Chapter Text
The winter of that year arrived with a cold that penetrated to the bone. There was no snow that nite, but it didn't matter: the icy wind took care of etching into the family's memory the time of year when it all began.
Wood "Woody" was barely three years old when his father went out to close the barn door before going to sleep. It seemed like any other nite, quiet and still... until something caught his attention and forever changed the way he would see the world. As she walked with her father around the barn, she spotted a small basket in the distance that she didn't remember ever seeing before. They approached together, and it was then that she saw it: a tiny bundle, wrapped in a faded blanket, placed right at the entrance of the Roundup Ranch barn. No one knew who had left her. There was no trace of anyone on the paths. It was just her, sleeping with astonishing serenity, and beside her, pinned with a safety pin, a crumpled piece of paper.
Her father didn't let her read what the note said, and the truth is that her childhood curiosity barely focused on it. All his attention was captivated by that little creature, whom his father held in his arms with infinite care and tenderness, as if she could vanish if he squeezed her too tightly.
They walked back home together, and in that moment, although he couldn't be entirely sure yet, he knew it was a girl. It was difficult to know it seeing her sleep so deeply, but he felt that he knew it, and that he would soon find out. As the years went by, many details faded from her memory, but she never forgot entering the house following her father, carrying who would from that moment on be her sister. He listened to his parents speaking softly for a long while, noticed the tension between them... but he also saw how, shortly after, they both wrapped her up and looked at her as if she had always belonged to them.
He remembers having held her gently, and then she opened her eyes: they were a deep, bright, and vivid green, with a shine that seemed to hold its own light. And when they took the blanket off her, her hair appeared: red, abundant, curly, too beautiful and too big for a baby of just a few months.
They named her Jessica Jane, although from the very first moment everyone called her Jessie. Her mother hesitated; Woody sensed it in the silences, in the way she looked away, in the way she never held her in her arms with the same naturalness with which she hugged him. However, she didn't say no. They took her in, cared for her, gave her a roof, a last name, a warm place by the fire. And from the very first moment he looked at her, Woody knew something that no one had to teach him: that girl was his sister. It didn't matter where she came from. It didn't matter who had left it there. It was hers.
And so it was. They grew up running together through the meadows, sharing bread, games, and secrets, galloping under the same sun and taking refuge under the same rain. Her father looked at her with the same unconditional love with which he looked at his son; for him, there was no difference. But her mother, her mother was distant. She was never cruel, she never denied her anything, but she never hugged her like she did him, she never called her my daughter, and at the table, in meetings, in those silences that weigh more than words, Jessie felt the invisible cold of a rejection she couldn't understand or name. Woody saw how she lowered her gaze, confused and hurt, and he squeezed her hand under the table, silently promising her that she was not alone.
Everyone in the family kept the secret as if it were part of the very wood of the ranch. The neighbors believed she had been born there, that she was a daughter of the house, and Jessie believed it too, feeling loved, safe, convinced that she belonged... although sometimes, in moments of stillness, she wondered why her mother looked at her that way, as if at any moment she expected her to get up and leave.
Woody knew everything. He carried the truth since he was little, promised never to reveal it, and protect it above all else. He couldn't imagine that, years later, in the darkest moment of his life, those words that should never have been spoken would slip out like a knife, hurting the person he loved the most. But that would be much later. That day, under the roof of Roundup, everything was still simple. She was his sister. He was her brother. And the world, no matter how small, belonged to both of them.
As the years went by, Woody became increasingly clear about the great revelation that would guide his life: he wanted to become the sheriff of his town. It was not a passing whim, nor a game he would forget the next day; it was something he carried in his heart, firm and steady like the oaks in the meadow. His entire family looked at him with pride and supported him with enthusiasm, and that only made little Woody, who was barely seven years old then, strive even harder. He knew that being a sheriff required responsibility, discipline, and always setting an example, and that's why he took even the smallest things seriously: every task on the farm, every lesson in school, every promise made. He didn't do things well to be praised; he did them well because that's how he understood they should be. Of course, that didn't stop him from being able to joke around with his sister from time to time.
