Chapter 18
eighteen
Sawyer
My head pounds in protest as sunlight peaks through the curtains, a cruel reminder of drinking too much sangria last night.
The room spins as I fumble out of bed, and a sound claws at my senses—the unmistakable clatter of trashcan versus creature outside.
That damn raccoon, back again to torture me.
Cursing under my breath, I stagger to the kitchen. I snatch a spatula from the drawer—the best weapon I can come up with under the circumstances.
I shove open the side door, squinting against the glare of the morning sun that paints the ranch in hues of gold and regret. "Don't make me turn you into a soup," I grumble, hoping the little beast will take the hint.
"Well, I don't think my daddy would be too happy about that," pipes up a voice so small and unexpected it might as well have come from the raccoon itself.
I blink, taken aback, spatula still poised mid-air. My heart skips, then thunders in my chest. It's not a little beast, but a boy—no taller than the trashcan beside him, his grin is wide and bright.
"Whoa. Sorry, there," I stammer, lowering the spatula like it’s an actual weapon. "I thought you were the raccoon that has been bothering me all night."
Fisher tilts his head, eyes twinkling with mischief beneath a mop of unruly curly hair. "Nah, I heard 'bout your little friend and was hopin' to come see him, but I reckon he's skedaddled." His words roll out with a twang so charming it could make the birds sing.
"I’m sure he’ll be back soon," I laugh, and lean against the door frame. “But I’m starting to see why everyone talks so highly of you.”
"Yep." He puffs out his chest. "Pretty big deal 'round these parts."
"Big deal, huh?" I tease, trying my best to hold back another laugh at his pint-sized echo of the Stetson swagger that seems to be a family trait. "You've got that confidence that seems cut from the same cloth as your uncles."
He rocks back on his heels, hands stuffed in the pockets of his athletic shorts, his grin impish and wide. "Yeah, they get it from me," he retorts, and there's something in his voice—a hint of old soul mixed with sweet youth—that makes me think he truly believes he's the originator.
“I’m sure. You must love it out here with them,” I say, glancing at the wide stretch of land around us.
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Depends on the day.” Then his eyes flick back to mine. “What about you? You liking it out here?”
“More than I expected,” I admit. “Your family's been taking good care of me.”
His eyes narrow just a little with a teasing glint. “My family—or one of my uncles?” He tilts his head as he adds, “Which uncle in particular?”
I stifle a laugh. "You're too smart for your own good, you know that?"
"Yep, got that going for me too," he grins, and I shake my head as I close the door behind me.
"What do you say we see what your nana has whipped up for breakfast?" I ask, nodding in the direction of PJ’s.
"Now you're speaking my language."
The farmhouse door swings open as we walk in, and freshly brewed coffee and bacon drifts to greet us. There's something about it that feels timeless and comforting.
"Morning, y'all," PJ greets us, her smile bright as she ushers us in.
“Tried to get the gossip outta Sawyer,” Fisher announces beside me, hands on his hips like a tiny sheriff. “But she’s playin’ it cool. Which makes me think she’s got a crush on somebody she shouldn’t. Probably means Trouble.”
I gasp, hand to my chest. “Now why would you think that?”
Fisher grins like he knows exactly why.
PJ leans in with a wink and whispers, “That boy’s always keepin’ tabs. Thinks his daddy needs a wife, and maybe if he wishes hard enough, one’ll just magically show up on the ranch.”
I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye.
Danger, the man she’s referring to, walks through the doorway after us.
He's the kind of man who you can tell carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, the kind of cowboy you definitely don't mess with. But you’d probably have to be, being the oldest of all his reckless brothers.
His hand lifts, pushing back the brim of his hat just enough to reveal those sharp, assessing eyes. “Yeah… Not happenin’,” he says sternly, like he didn’t miss a single word PJ let slip.
He strides past us, heading straight for the coffee pot and pours himself a cup.
