6. Cala
Living together has been… rough.
Let’s just say privacy’s become a myth in our household.
The upside? I spend way more time outdoors than inside.
Probably more than I should—but honestly, who’s keeping track?
Out here, the world feels wider.
The air smells like sage and rain, the kind of scent that hits you in the chest and makes you feel alive.
The sky’s painted this furious shade of pink, and the cold breeze slips right through my clothes, but I don’t move.
I’m too comfortable, sitting in the dirt with my gloves half off, talking to the plants like they’re old friends.
They don’t talk back, but somehow, they listen better than most people.
AURORA plays in my earbuds—her voice soft and wild all at once.
There’s something about her songs that makes me feel understood, like she gets what it’s like to be in between worlds—half practical adult, half dreamer still hoping the stars have something to say.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s my problem: I’m too willing to believe the earth and the sky are still talking to us… and I’m the fool who’s listening.
The garden’s full of seasonal veggies, all lined up in neat little rows.
Eliza—sweet, bossy Eliza—told me Mr. Walker refuses to plant fruit because it attracts rats.
And apparently, the big bad cowboy’s scared of rodents.
That’s my theory, anyway.
No solid evidence. Just vibes.
But hey, I can’t judge him.
I’m not exactly brave when it comes to creepy little things either.
Still, it’s funny—someone like him, so put together, so untouchable, terrified of something so small.
Makes me wonder what else he’s afraid of.
I watch the light fade, one breath at a time, and realize how much I love it here.
Not just the view, but the stillness—the kind that doesn’t ask anything from me.
When I’m here, I’m not the daughter who came back home, or the girl who left halfway through a dream, or the employee who’s constantly being watched through a pair of binoculars.
I’m just… Cala.
For a few minutes, that feels like enough.
“Cala!”
Someone’s shouting from far off.
I pull out my earbuds and stick my head up between the plants.
Angelo’s looking for me in the tall grass, waving his arms like I’m a lost kid at the fair.
“What?!” I shout back.
“Need anything before I head out?”
“We’ve talked about this! I’m not your boss!” I yell.
He laughs—he’s got that kind of smile that makes little dimples in his cheeks.
Adorable. Totally not my type, though.
Then again, I don’t really have a type.
Henry Cavill doesn’t count, and Roger was… well, entertaining.
Definitely not long-term material.
“Alright then, just checking! You good?”
“I’m good!”
“See ya tomorrow!”
“Arrivederci, Angelo!” I call out, and he cracks up again, shaking his head as he walks away.
I started doing that after he mentioned his Italian roots—now it’s kind of my personal mission to annoy him in two languages.
“Anyway, as I was saying…” I turn back to the plants, focusing on one leaf that’s turning brown.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” I tell it.
The audiobook I’ve been listening to says talking to plants helps them grow—so here I am, giving it a try.
“This wasn’t my first choice of career, but I gotta admit, after three weeks, I’m starting to like it here.
I wake up excited to check on everyone. The horses, especially. I swear they already know what time I’m coming. They start neighing the moment I step outside.
It’s wild, right? They don’t even wear watches and—”
“Miss Saint-Clair!”
That voice freezes every muscle in my back.
I go dead silent, crouching lower between the rows of plants.
Maybe if I stay still, he’ll think I don’t exist.
“I can hear you,” he calls out again, tone sharp as barbed wire. “No need to hide. It’s not like you have a quiet voice anyway.”
Crap.
I sigh, stand up, and brush the dirt off my jeans.
“What exactly are you doing out here?”
He’s still wearing his office clothes—tailored shirt, expensive sunglasses, and not a speck of dirt on him. His hair looks clean enough to belong in a shampoo commercial, and I bet he smells incredible.
He seems like the kind of man who wears those colognes that make women forget how to think straight.
“Talking to the plants,” I say simply.
He inhales slowly, then exhales like my answer personally offends him. Hands on his hips, eyes on the sky. Classic Oliver Walker, Lord of Exasperation.
“Can you come out of there? It’ll be dark any minute.”
I weave through the rows, stepping closer until I can smell that cologne again—clean, warm, undeniably masculine.
Why do men’s scents always smell better than ours?