Jessie, on the other hand, discovered from a very young age that her heart beat to the rhythm of a different kind of freedom. Not so much in the rules or the burdens, but in the wind that swept through the open fields and in the living strength of the horses. She was the huntress that no one needed to teach: born to ride, to feel the earth pass beneath her feet, to lose herself among the hills and return with eyes shining as if she had seen secrets that no one else knew. Her reddish hair, long, abundant, and unruly, seemed to have a life of its own; it rose fully into the air as she rode, a trail of fire that no one could mistake.
At the age of five, she received the gift that would change her days forever: a small colt, with an intelligent gaze and a brave heart, whom she named Bullseye. It was love at first sight, mutual and unconditional. They grew up together, learning to trust each other before Jessie learned everything else. If the animal had been able to cross the threshold of the house, Woody would have sworn that there was no force in the world capable of separating them. As things were, Jessie spent every free minute with him: petting him, talking to him as if he understood every word, galloping by his side until the sun set behind the hills.
Woody didn't fall behind. He rode his own horse, Buttercup, and when they both galloped across the plain, they seemed to carry the wind with them. No one could catch them. They were two swift shadows, inseparable even in the race: the brother who dreamed of protecting order, and the sister who just wanted to run freely through the world around her. Different in what they sought, but alike in the way they loved that corner of land that had seen them grow.
It was just during one of those shared rides, when Jessie was twelve and Woody fifteen, while they were riding together and chatting calmly, that Woody mentioned what he had been thinking about for a while.
—You know, I think Bullseye has the soul of a dog, not a horse. He has all the confidence of a Golden Retriever, always happy, always ready to follow you without asking questions. Jessie let out a giggle and gave her horse a few gentle pats on the neck.
"Don't say that!" He's a real horse, brave and fast.
"I'm not saying he's not," Woody replied, smiling, "but look at how he looks at you, as if he understands every word and agrees with everything you say." That's not normal for a horse.
"—Well, I think it's perfect like that," she defended, although she couldn't help but smile. And if he were a dog, he would be the biggest and noblest of them all.
Woody laughed.
—There you have a point.
—And you, what do you say about Buttercup? —continued Jessie—. He looks too much like you, did you know? Calculating, always looking at everything before taking a step, thinking about where to place each helmet. Both analyze the environment before moving forward.
Woody shook his head, but he was smiling.
"Everything in its own time, Jessie." It's better to look before you stumble.
—Or better yet, run and see what happens —she replied, and with a slight touch of her heels, she made Bullseye gallop a few steps ahead, letting out a laugh.
Thus, amidst jokes and comments, they advanced until they reached the boundary of lands they didn't know: another ranch, which seemed to have changed owners very recently. In the distance, a simple family could be seen supervising the arrival of furniture and boxes, and dozens of sheep were already exploring the green meadows.
"We should go say hello," said Jessie without hesitation.
"Jessie, wait, we don't know if they want..." —Woody started to say, but she had already spurred Bullseye.
As so many times, she acted first and he analyzed later. Woody sighed, but followed on Buttercup's back, who galloped after them with a calm and steady pace. As they approached, they were greeted warmly. The newcomers introduced themselves as the Peep family. The name seemed curious to Woody: it sounded soft, like the bleating of sheep grazing not far away, as if the name had been born right there.
"We're from Roundup Ranch," Woody said kindly. We are the Prides.
Everything seemed like an ordinary presentation until she stepped forward.
Time seemed to stop around Woody. It was such a brief moment that no one else would have noticed anything, but for him, it was as if the entire world had fallen silent.
—I'm Betty —said the young woman with a sweet and clear voice—, but everyone calls me Bo. Bo Peep.
She was slender, with a delicate yet firm demeanor, with hair as golden as the sun, well-kept and slightly curled, softly shining under the sunlight. Her eyes were a light and luminous blue that seemed to reflect the sky itself; she had a small and upturned nose, fine and perfectly shaped lips, and a round and sweet face, just like a heart. Her skin was as white as porcelain, with a soft pink hue on her cheeks, and she wore a pink ribbon carefully tied in her hair. She looked like a porcelain doll that had come to life.
