Private jets are used by only a tiny fraction of the world's population. By their exclusive nature, they require flight attendants dedicated to providing flawless service.
Owners usually choose them in two ways: through partner airlines or by direct hiring. Jack chose the former; he had been truly rich for less than half a year, and up to that point all his trips had been handled by American Express.
The service was expensive, but efficient.
That was enough.
Now his finances justified a private jet as part of his status. On board the Gulfstream G400, Jack rested on the sofa, lost in thought. After three years, he would see his parents again; it was a confusing feeling for him.
The young flight attendant approached on her own initiative and stopped beside him.
She was blonde, with delicate features, no more than twenty years old, her uniform impeccable and her smile trained but genuine.
—Would you like something to drink, Mr. Carter? —she asked softly.
He looked up.
—Just water —he replied calmly, offering a faint smile.
—Of course, right away —she answered, maintaining her composure.
She walked away without losing her smile.
Several attendants exchanged silent glances; a young, well-dressed, clearly wealthy passenger always drew attention.
In the small galley of the aircraft, the attendant paused for a moment.
She touched up her lipstick in the metallic reflection, adjusted the blue scarf around her neck, and took a deep breath, as if she needed to compose herself; you never know, maybe today could change her luck.
Then she took a bottle of Fiji water and a glass and returned with steady steps.
—Here you are, Mr. Carter —she said, offering him the water with a slight nod.
She leaned in again, opened the bottle, and poured the water halfway into the glass, taking a little longer than necessary.
He looked at her.
Her name tag read Catherine Jones.
—Nice scarf —Jack commented in a low voice.
She smiled immediately.
—Thank you.
As she withdrew the glass, her fingers brushed against his. It was a brief contact, almost accidental, but too precise to be entirely so.
The signal was clear. Jack barely curved his lips, a minimal, controlled smile.
Catherine kept her composure and walked away with calm steps, rejoining her colleagues and resuming the impeccable attitude as always. Straight back, neutral expression, eyes forward.
She had done enough.
If he responded, fine. If not, the job went on.
Was Jack interested? A little—he couldn't deny it. Catherine was attractive, young, confident. But he made no move; to him, a woman like her lacked interest. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, but she didn't have that "something" that made him want her.
Jack drank the water calmly and closed his eyes, resting his head against the seat.
—Wake me when we're home —he said as he took his sleep mask.
The flight to Texas would last three hours; by the time he woke up, he would already be there.
Texas is the second-largest state in the United States and spans a vast area, with a population close to twenty-four million inhabitants; its sheer size makes everything feel more spread out.
In recent years, it has also remained among the states with the highest population growth. The combination of safety, quality of life, and opportunity has made it an attractive destination for many.
Two and a half hours later, the descent toward Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport began. It is the largest and busiest airport in Texas, with five terminals. American Airlines occupies most of them, and Delta Air Lines operates Terminal E, where the private jet landed.
Accompanied by his four bodyguards, he exited the airport through the VIP area.
Outside, American Express had arranged two Mercedes-Benz sedans. Jack hadn't informed his family of his return, so no one came to meet him. From the airport to the family ranch in Tarrant County, there were still about sixty kilometers to go.
Jack accepted the vehicles, but not the drivers.
His bodyguards knew how to drive, and one of them knew the area well, so he took the wheel without further discussion.
The two cars left the airport shortly after one in the afternoon.
Once inside the vehicle, Jack got straight to the point:
—First, let's go to Fort Worth. Stop by a dealership; I need another car. If my father sees me arrive in a sedan, he'll disinherit me.
—Understood —the driver replied.
The highways were wide and clear. In just a few minutes, they reached Fort Worth. The city felt clearly different from New York; here, trucks dominated. In some areas, people even still got around on horseback.
Following Jack's directions, they headed to the largest dealership in the city.
They entered the lobby and, almost immediately, a salesperson approached them.
—Welcome. We have Ford, Chevrolet, Dodge, Toyota… whatever you need.
Jack didn't waste time.
—I want to see Ford's F series. The latest models.
—Please follow me. We have everything available in our showroom.
The display area was packed with pickup trucks: from F-150s to F-350s, large models and heavy-duty versions. The salesperson, as charismatic as a golden retriever puppy, made enthusiastic comments about each vehicle, but Jack didn't need to compare much.
Jack walked along the row of trucks with his hands in his pockets, without stopping for long at any of them. He didn't need to.
He stopped in front of two F-350s, identical except for the color.
—I'll take two F-350s. The highest trim. One red and the other blue —he finally said, unhurried.
V8 diesel engines. Massive. Heavy. Built for hard work, not for showing off. Trucks made for bad roads and long, grueling workdays. Exactly what was expected in Texas.
The salesman took a second to react. He blinked, mentally checked the inventory, and when he realized it wasn't a joke, his smile widened immediately.
—Excellent choice, sir —he replied, now far more attentive—. They're our most sought-after models. Financing or direct payment?
—Cash payment.
The salesman nodded quickly, unable to hide his excitement. A double sale at that level wasn't something you saw every day. He gestured to an assistant and started preparing the paperwork; he had never worked so fast in his life.
