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still hate me. Suddenly I wish I had just let the family lawyer take care of everything, but the ranch and everything else is mine, now. It becomes real when I enter the Dallas airport.
                  Hair is a good two inches higher than in Miami, and far less flowing. Perfect coifs are forced into shape and held with copious amounts of hairspray, which I can smell from several feet away. As I reach to claim my bag, a tanned arm beats me to it.
    “Hey—Chip!” I stutter, shifting from dismay to surprise.
    “Hey, Di—so sorry for your loss.” He awkwardly hugs me to his side with one arm.
                  The hug is quick, but I smell soap and sweat, and feel a tightening between my legs.
    “I parked the Jeep out front—hope that’s okay,” he looks unsure at my un-sprayed hair.
    “It’s fine,” I laugh. In the time it takes to walk from the baggage claim to the front door, I have my long dark hair restrained in a bun.
    Without the top, there’s enough noise in the Jeep that we don’t have to talk. Warm air rushes over me, and I close my eyes, leaning back so my face can feel the sun’s warmth. I’m almost asleep when I hear Chip yelling over the wind.
    “You hungry?” he looks at me.
                  I nod.  We drive for a few more miles, before pulling into a familiar place.
    “Hog Wild?”
                  He stares straight ahead but his eyes look mischievous, and I laugh.
    “It’s perfect.” The smell of barbecue and roasted meat reach my nose, and I start to drool, so I hop out quickly, and he matches my pace.
                  The menu hasn’t changed, and I order my old stand-by: braised barbecue pork butt with corn on the cob, cole slaw, and a cold beer. Chip gets the same, and we eat on the picnic tables under an awning.
                  He keeps looking me up and down, and I self-consciously smooth my shirt. I’ve gained some weight since I left—my butt is rounder, my chest fuller, and my stomach softer. It’s all softer than when I was seventeen. My mind races, thinking about the extra pudge on my bare arms, when Chip reaches across the table and rubs my forearm.
    “You’re more beautiful than the first day I saw you.”
                  I freeze, partially chewed cole slaw sits in my mouth, but smile after a second. Being with Chip is the closest I get to liking myself. I don’t deserve his kind words, but still they come.
    “You’re more handsome,” I admit shyly, and he waves his hand.
    “Pshaw. I know.”
                  We both laugh, and eat fast, enjoying every delicious bite. As we hit the road, I watch him drive. His arms are so strong and he looks so capable holding the wheel. His jeans are worn and faded, which I know is from being outside working and sweating in them on a daily basis. He wouldn’t buy jeans already distressed. Beneath his shirt I can see a small stomach, likely from nights enjoying beer and good Texas food, yet still maintaining a strong physique. He’s real and good, and I have to stop myself from wondering what could have been if I hadn’t left.
                  I force myself to look away, scanning Dallas from my own window, but I feel his hand reach for mine, and we drive the rest of the way holding hands, just like we did all those years ago.
                  When we reach the ranch a few hours later, I feel transported through time. The house looks exactly the same, down to the flowers in window boxes. My father kept every design choice my mother made, even after her death, and now they continue even after his death. Even the sign is the same: Redbud Ranch . My mother chose the script and tree, and commissioned a local metalworker to build it when we began to work cattle. Being back here is like visiting a museum.
    “I thought you’d want to meet the staff tonight. The executor will be over tomorrow.”
    “Works for