He took note of her attire; she wore an ensemble of understated, timeless elegance, in shades of pale peach and cream that draped over her figure with delicacy and distinction. The jacket, meticulously tailored, featured a lapel collar that blended its soft hue with a hint of hazelnut brown on the underside; beneath it, an ivory lace collar was fastened by a small gold brooch, which gleamed discreetly at her throat. A row of tiny buttons ran down the front, and a belt of the same fabric—cinched with a dark, geometric buckle—defined her waist with precision. The long, fitted sleeves ended in cuffs adorned with openwork lace and a fine white ruffle that peeked out whenever she moved her hands.
Her skirt, long and majestic enough to brush the floor, fell in serene lines, embellished with ivory lace appliqués arranged with exquisite symmetry: two vertical bands elongated her silhouette from the waist, while at the hem, an inverted V-shaped design framed the front edge—all finished with a delicate lace trim that lent the garment an air of lightness and grace. Matching the ensemble, her ivory, high-laced boots completed a look of refined, stately elegance, where every seam and detail spoke of impeccable taste and a composed bearing—entirely free from the need for ostentation or excess.
Woody was left speechless. When he managed to come to his senses, he hoped someone had noticed his silence or his fixed gaze, but everyone continued to converse naturally. He made an effort to compose himself, to maintain that image of serenity he had been building for years, and smiled.
They connected immediately. Jessie spoke with Bo with that ease she had for getting close to people; Woody listened and responded when spoken to, although inside he felt that something new and warm had just been born in his chest. They agreed to meet again, and when they said goodbye, Bo smiled at them and waved his hand.
They were riding back when Jessie, with a mischievous smile, glanced at him sideways. "And so?" she said to him.
—And what about it? —Woody replied, although he knew perfectly well what he was talking about.
"Don't look at me like that, Wood Pride." I know you better than anyone and you can't fool me. Your gaze got stuck on her.
"Don't say nonsense," he tried to hide, straightening his back and looking ahead. I was just being polite.
"Polite?" Jessie laughed. Your jaw almost dropped when you saw her. You looked like you had seen an angel!
—Jessie…
—Alright, alright —she said, raising her hands in a gesture of peace, without stopping her smile—. I won't say anything. But I saw it. And you too.
The rest of the way, she wouldn't stop teasing him, and Woody, who always had a ready answer, who always knew what to say, didn't know how to defend himself other than by denying and frowning, while inside he felt his heart beating with a force he didn't understand. It was the first time his sister saw him step out of his mold, and she seemed to be having an enormous amount of fun with it.
The friendship that blossomed among the three of them was one of those that seemed to have always existed. Jessie and Bo, above all, understood each other as if they were sisters, despite being so different: Jessie was fire and movement, the amazon who galloped without looking back, bold and full of energy; Bo, on the other hand, was the calm that embraces, sweet and serene, with a gentle grace and a flirtatious touch that sometimes emerged without her being able to help it. They complemented each other perfectly, learning from one another with the affection of those who recognize themselves despite their differences.
With Woody, Bo connected in a different way, almost without words. Between them, a complicity soon developed, made of shared confidences and jokes, of glances that said more than any speech. And so, little by little, that firm and straight wall that Woody had been building around himself—the future sheriff, the example, the one who always had everything under control—began to crumble only with her. By her side, Woody became softer, lighter, capable of laughing at himself and, sometimes, even stuttering unintentionally when she looked at him in that way of hers, so direct and so sweet at the same time.
Bo was, however, a bit more difficult for Jessie to decipher than her own brother. In front of Woody, the girl always maintained a serene composure, self-assured, as if nothing could make her doubt. But Jessie, who knew the beats of hearts like others know the paths of the meadow, was convinced that behind that calmness was the same thing he felt: something deep and true that grew in silence. She said nothing, nor did she take a step to bring them closer; she knew well that such things belong only to two people, and that no one else should intrude between them.