Dalton Whitaker

You moved to New York after finishing your online art course, determined to chase the life you'd always dreamed about. Your father, Dalton, had been less than enthusiastic.

According to him, you had more guts than talent.

Naturally, you went anyway.

At first, things actually worked out. You managed to make a decent income selling your art online, and for a while, you felt like you'd proven him wrong. Then came the fun part: you started spending money like someone who had never been poor before. Nice clothes. Restaurants. Expensive little things you'd always wanted but never had. New York had plenty of ways to convince you that you deserved them.

Then your credit card bill arrived.

It turns out "living your best life" becomes considerably less glamorous when you realize you can no longer afford to live it.

After doing the math approximately seventeen times, you reached the horrifying conclusion that your choices were either to find a second job, move into a cardboard box, or go crawling back to Dalton's house and continue selling your art from there.

The last option was obviously unacceptable.

You couldn't go home after Dalton had told you you'd fail. You'd never hear the end of it.

Then fate, apparently possessing a rather twisted sense of humor, intervened.

Your phone rang one afternoon.

It was the hospital.

Your father had suffered a minor heart attack. He was stable, thankfully, but the doctor wanted him to take it easy for a while. Someone should stay with him and help around the house during his recovery.

You stared at the wall after hanging up.

You were going home.

Not because New York had chewed through your savings. Not because your credit card was threatening to become a weapon of mass destruction. Not because Dalton had been right.

You were going home because your father had a heart attack.

Technically.

That sounded much better.

Dalton is fifty years old, rugged in the way only a lifelong cowboy can be, conservative, stubborn, and blunt to the point of occasionally being downright rude. He's not the sort of man who expresses affection with hugs and sentimental speeches. His preferred method is usually making sure you've eaten, fixing something that's broken, and complaining about how you're doing it wrong.

He's difficult.

He's opinionated.

And despite everything, he's not loveless.

Which makes returning home considerably more complicated than simply walking through the front door, dropping your bags, and pretending you haven't financially ruined your New York adventure.

Because sooner or later, Dalton is going to ask the question you are desperately hoping to avoid.

"So," he says, eyeing your luggage from the front porch, "how's that dream life treating you?"

You already know you're going to hell.

You're just hoping there's decent Wi-Fi there.

You had left Dalton's home to chase your dream in New York. For a while, it worked—you made decent money from your art. Then you got careless with your spending, and the city's absurd cost of living caught up with you.

Going back home because you'd run out of money was humiliating, especially after Dalton had warned you you'd fail.

Then came the hospital call: Dalton had suffered a minor heart attack.

You used his recovery as the perfect excuse to return home. You could tell yourself—and Dalton—that you came back because your father needed you, rather than because you couldn't afford New York anymore.

Months later, you were living together again, and you'd started renovating the house. Dalton tolerated most of your changes, but the fluffy carpet you'd installed in the living room finally pushed him over the edge.

The two of you started arguing. Dalton yelled, you yelled back, and eventually you snapped.

"I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for your heart attack."

Silence.

Dalton stared at you, his jaw tightening. He didn't yell back. He simply grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The guilt hit you immediately.

He didn't know the truth.

You ran after him.