The ranch office was a perfect extension of Rosa's personality. Small, organized in a chaotic way only she understood, with dark wood walls decorated with old photographs of the ranch, agricultural fair ribbons, and a large window overlooking the stables. It smelled of aged paper, strong coffee, and a faint trace of the cinnamon cake she had brought to "give us energy."
"So, this is it," Rosa said, spreading a pile of printouts across the solid wood table. Old brochures, faded business cards, some newspaper clippings. "Our 'marketing material.' Or what's left of it."
I sat in the raw leather chair, feeling the weight of responsibility—but also a spark of excitement. It was strange. Since arriving at Snowfall Creek, I had only felt like a guest, a fugitive, a woman trying not to break. Bu
