Page 17 of Dallas Rivals

Before the day kicks off, I clear a few emails. Pretty sure my secretary sent weekend paperwork that needs my signature.

I’m never bored. Never still. If my mind’s not busy, my body is.

First light bleeds over the horizon. I head down to the kitchen and tug open the fridge.

And just stand there, staring at the cold glow like an idiot, wondering why the hell I came here in the first place.

“Breakfast, Oliver. Breakfast…” I mutter to myself, grabbing the milk and a loaf of bread for toast.

Weekends are mine.

The ranch is mine.

And I don’t want anyone here. No visitors, no chatter, just me doing what I love most.

Harvesting. Feeding. Walking the land.

Being alone.

Alone—meaning no one.

Eliza knows I don’t want her hanging around on weekends. Lucien used to drive to Waco, and now that he’s living here with his family, I still barely see them. Not because I’m avoiding them. I just…need quiet.

I pull on my work jeans—worn, torn, and soft from use—slip into my boots, and button up a flannel shirt. Maybe it’s a stereotype, but there’s a damn good reason cowboys dress like this. Those jeans are comfortable because they’ve lived a life. The boots keep me safe. The shirt’s the perfect balance against the crisp fall wind in the morning and the heat I build up while working.

Mornings in Texas feel sacred. Birds all sing at once, deer leap over the fences and graze through my land, and the air smells like damp earth and pure oxygen. My favorite hour of the day.

I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with the cleanest air a man can get in Texas, and head toward the stables. Astro trots at my side, tail wagging, same joy in him as in me. We both prefer the outdoors to walls, animals to people, silence to conversation.

I’ve got five horses—all rescues pulled from men who treated them like machines or breeding stock. Four longhorn cows, also rescued. Three sheep, two goats (one more and I’d lose my mind), and half a dozen chickens—maybe seven; I stopped counting.

First thing every morning: feed the cows. They like their hay stacked in the middle of the corral, patient as old ladies at church.

Next come the horses. That takes longer—especially now that every tool in the stable’s scattered thanks to Miss Saint-Clair’s “help.”

The goats, sheep, and hens share a space, which means I’ve got to move fast. If I don’t, those damn goats start head-butting my legs like they’re trying to knock me down for sport.

After noon, I work the garden—a big plot where Eliza grows most of the season’s vegetables. That’s the part I love most. Hands in the dirt. Brain finally quiet. The world trimmed down to soil, breath, and sunlight.

All that weight I carry on my shoulders?

It doesn’t exist when I’m out here.

When dusk rolls in, it’s time to herd everyone back in again.

“Easy, Astro,” I grunt. Between the two of us we’re herding the goats and sheep back into their shed, but one of the young ones—the wild little devil—dodges past Astro and takes off running.

“Damn it, Astro! What did I just tell you?”

I break into a run after the crazy thing, legs pounding the dirt as the goat kicks at the air for no reason at all.

“This,” I mutter between breaths, “this is why I work out every damn day—to catch brainless animals like you.”

I’m inches from grabbing her when she veers hard, collides with Astro, then jukes past him and bolts straight toward Lucien’s house.

Out of nowhere, a bicycle flies past me. Miss Saint-Clair. She pedals fast enough to cut the goat off, slides in front of it, and—before I can even process it—throws her arms around the animal like it’s a damn teddy bear.

“No!” I shout, but too late. The goat twists free and rams her square in the leg.