Page 6 of Bones and Ashes

Not a little, but a lot. Because I've lived in this bedroom since I was born and I know every angle of sunlight, and these ones here are tellin' me it's well past ten.

Obviously, no one on this ranch noticed my absence.

Which reveals something that I'm a little uncomfortable with.

If Eleanor were still alive, and discovered I was tryin' to have a sleep in, she'd have stormed in here at seven-thirty sharp demandin' that I get my lazy ass up and contribute.

She said that word a lot. "Everyone must contribute, Savannah," she'd snap when I would posture and pout about photoshoots and fittings.

I hate that word.

Because if I wasn't the main contribution to this fuckin' family dynasty, then who the hell was?

It certainly wasn't Wyatt.

Though I don't envy him. He was always a lazy child and there's nothing Eleanor hated more than torpidity.

I snicker unexpectedly at my word choice. The fact that I can use torpidity in a sentence is a testament to just how much Eleanor Ashby despised idleness. She was a thesaurus filled with obscure words to describe slothfulness and every single one of them was aimed at Wyatt like a weapon at some point or another during his childhood.

In Eleanor's defense, Wyatt is an unusually lazy human being. He has no drive. And I can imagine this drove my mother crazy.

Cash is the opposite of Wyatt. Overachiever doesn't even begin to describe my oldest brother. Cash was riding fences with the ranch hands when he was seven and plowin' the driveway with a tractor when he was eight. Up at five am every day, even in the winter. Chores before school was how Cash grew up.

Wyatt did those chores too—all three boys did. But laziness doesn't earn you a well-bred cutting horse and the responsibility that comes with cowboyin'. And cowboyin' is really the only fun thing about growin' up on a ranch. So Wyatt got stuck with stall mucking and hay stacking, while Cash was earning belt buckles at the fair every summer.

Wyatt never did figure out that ambition gets you further than lassitude.

Colt lands somewhere in between lazy and driven. The perfect combination, if you ask me. He did the cowboyin' but didn't care about belt buckles. He did the barn chores too, but he likes the horses. It was an act of care, not obligation.

I sigh and throw the covers off, missin' my brother so much, it hurts.

But it's not gonna be this way for long.

I slip into my dress—blush-pink, floral-printed cotton with a flounce hem and ruffled yoke—and stand back to examine the result in my full-length mirror. The reflection looking back at me isn't me. Not really. It's the Instagram Ashby Princess, the one with the perfect prairie life who poses with wildflowers in mason jars and freshly baked bread that someone else's hands actually kneaded.

But the thing is… I like this dress. I like the cowboy boots that go with it too. I like the chunky turquoise necklace and the vintage gold bangle bracelets, mixed with hand-tooled leather straps, that pull it all together into something more than an outfit. Something more akin to a costume.

The Ashby Princess costume.

But… it suits me.

And I don't know what to do with that.

What do you do with that?

I tug the neckline a bit higher, fix the sleeves, and smile with calculated modesty—the exact smile that used to bring in five-figure sponsorships from home goods companies who want their lavender sachets cradled in my perfect, lying hands.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should. Every damn portrait of Eleanor watching me as I pass, reminding me that I'm breaking character by wearing her costume while sleeping with an outlaw.

"Morning," I say to our housekeeper as I enter, keeping my voice light.

I take my usual seat—not the head of the table, never that. That's Cash's place now, has been since Eleanor passed, and I'm not about to rock that particular boat this mornin'.

Ever, if I'm bein' honest.

The chair feels cool against my thighs even through the cotton dress, and I swear this old furniture remembers everyone who's ever sat in it. I rest my hands on the smooth vintage wooden table, spreading my fingers to feel the texture beneath my nails—oak from the 1890s, imported from somewhere important that Eleanor would recite to dinner guests like Scripture.

Three generations of Ashby women have touched this same grain, planned empires across these knots and whorls, and I can almost feel the weight of that pressed into the polish. The table was here before me and will outlast me, same as the land, same as the rules.