Chapter 3
“Come on,” Sutton breaks the awkward silence which has fallen over us after my semen donor left. “I’ll show you to your room. You can freshen up and unpack before dinner.”
Sutton leads me up the staircase and then to the landing that looks down over the spacious living area. She attempts to make polite conversation, but I barely give her one-word answers.
She doesn’t push, which I am grateful for. She simply walks ahead like she understands my silence is the only thing holding me together right now.
The hallway is lined with old family photos—sepia-toned portraits and faded snapshots of people I don’t recognize. I glance at one as we pass: a young woman with familiar eyes and a fierce tilt to her chin. My chest tightens.
“Your mom,” Sutton acknowledges quietly, noticing where my gaze lingers. “High school graduation, I think.”
I don’t respond. I keep walking, one hand brushing the smooth wooden banister like it will anchor me in place.
Why does he have a photo of the woman he says he despises?
Finally, she stops at the end of the hall and pushes open a door. “Here you go. It used to be a guest room, but we figured you could make it yours.”
The room smells of cedar and fresh linen, warm and inviting like an old song you can’t quite place. A large picture window dominates the far wall, framing the golden sprawl of the field behind the house, where the sun sinks low, setting the tall grass ablaze with amber light.
The bed is a carved four-poster draped in crisp white sheets and a quilt stitched in soft earth tones, the fabric plush and clearly handmade with care.
A cowhide rug lies across wide-plank hardwood floors, and beside the bed, an antique trunk serves as a side table stacked with books and a softly glowing ceramic lamp.
In the corner, a polished writing desk sits beneath a framed landscape painting, elegant but unfussy, like the rest of the room.
Everything here whispers of wealth that doesn’t need to show off.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she tells me. “Holler if you need me.”
I nod, and she lingers for a second like she wants to say more but decides against it. The door clicks shut behind her. I drop my bag onto the bed and sit beside it, the mattress creaking under my weight. For a moment, I stare at the floor.
Everything feels…off. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Someone who belongs here. Someone who might’ve grown up with Sunday dinners and softball games and a father who actually gave a damn.
That someone isn’t me.
My gaze drifts to the window. I watch as John crosses the yard, his figure a silhouette in the fading light. He moves like a man who’s spent a lifetime burying his regrets under hard work and silence.
Stubborn like her mother.
The words echo in my head. Not angry, more matter-of-fact. Like he was cataloging a flaw in a horse.
And yet…
There was something in his eyes when he looked at me. Something between recognition and pain.
I reach into my bag, fingers closing around the photograph tucked in the side pocket—the only one I have of my mom and me, taken when I was seven. Her arm is around me, smile wide and bright. But looking at it now, I wonder how real her smile truly was.
And how much of our life was a carefully constructed lie.
I stare at the photograph for a long time before sliding it into the drawer of the nightstand, out of sight. Shaking off the depression settling through me, I push myself to my feet. The air in the room feels heavier now, like the ghosts of the unknown are pressing against the walls.
The bathroom across the hall is as polished as the bedroom with white shiplap walls, brass fixtures, and a deep clawfoot tub.
Everything is straight out of a magazine.
The shower is glass-walled, steam already curling around the edges by the time I strip down and step inside.
No waiting nearly five minutes for the water heater to kick in.
The hot water hits my skin like a balm, loosening muscles I didn’t realize were clenched. I press my forehead to the tile and breathe. For the first time in what feels like days.
Grief and confusion churn beneath the surface, tangled up in years of resentment and questions I’m only just starting to ask. My mother was a master at telling half-truths with her eyes wide and sincere. And I was too young to know the difference.
But I know now.
When I finally step out, the mirror is fogged over. I wipe a strip clean and meet my own gaze. My eyes look darker. Hollower. Like I’ve already started becoming someone else.
Back in the bedroom, I dig through my bag for something decent to wear. Nothing too flashy, but nothing that screams city girl out of her element, either. I settle on dark jeans, a fitted black top, and a worn cardigan that still smells faintly like the last place I called home.
I tug my damp hair into a low bun, simple and easy, and swipe on a bit of mascara. Just enough to look like I tried, even if I didn’t.
As I zip the bag shut, I pause, hand resting on the worn leather handle.
I don’t know what kind of dinner I’m walking into. These people are strangers to me, and I don’t trust them.
But I’m here.
And I’m not leaving without answers to the questions my mother’s death has brought forth.
A knock sounds on the door. Sutton’s voice follows, gentle and polite. “Dinner’s ready when you are.”
I take one last look around the room before heading out the door and down for dinner. John sits at the head of the table with Sutton sitting to his right, a dreamy smile on her face as she engages him in quiet conversation.
Pace stands up when he sees me walk into the large dining room and pulls out the chair beside him for me to sit down. Swallowing back the nervous tickle in the back of my throat, I give him a thin smile of gratitude before taking my seat.
Lee, the one who stormed out of the house earlier in a cloud of dust, is sitting directly across from me, a scowl on his face.
“Well, you’ve already been introduced to Pace,” John says roughly. “This one here is Lee. Seems he took off before you could be introduced properly.” He eyes his son, disappointment edged in his stare. Lee doesn’t seem bothered by it. He simply shrugs.
“Had better things to do,” he murmurs darkly, still scowling. “Thing need getting done.”
John ignores his son’s dark mood and turns back to me. ‘They both help run the ranch here,” he tells me. “Everyone in this family participates in its success. That now includes you.”
