“Denver first,” I said. “My place while we figure things out. Physical therapy, ESPN gig.”
“And then Marfa when the building closes.”
“Exactly.” I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers on the center console. “What if we get to Denver and realize this was crazy? That we're moving too fast?”
“Then we figure it out,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “Talk through it, adjust, keep moving forward. But I don't think we will. This feels right.”
The highway stretched ahead, empty in both directions, headlights cutting through gathering darkness. Behind us, The Ranch and everything it represented.
Ahead, uncertainty and possibility in equal measure.
“Hey Dusty?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for taking a chance on this. On us.”
He brought our joined hands to his lips, kissed my knuckles with tenderness that made my chest tight.
We drove into the night, heading north with hours of road ahead. First Denver with its mountains and changing seasons. Then Marfa with its big sky and artistic community. Then whatever came after—a future we'd create together, one decision at a time.
The radio played softly, some country song about starting over and second chances. Dusty hummed along, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of my hand.
Behind us, The Ranch's lights faded to nothing. Ahead, the highway unreeled through darkness, taking us toward everything we were going to build together.
Epilogue
Dusty
Six Months Later
The reporter from Chicago Art Review had been asking variations of the same question for twenty minutes, circling around what she wanted to know without quite asking it.
“The aesthetic you've curated here,” she said, gesturing at the gallery walls where Marisol Rosas's desert landscapes glowed in the afternoon light, “it feels personal. Like you're not just displaying art but telling a story about West Texas itself.”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as movement caught my eye through the gallery's back windows. Cord's SUV pulling into the alley behind the building, a couple hours earlier than expected from his ESPN gig in Austin.
My chest tightened with want, but I kept my attention on the reporter. Professional. Focused.
“That's the goal,” I said, watching Cord disappear from view as he headed toward the back entrance. “These artists aren't just capturing landscape. They're showing you what it feels like to live here—the particular quality of light, the way distancechanges your perspective, the resilience required to thrive in a place this unforgiving.”
“And the pieces you've chosen for the main exhibition space,” she gestured toward Nico's bronze sculptures, “there's a progression. Can you walk me through your curatorial thinking?”
The back door opened with its familiar creak. Footsteps on the stairs leading to our upstairs apartment, so careful and deliberate, trying not to disturb the interview happening below.
My body knew those footsteps. Three weeks apart while he'd been doing a college football broadcast series. Three weeks of late-night phone calls and video chats that weren't the same as having him here, solid and warm and real.
“The bronzes anchor the space,” I explained, pulling my focus back to the reporter. “Nico captures human form in ways that echo the landscape—weathered, enduring, shaped by forces beyond our control. When you pair them with Marisol's paintings, you get this dialogue between figure and environment that reflects the West Texas experience.”
She scribbled notes, engaged now that we were deep in actual art criticism rather than surface-level questions. “And your business partner handles the commercial side? Former NFL quarterback, correct?”
“Cord manages business operations and our guest house,” I said, the practiced answer coming easily now. “He's got strong organizational skills from years of reading complex plays. Turns out that translates well to managing reservations and contractor negotiations.”
“Interesting partnership. How did that come about?”
“We met through mutual connections. Realized we had complementary skills and a shared vision for what this space could be.” True enough, if carefully edited. “He handles whatI'm terrible at, like spreadsheets, vendor management… the business logistics. I focus on curation and artist relationships.”
The reporter asked a few more questions about upcoming exhibitions, the partnership with my brothers' adventure business, how we were positioning ourselves in Marfa's competitive art scene. I answered on autopilot, the words coming from years of practice reading what people needed to hear.
