Page 10 of Run to Me
I laugh, the sound rougher than I expect. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
He leans back against the fence, pulling at a loose thread in his jeans. “Just wondering what Olivia’s gonna think when you ride in guns blazing.”
The mention of her name catches me, a hook just under the skin. I keep my face steady, my eyes on the fence post with itspeeling paint and stubborn rust stains. “Business is business. She’ll understand.”
Gavin gives me a look like he’s trying to figure if I’m playing the fool or just playing myself. “This whole thing’s not gonna be another Montgomery vs. Grant showdown, is it?”
I shove my hands into my pockets, where they can’t give me away. “Not this time,” I say, and the words float there, lighter than they should be.
A breeze kicks up, carrying with it the scent of something green and growing.
“You’re in deep,” Gavin says, his voice softening like he’s giving me some kind of warning. Or maybe a blessing.
“It’ll work out,” I say, like if I say it enough, it has to be true.
We both go quiet, the kind of silence that only comes when you know someone long enough not to need the space filled. The world around us is all color and sound, the last of the sun painting long streaks across the sky while crickets join in with the cicadas for an evening concert.
“Your old man know about this yet?” Gavin asks after a while, his voice as easy as if he’s asking about the weather.
I shake my head. “He knows I’m thinking about it. Hates the idea, of course.”
He nods like that’s what he figured, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more, to spill the guts of whatever I’m holding close, but he doesn’t push. Gavin’s always been good that way.
“It’s time I do something on my own,” I say, surprising myself with the edge in my voice. “He’ll get used to it. He doesn’t have a choice.”
Gavin whistles low, pushing off the fence like he’s getting ready to leave. He brushes his jeans off and meets my eye. “You’re the most bullheaded person I know,” he says, but there’sno judgment in it, just a fact as solid as the earth we stand on. “That’s gonna make you or break you.”
I watch him as he starts walking away, his boots crunching against the gravel. I wonder if he knows something I don’t, or if he’s just hedging his bets like always.
I lean back on the fence, feeling the grit bite through my shirt. I stare out at the line of trees, dark and looming against the fading sky. It’s like looking down a road I haven’t taken yet, a path that twists and turns and doesn’t let you see more than a step ahead. I try to picture the Grant ranch, my ranch, and all the things I could make it into. I think about the fields, the barns, and then I think about Olivia, her eyes the same shade of green as those stubborn trees. I push the thought aside before it has a chance to grow roots.
I stand there until the first stars start to poke their heads out and then I turn and walk towards my truck. My pickup growls to a stop by the Grant ranch, its wheels churning the gravel in protest. I turn the key and sit for a moment.
The barns loom large. The years have marked them, but they’re still standing, still strong. They’re like this ranch, like me—maybe worse for the wear, but stubborn enough to endure.
The ranch has Olivia written all over it, and that’s the part I didn’t count on, the part I can’t think too hard about or it’ll drag me under.
A part of me has been trying to keep the lingering feelings for her under wraps, but the older I get, the more I can’t stop thinking about her. Has she not thought about why I haven’t even looked at another woman since high school? We might be sneaking around, but maybe one day, we won’t have to.
OLIVIA
My gown sweeps against the floor, flowing and elegant, just this side of flamboyant, clinging at the waist then flaring to drape perfectly over my cowboy boots. Long wavy hair frames my face, balancing the designer look with a touch that earned me the “bougie cowgirl” name in the first place. I move like I’ve been doing it all my life, stepping between clusters of socialites and business magnates.
It has its share of the usual suspects: old ranching families that believe the land should stay as it’s always been, newly arrived entrepreneurs convinced they can remake the whole town in their own image. I’ve got something different in mind, a vision that might just require a little more subtlety, and maybe a bit more finesse, than most of them expect from a cowgirl. A pair of diamond earrings flashes as a woman turns to stare, curious about the boots and the breezy confidence. It’s a big night, the kind that demands my very best, and I’m delivering it in spades.
The future of my wedding business relies on winning our ranch back at auction, however, it’ll take more than that to get it up to par. There are lots of investors here tonight, and it can’t hurt to mingle and see if any might be interested in partnering with me.
A well-dressed investor lifts a glass in my direction, acknowledging my approach with a reserved nod. I’m at his side in a moment, extending a hand with businesslike charm. “Good evening,” I say, confident and sure. My handshake is firm, the kind men don’t expect from a woman who smells like horses half the time, and it disarms him for a second, long enough for me to spot the curiosity that lights up behind his otherwise well-controlled eyes. The curiosity’s good, it’s what I’m counting on, and I file away the moment to dissect later when I can afford the luxury of uncertainty.
“I’m impressed, Olivia,” he says, turning just enough so I can lean into the conversation without looking desperate. “You’re making quite the splash in this town. The girl with big dreams, they say.”
“You know me,” I reply, smooth as silk, “always got a new trick up my sleeve.”
His laughter is measured, part genuine interest and part calculated. It’s exactly what I expected, but the stakes are high enough tonight that I’m willing to take what I can get. The plan’s still open to scrutiny, and every nod is another step toward locking it down. It’s not just business; it’s my life, laid bare and vulnerable beneath a thick coat of spin. “Maybe we can speak on it more after the auction.”
Investors want to know about the land, about profit and yield, about whether I’ve got the grit to pull off what I’ve promised. Locals want to know if I’ve forgotten where I come from, if the woman in the evening gown is still the same girl who rode bareback and skipped school to muck out stalls. In truth, they’re all asking the same thing, and the answer is yes and no and maybe. I’ve learned to leave just enough mystery to keep them coming back, hungry for more. And that’s the way I want to leave it.
They might call it modernizing, but to me it’s more like coming home. The family, the ranch, all of it means more than I can let on. If I look too closely, if I think too much about what it means to have a legacy like that in my hands, I might flinch, might blink. And blinking is a luxury I don’t have, not now, not here. So I smile wider, throw in a gentle laugh, and use my own determination to keep it all at a safe, professional distance.