PJ breaks the silence. "Anyways, darlin'," she says, eyes crinkling at the corners with a knowing smile, "you're welcome to go into town with me if you'd like. The Summer Barn Dance is tonight. Was thinking of picking up something nice to wear."
"I'd love to," I answer. "Seems like there's always something going on here during the summer."
PJ chuckles beside me. "Around here there ain't much else to do but keep the folks entertained. Gotta keep us all drinkin’, eatin’, and line dancing somehow."
We hop in the truck, and PJ talks the whole way to town—about ranch gossip, her boys, and who’s beefing with who this week.
After the trip to town with PJ, I head toward home. The dusty road leading to my father's property aggravates me. I have one last errand to do before I can meet Honey at the Summer Barn Dance.
I step out onto familiar land, and as I move towards the house, I catch sight of my dad on the porch.
He’s deep in conversation with Bryson, our neighbor from down the road.
Bryson and his wife, Nicole, were the kind of neighbors who showed up with leftovers that somehow tasted better than anything we cooked ourselves.
The only time we ever heard a sound from their house was on Football Sunday, when their cheering carried clear across the field.
"Dan, you didn't tell me your daughter was in town," Bryson says, happily surprised. "Sawyer, is that you?"
"Last I checked," I smile.
"Thought I mentioned it," Daddy says.
"Well, you sure didn't, Dan. But I'll leave you two to it."
"Thanks," I murmur, as Bryson walks down the porch steps.
"Good to see you back around here, Sawyer," he calls out. He tips his hat and turns to jump into his truck.
"What do I owe the pleasure," Daddy huffs without turning. "Is this another one of our good talks?" His hands reach for the day's paper, laid across the weathered planks of the deck.
"Daddy, I'm sorry, okay?" I say, my voice surprisingly small from being on the brink of giving up this battle. "If I admit that I was wrong—that I shouldn't have left town the first chance I got like that—will you admit that you're wrong too?"
He unfurls the paper with a snap, creating a barrier between us, hiding his face. "And what exactly am I wrong about?" His voice is muffled, but the sharpness of his tone cuts through clearly.
"You're wrong for being so stubborn," I say, frustrated.
The paper rustles but he doesn’t move it out of his face. "Well, I'm getting old," he murmurs. "I got an excuse to be stubborn."
"You're more worried about your damn pride than you are about making things right with your daughter."
The chair rocks gently, the only sound in the midst of our standoff. And then, without warning, the paper lowers ever so slightly. The edge of the newspaper dips, revealing the same eyes he passed down to me.
"My daughter knows I love her. And if she thinks otherwise, it's that city that's gone to her head."
I let out a chuckle, surprising even myself.
"You're right about one thing," I admit, putting my own pride aside. "I'm starting to wonder if the city life isn’t actually as good as I thought it was."
The newspaper dips, inch by inch, until he finally folds it shut against his knee. Over the top, Daddy eyebrow arches high. “You are?”
"Maybe I shouldn't have left. Shouldn't have been so quick to jump into a relationship with the first powerful person in a suit I met out there. Maybe I’ve been making all the wrong decisions."
He grunts, then shifts in his chair. “You know, I came to the city once.”
My head snaps up. “Wait, you came to the city?”
“Sure did,” he says, lips tugging in a small smile. “Saw those ugly yellow cabs, people who can’t walk without a phone glued to their hand, and buildings tall enough to block the sun—all squeezed up together like cattle in a chute.”
I laugh quietly, picturing him in the city, arms crossed and unimpressed.
“Then I saw you,” he says, his voice softening. “Happy. Thrivin’. And I knew I couldn’t mess with all that good you had goin’ on.”
“Daddy,” I breathe, holding back tears. “If I knew you came all the way to the city for me, I probably would've come back with you then and there.”
He doesn’t say anything, just gives me that look—the one that says he knows. That he always has.
“Well, we don't live by shouldn't haves or would haves,” he finally says. “Everything in life is a lesson. You're smart, Sawyer. You always make the best decisions for you."
