Page 2 of Run to Me
“Olivia,” he says, his voice softer now, like it’s meant just for me. “You sure this is what you want?”
The question isn’t if I want it, but how badly. “Yes. More than anything.”
We walk back toward the table, where the plans sit waiting, alive with possibility. I know what it takes to make dreams come true. I’ve seen it in the weathered hands and hopeful eyes of the man next to me. My father inherited this ranch from his dad, and he’s sick to his stomach about possibly losing it. But I won’t let that happen.
I’ve always been responsible. My bank account isn’t massive, but I’ve lived on this property my whole life, and so my expenses have been slim to none. My savings account is padded. This should help me qualify for a loan through my bank to buy back the ranch at auction.
See, my father is too prideful, and didn’t tell me until it was too late. I couldn’t save the ranch before the bank had foreclosed on it, so now my only option is to come up with enough money to outbid any other buyer.
This ranch belongs to our family, and I’ll be damned if we lose it. And when I win it back, my dreams will come true. My father can continue his work and I can start mine. Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to use this old barn for weddings. Especially in Texas, couples are always looking for a beautiful rustic landscape. And our property will be perfect once I get my hands on it.
ACE
Splintered timber lines the fields, row upon row of memories and regret. I work the boards, hammer clutched tight in my grip, each strike a reminder, a whisper of who I was and who I’m trying to become. My father’s land stretches wide, sprawling under a summer sun that sears everything but the truth.
I move along the fence, lifting the hammer and letting it fall. Each nail drives deep, anchoring this piece of my life into something solid. My hands know this work; it’s etched into the skin, a map of calluses and faded scars. A bead of sweat traces its way down my forearm, slow as the days I spent under my father’s gaze. The timber is rough against my fingers, but there’s comfort in its familiar resistance. I pull out a length of new board, smooth and untarnished, and press it into place.
Beyond the fence, the land rolls out in waves. My muscles ache, a low hum that ties me to the moment, keeps me tethered to this task, to this patch of earth I can claim as mine. I work without pause, each action deliberate, sure, wiping the sting of sweat from my eyes. Determination sinks deep into the marrow of my bones. I think of everything this ranch was meant to be, everything I’m determined to make the new one, and the ghosts of those old dreams shadow the corners of my mind. But I keepmoving, one board after another, as if each stroke of the hammer might drown out my father’s voice, telling me I’ll never build anything worth having. I can almost hear him, feel his eyes cold and judgmental on the back of my neck.
A hammer strike lands wide, driving it into the wood. The grain splinters under the force of my intention. Livestock murmur somewhere in the distance, a low, untroubled chorus that rises like a lullaby. The fence stretches on. I lean into the work, hands biting the edge of each board. Dust settles into the creases of my skin, and I wear it like history. Time slips until I find myself nearing the end.
I run my thumb over the indentation, feel it carve its way back to a memory. My father’s words return, uninvited, insistent, the ghost of him still haunting. The air thickens with his presence, the very breath of this land I can’t escape. I close my eyes, let the scene form itself behind the lids. I’m a boy again, hammer too big for my hand, his shadow stretching long beside me as he stands over this same fence. Henry. A figure cut from iron, towering, always looking down. The space between us is vast and cold. I grip the hammer like it might give me strength, a small boy’s hope that fades against the press of his shadow. There’s a finality to the way he stands, a decision made. Everything about him says power, control, as if the very ground yields to his command.
His voice cracks. “You’ll never own a ranch as long as you follow these petty repairs.” Words like nails, driving deep. I hear the contempt in them, the dismissal, and I flinch.
The memory paints itself in hard strokes, vivid and unkind. His gray eyes cut through the distance, weighing me, finding me wanting. I want to shout that he’s wrong, that I’m more than he’ll ever see, but the words sink back into my throat, too soft, too scared. I see myself, hammer raised, the tremor in my handbetraying more than I ever could. I want to prove it to him, to me, but all I can feel is the truth he forces upon me.
“You’ll never own a ranch,” he says again, as if the saying makes it real. The weight of his judgment bears down, pinning me under a future I refuse to accept. I grit my teeth, hold tight to the defiance in my chest, but it slips, and I’m left with the sharp ache of his disappointment. Everything narrows to this moment, the lingering echo of words meant to scar.
The hammer lies heavy in my grip, the same one I hold now, a lifetime away and still here. My jaw sets against the old man’s voice, against the past that never quite leaves. The memory is harsh, a flare that refuses to dim. I let it take over until there’s no room left for anything but the drive to prove him wrong.
Then the present pulls me back, slow and sure. My fingers find the newness of the wood, and I press the groove into it with a will the old man never knew I had.
Evening settles in and I watch as Gavin’s truck kicks up gravel. I let the hammer hang loose at my side and lean against the post. His truck coughs to a stop, rattling out its own song, and he hops down with a bounce of sandy hair and good humor. “How’s the fixing going, cowboy?” His words roll easy and light, finding me where I stand after a long day’s work. A bottle of water arcs through the air, and I catch it.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, unscrewing the cap, the words rolling out with more bravado than I mean. Water slips cool down my throat, washing away dust and something harder, something bitter. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and give him a look that says more than I will.
Gavin leans against the hood of the truck, casual as an old friend ought to be. “This fence is more important than that auction you’ve been drooling over? Thought I’d find you counting pennies.”
I match his smile, shrug with a casualness I almost believe. “Ranch needs fixing before I throw all my money at dreams,” I say, but we both know better. The auction. The ranch. The whole damn future I want so bad I can taste it.
Gavin cocks his head, the look in his eyes turning thoughtful, kind. “Bet the Grants aren’t losing sleep over competition from the Montgomery kid.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say, the words clipped and sure, a defiance I cling to. I watch his expression the shift from teasing to understanding, and know he hears what I’m not saying.
Olivia. The whole damn Grant legacy. The girl I’m tangled with more than I care to admit. Maybe Gavin sees too much, or maybe I’ve never been good at hiding from him. We both know I’m betting everything on this, on making something my own.
The ranch will be mine, no matter what.
OLIVIA
I push the creaking door open to the feed store, the old wood catching as I step onto scuffed concrete. The store looks empty until I catch a flash of movement to my right. Ace Montgomery leans against a display with his arms crossed, all tight jeans and corded muscle. God, the way his muscles flex when he is balls deep inside me. I raise an eyebrow, and he offers a half-smile. “Looking to snag the last bag today?”
I play it cool, scanning the shelves as if I didn’t drive all the way into town for this. “If it’s still here, I might.”
Ace shifts, his boots scuffing against the floor. “Rumor has it there’s only one left.”
“I’ve got a knack for finding things,” I reply. My eyes rest on the burlap sack, but it’s not just feed I’m after. It’s the game. The chase.
