Growing up, my mother weaved tales of this place, painting vivid pictures of the vast wilderness where she roamed freely, exploring and playing beneath the endless sky. Her words often carried an undertone of bitterness when she spoke of home, yet I couldn’t help but envy the rich tapestry of her memories. Tome, those stories were enchanting fairytales, vibrant and alive, offering a glimpse of magic and solace during nights when the only shelter we had was the rusted roof of our dilapidated car.
A fairytale she often ruined by her constant declaration I was the sole reason she was forced to leave.
“Miss Masterson…”
The muscles in my jaw tighten like coiled springs when an unfamiliar voice slices through the heavy silence which had settled in like a comforting blanket after the reverend’s departure. Sadie Masterson wasn’t the mother a daughter dreams of having, her presence a constant shadow rather than a guiding light, but at least she was there. Her days were often blurred by the haze of alcohol or the fog of substances, yet even those troubled times felt more secure than the cold, impersonal walls of the foster system.
“I’m sorry to bother you, miss,” the voice continues, pity lacing every word. “But I’ve been sent to collect you by Mr. Denver, you father.”
My father.
The man I never knew existed. Who walked into my life after twenty-two years, demanded my obedience, mocked the life my mother built for us, and treated me as if I was nothing more than dirt beneath his expensive leather shoes.
He is right about my situation though. Without him, I would still be living in the homeless shelter his boss found me in. Within twenty-four hours, I lost everything. The apartment had become a crime scene, I had no money and once my job found out about my situation, they let me go. Something I’m sure wasn’t entirely legal, but then neither was them paying me under the table. My dreams for college went up in smoke when I found out how much my mother screwed me over. She took out thousands in my name and hadn’t paid a cent on any of it.
Sure, I could fight it, but I had no proof. Plus, I couldn’t afford a fancy lawyer when I was unemployed and living in a homeless shelter. My sperm donor was paying it all, but his generosity comes with terms and conditions.
Thanks, mom.
Saying one last goodbye, I turn my back on her grave and make my way toward the waiting man. He’s dressed sharply in a black suit, his graying hair slicked back, but he is giving me a wide, welcoming smile. I’ve seen him before; the day my sperm donor came to verify my paternity.
“I take it the sperm donor was too busy to pick me up himself?” It’s rhetorical, but the well-mannered driver attempts an excuse anyway.
“He was called away on business, Miss,” he placates gently as he opens the back passenger door of the hulky SUV. Who needs this big of a vehicle? I’m pretty sure this thing is a tank and not standard transportation for a rancher.
“Sure,” I sigh, sliding inside. Once the driver closes the door, I close my eyes and take a long breath. Maybe living at the homeless shelter isn’t such a bad idea. The man doesn’t seem as if he wants me at all. To him, I am an inconvenience and a reminder of his mistake with my mother.
“It isn’t too long of a drive, Miss.” The man informs me.
“Just Peyton,” I mutter.
“Excuse me, Miss?” the driver asks as if he misheard me.
Huffing, I lean forward. “Just call me Peyton,” I tell him. “NotMiss.”
His eyebrows dip together, and he taps his chin with a finger in thought. I sense this situation is new to him—perhaps he’s never been asked to call someone by their first name. Rich assholes.
“Alright.” He nods his head. “Peyton.” The way he chokes my name out, as if it goes against everything he’s been taught, causes a smile to tug at the corner of my lips.
“What can I call you?” I ask, tilting my head slightly to get a better look.
The man gives me a wide smile. “Martin, Mis—Peyton.” He catches himself.
Grinning at him, I hold out my hand and when he takes it, I give him a small wink. “It’s nice to meet you, Martin.”
“You, too. Peyton.” This time when he says my name it doesn’t sound as if he is swallowing nails. Feeling mildly better, I lean back in my seat and watch as the small town flies by outside the window.
The sandstone cliffs guarding the entrance to Llano County loom closer as the sun drops lower, streaking the sky with hues of saffron and lavender. It’s like a grand tapestry woven in hues of green and gold that stretches as far as the eyes can see, past fields sown with cotton and kissed by the scorching heartbeat of the Lone Star State.
The horizon in the distance looks almost painted with every crest, every undulation, a brushstroke rendered with meticulous precision. It seems so large, the sky here, reaching out in all directions with a kind of voracious hunger that syncs to the beat of the heart. It’s a colorful dome, welcoming, but it’s also vast—so vast it seems as if it can swallow you whole and leave you feeling small and vulnerable if you’re not prepared for its boundlessness.
My father’s ranch, which is a subset of the infamous Black Diamond Ranch, lies more than twenty miles beyond Crimson Ridge, the quaint little town I laid my mother to rest. The journey there is largely spent traversing a seemingly endless dirt road which branches off from the highway, its dusty surface kicking up a cloud with each turn of the wheel. Sturdy wirefencing runs continuously along every inch of the road, a stark reminder how this land, stretching as far as the eye can see, is not untamed wilderness. It’s owned. Deeded. Protected.
Even in Los Angeles, everyone knows about Black Diamond Ranch and its infamous owner, Hudson Shaw, the man my father works for. A man who was far kinder than my own flesh and blood. There was pity in his eyes but also compassion and understanding. A sorrow reached deep inside of me when he discussed my mother as if he somehow felt responsible for her failings.
From what I’ve managed to gather, my father’s ranch, named after the local town, shares the same property as Black Diamond. Several ranches, all owned by Hudson Shaw, litter this land. My mother’s family owns Blue Skye Ranch several miles further up the interstate. Martin pointed it out as we pulled off the main road a few miles back. Apparently, they raise cattle.
“Your father owns one of the stables,” he informs me with a small smile. “Known for breeding and training some of the best racehorses in the world.”
