He brushes past me, shoulder just barely grazing mine, and for the briefest second, the air between us crackles.
“I’ve got work to do,” he mutters.
And just like that, the silence in the barn feels like the loudest thing I’ve heard all day.
The house creaks like it’s bracing for my return. As Harper wrangles Emmy upstairs to find her a room that doesn’t smell like mold or mothballs, I push through the front door, eyes scanning what’s left of my father’s legacy.
The wallpaper is curling, its once-pale floral print now yellowed and stained like old tea. The wood floors are scarred with gouges and worn smooth in patches from decades of boots and hooves and maybe the occasional temper tantrum. A ceiling fan groans with every rotation, stirring up the scent of dust, mildew, and memories that cling like cobwebs.
To the left, the living room sags with mismatched furniture, a corduroy couch with a patch stitched into the arm, a rocking chair missing a slat. The fireplace is stuffed with newspaper from a decade ago. Above the mantel, a crooked photo collage is layered with grime: faded faces of rodeo wins, Sunday dinners, my mom, dad and me, and happier days that feel like someone else’s life.
I notice a picture of Emmy in a wooden frame sitting there proudly. I had sent this picture to my dad after she was born.
It looks like the place gave up waiting for someone to care.
I spot a stack of paperwork left on the entryway table, an envelope with my name scrawled in Dad’s looping handwriting. My chest tightens.
It’s not a letter. Just a legal packet. The will.
The will spells it out clearly. One full year of residency, no exceptions. A modest portion of the estate funds is released now, the rest is locked away until I last the full term. No early exits. No leasing the land. No shortcuts.
And then there’s the kicker, Dad named Cash Bennett as co-manager of the property for the entire year. Equalsay in operations, financials, and, God help me, any improvements I want to make. Like a built-in babysitter I can’t fire. Like Dad’s final joke, wrapped in a legal contract and sealed with a smug grin from the grave.
I grip the back of the chair to steady myself. The man knew exactly how to manipulate me from the grave. One year. One full year at Painted Sky Ranch.
And Cash? He comes with it, apparently. No clause about that.
Truth be told, I’d never planned to come back. Not after everything that happened, the blowout fight with Dad, Mom’s sudden passing, and the humiliation of being dumped by a man who told me I was too much the minute I told him I was pregnant. He wanted me silent, submissive, and small. I gave him none of those things.
So Emmy and I made our own life. It wasn’t easy. I built it with duct tape, grit, and late-night tears she never saw. I was in Advertising and pretty much running the biggest agency in Austin, waiting on my partnership. Me, they want to make me a partner. It's a dream I have been working towards. And now? NowI’m being handed a legacy I didn’t ask for, but maybe… need.
"Well, this place is... a vibe," Harper announces, stepping into the kitchen doorway with a bottle of cleaner in one hand and a bandana already tied around her head like a vintage housewife turned homicide detective. "Upstairs smells like raccoon pee and the ghosts of bad decisions. Emmy’s thrilled."
I exhale a laugh, even as my stomach twists. “Glad one of us is.”
Harper narrows her eyes. “How bad is it?”
I hand her the folder. She flips it open and lets out a low whistle. “He really wanted to make sure you didn’t run. This is practically a hostage situation.”
“No kidding.”
Emmy yells something incoherent from upstairs, followed by a thud and a giggle. The sound wraps around something fragile in my chest and holds it steady.
I walk through the house like I’m chasing ghosts, touching the walls, remembering fragments of things I thought I’d forgotten. The creaky floorboard in the hall. The chipped corner of the staircase where I once slipped chasing my dog. The old kitchen table stillpushed against the window where I used to do my homework while Dad poured coffee and muttered about cattle weights.
One of the photo frames on the mantel catches my eye. It's crooked. I reach out and adjust it. It’s me at nine, holding a blue ribbon next to my dad and his old gelding. His hand rests on my shoulder, his smile wide and proud. That day had felt like magic.
“Maybe he knew,” I murmur, my fingers trailing along the chipped edge of the old table, the wood cool and familiar beneath my touch. “Maybe he knew the only way I’d ever come home was if he forced me like he knew what was best for me. Maybe he did. ”
My voice catches at the end, quiet and uneven, and I blink against the sudden sting behind my eyes. I press a hand to my chest, anchoring myself, as if the walls might fall in if I let go.
Harper leans on the doorframe. “You gonna stay?”
I look out the back window. The pasture is overgrown. The fences are sagging. There’s a part of the barn roof caved in like the whole place is surrendering. Weeds snake through the cracks in the walkway. But beneath it all, I see the bones of something good. Solid. Worth fighting for.
Emmy pads softly into the room, her stuffed horse tucked beneath one arm. “Mama, do the horsey's sleep in the house, too?”
I smile, crouching beside her. “No, baby. But maybe someday soon, we’ll have a whole barn full of them again.”