"I don’t know about that. But Daddy, I'm right about one thing. You need to be taken care of too." My gaze falls to the calluses on his hands. "You and Knox can't keep up with all this land. It's too much for both of you."
His rocking chair stops creaking. He’s listening now. Really listening. Then, with a crisp crackle, he snaps the paper open again, lifting it like a shield. "Have you looked around lately?"
"At what?"
I stand still, stuck, confused as I wait for him to lower the paper and meet my questioning stare.
"Look around. Things look fine around here if you ask me."
I hesitate for a moment, then, slowly, I straighten to my full height as I do as he says.
And suddenly, it's as though I'm taken back in time to the property I grew up on.
The grass is a lush carpet of green, meticulously cut in perfect lines.
I take a step forward, searching for the tangled overgrown weeds that were everywhere last time I was here.
Now, there's only order, perfectly manicured edges.
The chicken coop, too, catches my attention. It’s reborn, put together with fresh wood. The chickens look happy, have a new pulse even.
And the fencing. It was all broken, bent, and forgotten. But now it looks firm and durable. Each post and rail has been mended or replaced.
Everything looks different, transformed. The realization hits me hard.
How is it possible? Who did this?
There's magic back here again, magic I never thought I’d see again.
I turn back to the stubborn man behind the newsprint. "Daddy, who did this?"
He rustles the paper. "I'm just an old man, minding his business, hoping to retire on this great piece of land here... that his ancestors built with their blood and tears."
My fingers find the edge of the newspaper, and I gently press it down.
"Daddy."
He sighs. "I don't know, Sawyer, and I'm not asking.
I reckon it has something to do with your brother.
Those Stetson boys he rides with," Daddy continues.
"Seen these trucks with Stetson Ranch on the side coming in and outta here the past few days.
There was a big group of ‘em early in the morning.
Been seeing that one they call bad news pop in and out more than the rest of ‘em. "
“You mean Trouble?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” he barks, tossing up a hand.
I arch a brow, staring at Daddy like he’s grown a few extra heads. “And you didn’t ask why they’re helping out?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just shakes the newspaper open again like we’re discussing the weather. “Told you—I’m minding my business.”
This doesn’t make sense.
Knox is as bullheaded as Daddy—too proud to ask for help. Even if the house was on fire, he’d never do it. And the Stetsons? Especially Trouble? They don’t just show up and do favors. Not without a reason.
That’s when it hits me—like a jolt straight through my chest.
He knows.
He walked in on me crying. Saw me falling apart. He knew this ranch was falling apart, too. And now…
He’s been out there. Quietly. Behind the scenes. Fixing up the fence line. Helping with the animals. Putting in work on a ranch that isn’t his. For a family that doesn’t even know to thank him.
“Sawyer?” Knox’s voice booms through the screen door. “You’re here? And you and Daddy ain’t fightin’?”
“Guess things are turning around.”
“Well hell, that means it’s gonna be a great day.” He steps out onto the porch, does a slow turn, then whistles. “Holy crap, this lawn’s lookin’ good.”
I grin, already ready to drop the next surprise. “Have you seen the chicken coop?”
Knox’s head whips in the direction I’m pointing. He squints, then takes a few steps forward. “Daddy… you do that?”
Daddy doesn’t even look up from his paper. “Just mindin’ my business.”
Knox lets out a low chuckle, but he’s still staring at the coop like it appeared out of thin air. “Sawyer, maybe you being here ain’t so bad after all.”
I giggle, shaking my head. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”
But then it hits me.
Knox didn’t even know.
My throat tightens.
Trouble didn’t do it for credit. He didn’t tell me. He didn’t even tell Knox.
Would he do this all because he cares about Knox?
His words from the other night circle back: "I care about your brother. That’s it." But suddenly, they feel more like a smoke screen. A way to protect something else. Something he’s not ready to admit.
Because no one puts in this kind of work—sweat, time, effort—just to be the good guy. A good friend. Especially not someone like him.
And now I can’t stop wondering: What if he wasn’t just trying to save the ranch? What if… he did this all for me?