After reviewing the purchase contracts, Jack signed where he needed to. There was no haggling, no endless comparisons. There wasn't much to think about.
Once the payment and paperwork were completed, both F-350s were ready to leave the dealership that same day, each with its temporary Texas plate still laminated on the back, enough to drive them while the permanent ones arrived.
By the time they left the dealership, it was already past 2:30 p.m. Jack gave the address of the family ranch.
The driver nodded. He knew the area well; he was originally from that state. After leaving the main highway, the landscape changed. The roads became narrower, dirt stretches appeared, uneven surfaces. Nothing unusual for him.
It was exactly the kind of terrain those trucks had been made for.
Inside, Jack felt something familiar, a sensation that gave him a strange sense of security, as if he were already home, protected.
Before 3:30 p.m., the two F-350s crossed the entrance to Iron River Ranch, property of the Carter family. It was the largest in the county, and the arrival of two new trucks did not go unnoticed.
Several people stopped what they were doing to watch them.
About five hundred meters from the main house, two riders appeared from the left flank, blocking their path, followed by several dogs moving alertly, marking their territory.
—Slow down —Jack ordered.
—Stop! This is private property. No access without authorization. Who are you looking for?
Both men were dressed like textbook cowboys: worn boots, thick jeans, work shirts. They carried rifles at their sides, the unmistakable outlines of pistols hidden under their clothes.
The one in front, a man in his forties with a wide-brimmed hat and a confident bearing, shouted from more than thirty meters away. Behind him, the younger one had already unshouldered his long gun, not aiming it, but holding it naturally.
The driver turned his head toward Jack.
Jack nodded. He lowered the window calmly and extended his open hand, visible.
—Easy, it's normal —he said, leaning out—. It's me, Colter.
For a second, no one moved. The dogs remained tense, alert, waiting for an order.
Then the older rider—broad-shouldered, solid stance—narrowed his eyes beneath the worn brim of his hat. A thick mustache, streaked with gray, slowly curved upward. The sun highlighted the deep lines on his face, marks of years of dust, wind, and hard work.
After a couple of seconds, recognition was obvious… and he smiled.
—Jack, boy! —he exclaimed—. You finally came back!
The tension dissolved instantly, as if all the held breath had been released at once. The man turned to the younger rider and pointed toward the main house.
—Go tell the Carters. Tell them their son is home.
The other man turned his horse and rode off at a gallop.
The older cowboy approached the truck, smiling, as his mare moved at a slow trot.
—New F-350s? —he commented, admiring them—. Looks like what Mrs. Emily said was true… that you've done well in New York.
Jack smiled faintly.
—Yeah… you know those suits pay well.
Beyond the scene, his family's ranch had stopped being a simple family operation several generations ago. For more than fifty years it had functioned as a company; it didn't compete with the major agricultural conglomerates, but it stood well above the average level.
That was reflected in something simple: it was the only ranch that could employ more than fifty workers on a stable basis. Jack could still remember how he spent his days working with his mother and father, feeding the livestock, cleaning stables, and repairing fences on the property; he still had a few calluses and scars from those times.
When Jack returned, his father, Alexander Carter, was in the stables, supervising the construction of new barns alongside several workers.
The ranch had more than sixty horses, most of them purebred racehorses, high-value animals bred over generations. It was more than a business; it was a legacy inherited from his ancestors.
For decades, the Carters had devoted themselves to breeding, training, and selling racehorses. Alexander moved through the stables with a firm stride, checking every detail of the structure.
—Hey, Alexander, look who the devil brought back —a voice said from behind.
Alexander snorted and turned around. Behind him stood two people.
One of them was his wife, Emily, standing to one side with a calm smile. Next to her was a young man whom Alexander didn't recognize at first; for a few seconds, the backlight wrapped around him, blurring his features.
Then he saw the face.
Surprise crossed his expression and turned into an incredulous smile.
It was his son.
For a moment, Alexander stood frozen.
Alexander's expression broke completely.
For an instant, he seemed unable to believe what he was seeing. He narrowed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then a deep smile—one that had been held back for months—made its way onto his face.
—Jack…? —he murmured, incredulous.
Jack smiled.
—Hi, Dad. I'm home.
Alexander said nothing more. He took two long steps and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. Jack responded immediately, wrapping his arms around him, breathing in the smell of wood, dust, and leather he had always associated with home.
Alexander gave him a couple of firm pats on the back before pulling away slightly, still holding onto him.
Emily stepped closer, watching the two men in front of her with quiet satisfaction. Father and son hugged each other awkwardly; Alexander wasn't the most tender man, but his only son was his weakness.
They were two of the three most important men in her life. The third was her father, who still lived in Kansas. Seeing them like this put her at ease. The last time father and son had spoken, they had argued harshly and said things that hurt, all because of Jack's decision to leave for New York.
Jack did not inherit only a body or the social connections of the man he had been before.He also inherited his memories, his affections, his guilt, and his love.
At first, all of it felt чужд, almost invasive, as if he were living inside a life that did not fully belong to him. The emotions were intense, deep, but they did not feel like his own. After being reborn, he could not bear the weight of feelings he still could not recognize as his, and he left without hesitation, leaving behind the house, the faces, and the bonds.
