Page 2 of Tame Me Daddy

The question had caught me off guard. I'd scrambled for an answer that wouldn't reveal too much.

"I need a fresh start. Somewhere I can work with my hands and contribute. The accommodation is . . . important to me right now."

Something in my voice must have communicated my desperation, because his tone had softened slightly.

"We start at five AM. Days are long. It's not easy work, Miss Morgan."

"I understand. I'm ready for that."

Another pause. "Email your details. We'll be in touch by end of day."

The acceptance email had arrived four hours later. Just a few lines confirming the position, the start date, and instructions totake the bus to a spot in Denton County where someone would pick me up.

Now I touched the email, saved on my phone like a talisman. The words "position confirmed" glowed back at me. My chest felt hollow, scraped clean of everything but raw nerve endings. I'd been awake for most of the past three days, running on convenience store coffee and fear.

The bus passed a faded billboard advertising "Jennings Western Wear - Outfitting Real Cowboys Since 1952." The peeling paint and sun-bleached colors made it look like a relic from another time. My reflection in the window looked equally worn—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, skin pale and tight across my cheekbones.

What was I doing? I knew nothing about Texas, nothing about ranch life beyond my uncle's modest operation. I'd never even been outside my home state on my own. But the alternative—going back, facing my parents' disgust, suppressing this essential part of myself—that wasn't living. That was slow suffocation.

Tears threatened, burning behind my eyes. I blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. The woman across the aisle already kept glancing at me with that awkward mixture of curiosity and discomfort people reserve for those they suspect might make a scene.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. Was I running toward something or just away? Maybe both. Maybe it didn't matter. I was moving, and movement was better than stagnation, better than rejection.

The backpack between my knees contained my laptop, phone charger, and the few "little" items I couldn't bear to leave behind—a small plush bunny, a silicone pacifier in a protective case, and a collapsible silicone sippy cup. My lifelines to the part ofmyself I'd been told to be ashamed of. The part that helped me process a world that often felt too harsh, too demanding.

The bus wheels continued their rhythm beneath me, carrying me deeper into Texas and toward Warwick Ranch. Toward whatever came next.

*

The bus wheezed to a halt beside a sun-bleached wooden bench that constituted the entire bus stop. The driver, a man whose face had collapsed into permanent creases, called out "Denton County" like he doubted anyone would be fool enough to disembark. I was that fool. I gathered my backpack, pulled my suitcase from the overhead compartment, and stepped into what felt like walking into an open oven.

The midday Texas heat slammed into me. My breath caught in my throat, the air so hot it seemed to scorch my lungs. Sweat beaded instantly along my hairline. I stood on cracked concrete as the bus pulled away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and diesel fumes.

The "station" consisted of the weathered bench and a faded sign on a metal pole. No shelter, no vending machines, not even a trash can. Just endless sky pressing down on flat land stretching toward a smudged horizon. A hundred yards away, a two-lane highway shimmered in the heat.

"Jesus," I whispered, the word evaporating in the dry air.

My cotton t-shirt clung to my back instantly. I wore jeans and canvas sneakers—city clothes completely wrong for this environment. The suitcase handle burned my palm. I'd packed for farm work, but my image of farm work came from Vermont summers, not Texas heat.

I dragged my luggage to the bench and sat, feeling the hot wood through my jeans. My phone showed two bars of service—barely enough to function. I opened the message I'd received that morning:

"Hi Cherry! I'm Maya, Grant asked me to pick you up at the bus stop around 2 PM. Blue pickup. Can't miss me, I'm the only woman ranch hand besides you now! See you soon!"

The exclamation points made me nervous. I checked the time: 1:47 PM. Thirteen minutes of sitting in this heat. I took a small sip from my water bottle, rationing it instinctively.

What the hell was I doing here? I'd run away from one problem and landed myself in . . . what exactly? The vastness of Texas stretched around me, indifferent to my presence. No buildings in sight except a distant water tower. No trees, just scrubby brush. Nothing familiar. Nothing safe.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my backpack. The worn ear of my plush bunny poked against the fabric. I jerked my hand away as if burned. No. I couldn't give myself away so easily. Those things were for private moments only now. That part of me needed to stay hidden if I was going to survive here.

I practiced my introduction in my head. "Hi, I'm Cherry Morgan. I'm a hard worker." Simple. Direct. Adult.

Not: "Hi, I'm Cherry. Sometimes I like to color and drink from sippy cups and be called a good girl." Definitely not that.

My parents' horrified faces flashed in my memory. The disgust in my father's voice. Would the ranch people look at me the same way if they knew? Would they fire me? Mock me? The thought made my stomach churn.

Ranch work was physical. Practical. No room for softness or childish things. I needed to be tough, capable, normal. I could do that. I'd been hiding parts of myself for years, after all.

At home, I'd had my locked bedroom door, private moments to indulge my little side when the pressure of adulting became too much. Here? I had no idea what privacy would look like. WouldI share a room? Would there be locks on doors? Would people respect personal boundaries?

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