I picked up one of the framed photos—a younger Pops with a little girl on his shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera. "Is this Elise?"
"Yep. She was about five there. Already obsessed with horses. Used to sneak out before dawn to feed 'em, scared the hell outta me the first time."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"Apple don't fall far." He took the photo, studying it with a soft expression I hadn't seen often. "She was supposed to take over the ranch eventually. Had the skills, the passion, all of it. But then she got that job offer in Denver, and I couldn't tell her no. Would've been selfish, keepin' her here when she had opportunities."
"Do you regret it? Letting her go?"
"Regret? No. Miss her? Every damn day." He set the photo down carefully, aligning it perfectly. "But that’s parenthood. You raise 'em to fly, then you gotta let 'em. Even when it hurts."
The words hung in the air, and I thought about my own father—who’d raised me to be an extension of himself, not to fly but to reflect. Who measured my worth in stock prices and social connections instead of who I actually was.
"For what it's worth," I said quietly, "she's lucky she had you."
Pops looked at me, really looked at me, and something passed between us that didn't need words.
"You’re doin' good here, son. Real good. And I don't just mean the work—though you've exceeded every expectation I had, which admittedly were pretty low."
I laughed. "Thanks?"
"I mean you’re figurin' out who you are separate from all that Dallas noise. That takes courage. Most people never do it." He clapped my shoulder. "Whatever happens when summer ends, you remember that. Remember you got people here who see you for who you actually are."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah. Thanks, Pops."
"Don't mention it. Now help me hang this mirror before Winnie gets back and starts askin' questions about why we’re both covered in attic dust."
We finished setting up the room just as I heard the distinct rumble of Winnie’s truck pulling up outside. Pops caught my eye and put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated shushing gesture that made me grin.
"Our secret?" he confirmed.
"Our secret."
We headed downstairs to find Winnie in the kitchen, dirt-streaked and sweaty from fence work, chugging water straight from the tap like she’d just crossed a desert.
"Where've y'all been?" she asked between gulps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I came lookin' for Beau to help with the south gate and he'd vanished."
"I had him helpin' me with some stuff," Pops said easily. "Man work. You wouldn't understand."
"'Man work'?" She fixed him with a look that could peel paint. "What year is this, 1952?"
"Sorry, let me rephrase: work that required someone younger and prettier than you."
"That’s worse."
"Is it though?"
I watched them banter, the easy affection between them, and felt that warm feeling in my chest again. This—this was what family was supposed to feel like. Not board meetings and obligations, but teasing and trust and knowing someone had your back even when they were giving you shit.
"Anyway," Pops continued, "we were gettin' Elise's room ready. Figured it should look nice when she gets here."
"Oh! That's sweet." Winnie's expression softened instantly. "Did you find those photos she wanted?"
"Yep. All set. Room's ready to be immediately reorganized the second she walks in."
"As is tradition."
They both laughed, and I realized how much I was looking forward to meeting this mysterious daughter/aunt/sister figure who apparently reorganized rooms and worked in tech and used to compete in rodeos.
