because they’ve lived a life.
The boots keep me safe. The shirt’s the perfect balance against the crisp fall wind in the morning and the heat I build up while working.
Mornings in Texas feel sacred. Birds all sing at once, deer leap over the fences and graze through my land, and the air smells like damp earth and pure oxygen. My favorite hour of the day.
I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with the cleanest air a man can get in Texas, and head toward the stables. Astro trots at my side, tail wagging, same joy in him as in me. We both prefer the outdoors to walls, animals to people, silence to conversation.
I’ve got five horses—all rescues pulled from men who treated them like machines or breeding stock. Four longhorn cows, also rescued. Three sheep, two goats (one more and I’d lose my mind), and half a dozen chickens—maybe seven; I stopped counting.
First thing every morning: feed the cows. They like their hay stacked in the middle of the corral, patient as old ladies at church.
Next come the horses. That takes longer—especially now that every tool in the stable’s scattered thanks to Miss Saint-Clair’s “help.”
The goats, sheep, and hens share a space, which means I’ve got to move fast. If I don’t, those damn goats start head-butting my legs like they’re trying to knock me down for sport.
After noon, I work the garden—a big plot where Eliza grows most of the season’s vegetables. That’s the part I love most. Hands in the dirt. Brain finally quiet. The world trimmed down to soil, breath, and sunlight.
All that weight I carry on my shoulders?
It doesn’t exist when I’m out here.
When dusk rolls in, it’s time to herd everyone back in again.
“Easy, Astro,” I grunt. Between the two of us we’re herding the goats and sheep back into their shed, but one of the young ones—the wild little devil—dodges past Astro and takes off running.
“Damn it, Astro! What did I just tell you?”
I break into a run after the crazy thing, legs pounding the dirt as the goat kicks at the air for no reason at all.
“This,” I mutter between breaths, “this is why I work out every damn day—to catch brainless animals like you.”
I’m inches from grabbing her when she veers hard, collides with Astro, then jukes past him and bolts straight toward Lucien’s house.
Out of nowhere, a bicycle flies past me. Miss Saint-Clair. She pedals fast enough to cut the goat off, slides in front of it, and—before I can even process it—throws her arms around the animal like it’s a damn teddy bear.
“No!” I shout, but too late. The goat twists free and rams her square in the leg.
She drops to the ground, clutching her thigh, but before she can curse or cry, she grabs the goat by the horn and pins it to the grass—right as I reach her side. I snatch the animal from her grip and drag it away.
“Are you insane? It could’ve killed you!” I bark.
“You keep saying that,” she pants, breath ragged, “and if you say it one more time, I might start believing it.”
Her voice is sharp, but she’s trembling, blood seeping through her jeans where her hand presses her leg.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tying the goat to the nearest fence post. I turn back to her. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine!”
“That wasn’t a question!” I snap, brushing her hand away to see what kind of damage she’s hiding. Blood, dirt, and a stubborn woman who clearly has no idea how goats work.
“Come on. Let’s get you back to the house.”
“But my bike!” she protests as I pull her up and sling her arm over my shoulder.
“What’s gonna happen to it? A hawk gonna steal it?” I tease, hauling her along while she limps beside me.
She shoots me a glare that could burn through leather. She’s too close now, her body pressed against my side for balance.
She smells like flowers.
Can’t tell which kind—just soft, clean, unexpected.
Not unpleasant.
That’s all I’m saying.
“Someone once stole the bike I kept in my garage,” she says, breathless but defiant. “Excuse me for wanting to be cautious this time.”
“You’re in the middle of nowhere, Miss Saint-Clair. The nearest human’s twenty minutes away by car.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Speaking of which—where is your car?”
She points behind us. “That is my car.”
I glance back at the bicycle leaning in the dirt.
That’s her vehicle?
“And where’s Lucien’s car, then?”
No answer. The silence stretches too long before she mutters, “Doesn’t matter.”
Strange. She always has a smart comeback for everything.
We reach the cabin, and I open the door without waiting. Lucien and his wife are at the kitchen table, talking softly. The moment she spots her daughter, Mrs. Saint-Clair lets out a dramatic shriek.
“Oh, sweet Holy Virgin! Cala, what happened to you?”
“Joan…” Cala mutters.
What?
“Joan?” we all echo, but I’m the only one who sounds alarmed.
I help her into a chair and roll her pant leg up to the knee. Her legs are lean, strong—but soft somehow, too feminine for someone who’s been hauling hay and chasing goats.
“Joan the Mad,” she explains, nodding toward the goat outside. “That’s what I call her. She’s escaped twice this week. But the good news is—even the pros can’t catch her.” She arches both brows at me, and it’s annoyingly effective.
Mrs. Saint-Clair presses a first-aid kit into my hands like I’m the town medic. The cut’s long but not deep—won’t need stitches. So I guess I’m on nurse duty.
“Told you to be careful with that goat,” Lucien says, his voice tired.
“It was Astro,” I mutter. “That dog’s got more anxiety than a Wall Street banker.”
Cala bursts out laughing, and for a second I just… listen. It’s loud and bright, and it makes the cabin feel smaller.
Then I press the cotton soaked in alcohol against her leg, and she yelps.
“Son of—ah, ah, ah! That burns!”
Her hand flies toward the wound, but I catch her wrist before she can touch it.
“I know,” I say quietly. “That’s the point.”
The words slip out lower than I mean them to, and guilt hits right after. I start blowing gently over the wound to cool it.
When I look up, all three of them—Lucien, his wife, Cala—are staring at me like I just sprouted horns. I stop immediately.
“Thanks,” she whispers. First time her voice sounds small.
I stand, adjusting my belt buckle, just to have something to do with my hands.
“You’re welcome, Miss Saint-Clair. Next time—let it go.”
“And miss the show of you chasing a goat across the field? Not for all the gold in the world.”
Her grin is wicked and too damn bright, and I hate how it gets under my skin.
Lucien clears his throat.
“Let us make it up to you, Oliver. Stay for dinner.”
“Oh, no,” I answer fast. “Thanks, but it’s been a long day.”
Lucien’s wife opens the oven, and whatever’s cooking inside sends a wave of scent straight into my face.
It’s rich and warm—too inviting.
“You sure?” Cala asks when she catches the look on my face.
“Yeah, yeah…” I take a few steps back, heading for the door as fast as I can. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Enjoy your dinner?
Where the hell did that come from?
I don’t care about their damn dinner.
I pull the door open faster than a man ought to move and make for the goat—Joan the Mad.
Fine, I’ll admit it fits her. But I’ll never say it out loud and give Cala the satisfaction.
On my way over, something catches the light on the ground. I crouch and pick up a gold and turquoise pendant. I’ve seen it before, around Cala’s neck the day I met her.