The ranch changes completely once the guests go to sleep.
The noise fades. The lights soften. The cold of dawn settles over everything like a heavy blanket. This is the hour I like the most. No questions, no curious stares, no jokes about my temper. Just the sound of the wind moving through the trees, the footsteps of the staff, and the creak of ladders leaning against the massive pine trees we brought in from the woods.
It’s a tradition. Always has been.
Long before I was born, the Bennetts decorated the main garden in the middle of the night. They said it preserved the magic—that the trees should appear ready by morning, like something out of a story. My father believed that with almost religious devotion. And me… I keep doing it. Maybe for him. Maybe for myself.
I climb one more run