Someone should study that.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
“Other than wondering who talks to plants?”
So… ignoring my question. Great.
“I do,” I say. “They listen, and I—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Oh, for the love of—does this man ever let anyone finish a sentence?
“It’s not ridiculous. You can Google it.”
He rolls his eyes, pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, and starts typing.
“Well? What does the internet say?”
“I’m not searching for that nonsense,” he mutters, thumbs flying across the screen. “I have actual messages to answer.”
When he’s done, he looks up, those unreadable eyes locking on me.
“As I was saying—it’s late. Go home.”
Just the thought of dragging myself back inside to report every detail of my day to Dad makes me want to cry.
“In a second,” I say. “I just need to finish—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Miss Saint-Clair. The night’s dangerous, and I don’t want to deal with another accident this week.”
He’s talking about the chicken incident.
I fell off a ladder trying to rescue one from the roof, but in my defense, she looked trapped.
With a heavy sigh, I pull off my gloves and set them on the storage bench, admitting defeat.
“And tidy this up,” he adds over his shoulder. “Every time you’re out here, I can’t find a single damn thing afterward.”
He turns dramatically, lets out a sharp breath, and walks off toward the house.
Honestly, it was a lot more fun when he just spied on me from the window. At least then he was silent.
On Wednesday, I argued with my dad again.
This time it was about the signs I made for the horses.
See, I kept forgetting which stall belonged to which horse—so I made little nameplates. Cute ones, with painted letters and flowers.
Apparently, that’s completely inappropriate behavior for a working ranch.
I’m not gonna cry about it again, though. He’s fighting his own demons, and I need to remember that.
So I decided to get out for the evening—ride into the nearest town for dinner.
Was that a good idea?
Absolutely.
Which is why I hopped on my bike and pedaled until my legs burned.
Downtown is lovely—small, bohemian cafés and cozy bars. I picked a place that claims to have the best cheddar grilled cheese in the country.
I’m not saying they’re wrong, but let’s just say I’ve had worse.
Getting out was the best decision I could’ve made. I feel lighter, calmer, like maybe the world isn’t all that heavy after all.
The problem is… now I have to ride back.
There are no streetlights out here, so it’s just me, my phone’s flashlight, and a level of exhaustion I didn’t plan for.
It takes longer than usual (turns out balancing a bike and a phone is not one of my special skills) but when I finally reach the dirt road to the ranch, I relax.
I can already see Mr. Walker’s mansion glowing in the distance—tall, silent, and dramatic, like everything else about him.
I’ve only been inside the kitchen so far, but even from the outside, it’s stunning. The lights shine upward, making it look even taller, and the windows are dark. The whole place is wrapped in silence, except for the crunch of my tires on the dirt road.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement on the terrace.
I stop pedaling and turn off my phone’s light, instinctively.
Something tells me I shouldn’t interrupt whatever this is.
And then I see him.
Up there on the terrace, Mr. Walker—breathing hard, the same way he did the night of my father’s accident.
“Trees… shrubs… vines… herbs…”
His voice is rough, his breathing uneven, listing names like he’s clinging to them.
He’s in pajamas, hair tousled like he’s been fighting his pillow.
I watch from the shadows, unsure whether to move closer or stay put.
He looks lost.
Not angry, not distant—just… somewhere else.
“Flowering plants, seed plants, vascular plants, terrestrial, green…”
His breathing starts to slow, the rhythm returning, the tension in his shoulders easing.
After a while, he sits down on what looks like a lounge chair and finally lies back.
I wait a few minutes, but he doesn’t move again.
He must’ve fallen asleep.
So I keep going, my tires crunching softly against the dirt.
But I can’t shake the feeling in my chest—this deep, aching sadness for a man who looks like he has everything yet still seems like he’s fighting ghosts no one else can see.
If I had to compare him to a character, it’d be Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights.
He’s got that same presence—brooding, unreadable, magnetic in a way that doesn’t make sense.
I used to think his mind was spinning a thousand thoughts whenever he scolded me, and now that I’ve seen him like this—alone, vulnerable, human—I’m sure of it.
I just hope revenge isn’t one of the things keeping him awake at night.
Emily Bronte already proved that never ends well.