My brow creases. Participates in its success. What does that even mean?
At seeing the confusion on my face, John continues. “You’ll be assigned a list of daily chores and upkeep. We will start you out small, let you get familiar, before we give you any more responsibility. We’ll decrease your chores when school starts this fall to make sure you have time to study.”
“I don’t know anything about ranches…”
Lee scoffs, his scowl shifting into a disgusted sneer at my words.
John shoots his son a warning look dark enough to have my skin crawling, and he isn’t even focused on me.
I’m not trying to be obstinate. I want the work.
Hell, I enjoy working and keeping busy, but I’ve never seen a horse in real life or been on a farm.
“I’m aware,” he assures me. “Bowen, our ranch manager, will teach you everything you need to know.”
I nearly jump out of my seat when the door to the kitchen swings open, and a woman walks through carrying a tray of plates.
“Peyton this is Shiloh,” John introduces the older woman who gives me a warm smile as she sets my plate down in front of me. “She manages the house. If you have any dietary requirements or need anything personal, please let her know.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peyton.” The warmth in her voice is sincere, and it loosens something in my chest.
“You too.” I give her my own smile before turning to the plate she sat down in front of me.
The food looks delicious and like it will stick to my ribs.
Chicken fried steak with potatoes and a heavy gravy.
On the side is a tomato and feta salad drizzled with a balsamic glaze and topped with basil.
It doesn’t escape my notice the only plates with the salad are Sutton and mine.
The men’s plates are suspiciously tomato salad free.
I pick up my utensils and attempt to focus on my food instead of sneaking looks at my biological father every few minutes. It doesn’t work.
His dark brown hair is peppered with gray. Without the hat, I can see it is cut shorter on the sides and only slightly longer on top. Enough for it to sweep to one side. His salt and pepper beard is trimmed neatly and only adds to emphasize his stern features.
“Don’t worry, Peyton,” Sutton says cheerfully. “Ranch work isn’t hard and think about all the neat things you’ll be able to learn. Horse riding is one of my favorite things. I’d be happy to teach you. I grew up doing barrel competitions.”
“Yeah,” I drawl, ignoring the warning look Pace is shooting my way. “Not something I see happening.”
“You must learn to ride. All Denvers grow up in a saddle. It’s family tradition.” Sutton smiles happily unaware of the sudden awkwardness that has fallen over the table.
“Well, it’s a good thing I am a Masterson and not a Denver then, isn’t it.”
The silence is thick enough to chew on. Even the clink of cutlery pauses, suspended in the air like everyone is holding their breath.
John doesn’t react right away. He sits back in his chair and stares at me. Really stares at me. There’s something unreadable in his expression. It’s like he is biting down on words he’s not ready to spit out.
Across the table, Lee huffs a laugh, low and bitter.
“Well, ain’t that the truth,” he mutters under his breath, stabbing at his steak like it insulted his mama.
Sutton clears her throat, forcing a too-bright smile. “Names are just names,” she chirps, trying to smooth over the moment. “What matters is you’re here now. Part of the family.”
I raise a brow, letting the silence speak for me. Part of the family. She says it like she believe I can simply step into the family, like a pair of boots left by the door.
Pace nudges my elbow under the table, subtle but firm. A quiet reminder not to burn everything down yet.
I go back to my food, cutting the chicken fried steak with more force than necessary. The gravy’s rich, the potatoes buttery, comfort food designed to make you feel at home. It tastes like another life. One I don’t remember asking for.
“So,” John says finally, his voice rough as gravel. “you got any plans? After this?”
I blink, thrown off by the question. “This?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “This visit. Figured this wouldn’t exactly be permanent arrangement with the way you’re talking.”
My chest tightens, a slow, cold burn. Visit.
He says it like it’s some dirty word. Like I’m some stray mutt he agreed to foster out of obligation because it is what’s expected of him.
Isn’t this what I wanted though? Not to be stuck here where I am obviously not wanted?
Why does it hurt to hear him call out how temporary this whole charade is?
“I haven’t made plans,” I say carefully. “Didn’t think I needed to yet since you have them all mapped out for me.”
John nods, but I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes. Disappointment? Relief? Who knows. The man’s a walking vault of emotions.
Sutton tries to salvage the mood again. “Well, you can’t go anywhere anytime soon.”
I flinch involuntarily at her unintended gut punch.
Her words are a stark reminder I need them more than they need me.
Without John’s assistance, I have nowhere to go.
No money. No education. Even if I managed to get a job flipping burgers, it wouldn’t be enough to pay off the mass amount of debt my mother put in my name.
“There’s a summer festival next weekend in town,” Sutton continues. “It’s a big deal around here. Bonfire, live music, hayrides. It might be a good way to get to know the community. People’ll be curious about you.”
“Why?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “Because I’m the long-lost daughter of the rancher who acts like I’m nothing but shit dropped at his doorstep?”
This time, even Sutton can’t fake a smile.
Pace shifts beside me but doesn’t say anything. Neither does Lee. John stares at his plate for a long moment before finally speaking, voice low.
“I don’t think that.”
“No,” I say softly. “But you sure as hell have been acting like it since you met me.”
Silence crashes over the table again, but this time I let it linger. I want him to feel it. Every second of it.
And beneath the stillness, a quiet truth takes root inside of me.
I am truly alone.