But time did its work.
After months away from home, of silence and adaptation, something changed. The memories stopped feeling borrowed. Affection stopped hurting. What had once been confusion became understanding.
Now he could calmly accept everything the former Jack had left behind: the love for his family, for his parents, Alexander and Emily. There was no longer a boundary between his past self and his present one.
Now he was a son who, at last, had come home.
The Jack from before had always had a close relationship with his parents. Unlike most Texas families, Alexander and Emily had not married young. They did so after turning thirty. Their first child was born when they were thirty-two… and died at the age of two.
Jack came much later, when they were already nearing forty.
He was a late child. An unexpected gift.
Perhaps that was why they loved him with such deep devotion. And perhaps that was why, even now, after the distance and the arguments, the bond between father and son remained intact.
Upon returning, Jack finally understood it: this place had never stopped being his home.
Alexander was the first to let go.
He took a couple of steps back and looked his son up and down.
—You're thinner. Have you been eating properly? —he grumbled—. And paler… —he added, scanning him—. You don't look like someone from around here anymore.
His eyes paused for a second on the clothes Jack was wearing.
Jack twisted his mouth slightly.
—That's what happens when you live elsewhere —he replied—. Clothes don't change who you are.You can leave Texas, but Texas never leaves you.
With that, he took his father's Texas hat and, smiling, placed it back on his head.
Alexander snorted, smiling despite himself.
Emily seized the moment.
—Alexander, your son just arrived. Let him breathe before you start arguing.
Jack smiled.
—I'm fine, Mom. I'm not leaving. I'll stay a few days.
Alexander snorted once more, clearly holding himself back, and finally turned away without picking a fight. The tension he didn't unload on his son ended up, as always, falling on the workers.
—Move it! —he ordered, raising his voice to sound imposing—. I'll check the work again later, and I don't want to see mistakes.
As he walked away with firm steps, a few men exchanged looks and discreet smiles. Everyone knew that if there was one thing capable of putting Alexander in a good mood, it was his son. He was just a hard man, the kind who carried affection in silence and never learned how to show it.
—With Jack around, looks like the boss will be less tough these days —one of them murmured.
Emily shook her head with a mix of resignation and affection and kept walking alongside her family.
As they moved through the ranch, the conversation continued.
—I heard you're doing well in New York —Emily said carefully, as if afraid a single word might break the moment.
Jack nodded slowly.
—Yeah, Mom. I've been… doing well.
—What exactly do you mean by "doing well"? —Alexander asked, frowning as they walked—. That word doesn't say anything.
Jack let out a short laugh through his nose.
—It means I can afford an apartment near Central Park and a good car.
Alexander stopped for a second.
—Central Park? —Alexander scoffed, his expression full of disdain—. And what's so special about that compared to a real ranch?
He shook his head, as if the comparison were absurd.
—Carter Manor is the best house in all of Tarrant County —he added proudly—. So good that not even New York can boast anything like it.
Jack glanced at him sideways, amused.
Emily couldn't help but smile.
—You know I love this place, Dad —Jack said calmly, without confronting him—. But I also have a life out there. I've grown up… and I have the freedom to choose how I live.
Alexander let out a rough grunt, crossing his arms.
—Hmph! You've grown up, you…
—Alexander! —Emily cut in, firm but composed—. Don't start again. Just as he said: he's grown, and he has the right to choose his own path.
Alexander clicked his tongue, looking away.
—Emily, always the same —he muttered—. You spoiled him.
Jack smiled faintly, tilting his head.
Alexander snorted once more, but didn't reply. Deep down, though he would never admit it, the pride showed.
—Hmph!
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was the kind of familiar silence that exists only between people who know each other too well.
Despite the arguments, they eventually returned home.
Carter Manor occupied the best location on Iron River Ranch, stretching across nearly—about three thousand square meters. The entire mansion was surrounded by a stone wall, with a large main gate connecting to the parking area and a small back door that led directly to the farm.
They entered through that secondary door.
They had barely crossed the threshold when five large dogs began barking excitedly and ran toward them.
Two were enormous Great Danes; the other three were rottweilers, imposing and muscular, a breed born for guarding.
—Oh, Danny! —Jack laughed—. You're still drooling way too much, get away from me.
One of the rottweilers jumped at his side.
—And you, Rowie! —he added—. You're about to rip my pants. Enough, or I'll sell you and you still won't be able to afford what these cost.
Emily let out a soft laugh.
The youngest dogs had been with the family for three years already. Jack had taken care of them since they were puppies.
That was why, the moment they recognized their young master, they completely abandoned Alexander and Emily and rushed toward him, surrounding him with hanging tongues, wagging tails, and an avalanche of dog drool.
Alexander brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled.
The effect was immediate.
The dogs stopped, lined up with precision, and fell silent—alert, steady, their discipline impeccable.
—Whew… —Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair—. They almost loved me to death.
He crouched to pet one of them, feeling the familiar warmth beneath his fingers.
In that moment, without needing to say it out loud, he knew he had truly come back.
Not to a house, not to a mansion.
He had come home.