Page 39 of Dallas Rivals

Winter’s here—dry, sharp, and cold.

The trees are bare, the sky stays gray, and those famous Texas storms have started rolling in.

Things just got harder.

I’ve been working here for two months now, and just when I thought I had everything under control, the weather changed—turning every little task into a battle.

But I’m an adaptable creature.

Sure, I complain more than I should at first, but eventually, I adjust.

By seven in the evening, the horses are in their stalls, the cows are settled, and the sheep and goats, my personal favorites, come to me willingly now. They actually recognize me, which helps a lot. The bruises on my legs are finally fading, too.

“Bedtime, everyone!” I call out as I leave the barn.

I dust off my jeans and officially declare the day done.

Thank God, because the sky looks like trouble—gray and violet, the kind of color that hums with thunder.

Back at my parents’ cabin, the air’s warm and smells like stew. Mom’s cooking something hearty enough to survive the apocalypse, and Dad’s helping, chopping vegetables at the table. The house is quiet, the energy heavy. I can’t wait to crawl into bed and bury my nose in a book that takes me somewhere else.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I announce, heading straight to the bathroom. “I smell like a horse.”

“Alright,” Mom says. “But don’t take long. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Won’t be long.”

I shut the door behind me and savor the rare moment of privacy. Like I said before, my “bedroom” is basically an attic with an imaginary door.

Under the shower, I finally let my muscles relax. The hot water beats against my skin, easing every ache.

And I’ll admit it—this kind of work has its perks.

My butt has never looked better, my waist’s a little slimmer, and my legs… let’s just say they’ve gotten strong.

“Everything’s got a pro and a con,” I quote my grandma, turning the handle until the water warms up just right.

I check my phone. Roger texted around seven this morning—something about being nervous for an exam. I ignored it as long as I could, but now I’m out of excuses.

I ask how it went, and he replies instantly:

I miss you. Campus feels empty without you.

I step under the stream, thinking about what life would’ve looked like if I hadn’t had to come home.

I liked my job. I loved my postgrad program.

I could’ve gone far—or at least that’s what my old boss used to tell me.

Don’t think, Cala. Don’t think.

I shut off the water, wrap myself in a towel big enough to cover everything, and dry off quickly. No lingering tonight.

I get dressed, run a brush through my hair, tugging the knots out harder than I should—just to drown out the silence.

But then something hits me.

A weight, low in my stomach, uneasy, heavy, wrong.