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 screamscity girl out of her element, either. I settle on dark jeans, a fittedblack 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 mynotice 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.
