Cash has an excellent premise, an incredibly strong first act, clear chemistry, and a fantasy that works very well for its target reader. It works, but not in the way I want it to.

As a cowboy romance fantasy, Cash is everything you could ever ask for, but it fails as the story of grief and repair it pretends to be. It wants the emotional satisfaction of complicated grief and inherited wounds, but is resolved with Hallmark movie plot logic and patriarchal romance shorthand.

In theory, the idea of the ranch becoming a place of healing and hereditary repair is beautiful and has the potential for high emotional payoff, but instead of relishing the moral ambiguity of the characters, it keeps choosing convenience.

In order for Cash to sell its emotional weight, it needs to allow the ranch to be a place of both wound and balm, but Peterson never allows it to work. There is no tension in the narrative. Mollie never feels suspended between two worlds, there is no internal conflict, we are never allowed access to her interiority to the extent she deserves.

Largely, this is due to the fact that Peterson tells us everything the characters are feeling, and by extension what we should feel as readers. There's no room for anything to breathe. Huge character revelations that contend with 20+ years of emotional baggage are resolved in one late night truck ride or one chat between a bathroom door. The book tells us directly who to blame, who to support, and what to feel for who.

There's something specific about the way this book relies on the patriarchal authority embedded in its narrative. With a cisheteronormative cowboy romance, of course I expect a good deal of fantasy that doesn't particularly work for me - an authoritative man, a dream of marriage and children and domesticity. But with Cash, there's a very specific blend of setup, craft issues, and romance fantasy that makes things feel uncomfortably weird.

Because we are told exactly what to feel and exactly who to blame at all times, and because Peterson never leaves room for ambiguity, everything is routed through Cash. He transcends the position of cowboy love interest and becomes Mollie's teacher, therapist, guide, protector, and savior. When the book does stop to allow reflection for Mollie, it's always solved outwardly through Cash, with a speed that feels unnatural.

Mollie never gets to be alone with her thoughts in a meaningful way. She rarely has independent reflection, she has no meaningful connection with her Dallas friends, and she has no private grief. Her revelations happen in Cash's presence. Her grief is held by Cash. Her understanding of her father is reconciled by Cash. Her experience of the ranch is led by Cash. Her body is cared for by Cash. Her future becomes clear only because of Cash.

In other words, Mollie, and the book itself, is entirely dependent on Cash. Cash becomes the man who gives Mollie the steadiness, care, protection, and instruction that her father could not. Normally, this would be eye-rolling but understandable. But because the book relies so much on its normative setup, it gets icky fast.

It starts to feel like she is not healing the wound of her father, but transferring it onto a romantic partner who is supposed to be the correction to her past. Especially because Cash is essentially Garrett's stand-in child, and their relationship devolves into the dom/sub lite sexual tension that's so common, looking at the book too closely will make your eyebrows furrow.

It's not that a caring man can't heal your daddy issues, and it's not that a protective man is inherently patriarchal. But because of Cash's specific setup and the failure of Peterson's writing, the book can't distinguish between Cash supporting Mollie and Cash becoming the entire paternalistic mechanism of her healing.

And, look, I'd never expect a feminist manifesto from a cowboy romance, but I do expect it to carry the emotional material it chooses to introduce. It's just that everything built in to make the novel feel special is so contrived. It tries to add emotional sophistication but the writing isn't strong enough to carry it, and it relies so much on its genre conventions to the point that it's boring and uncomfortable.

What started out as an extremely compelling enemies-to-lovers setup that actually felt grounded and realistic devolved into a basic cowboy fantasy with no teeth. It started with tension, projection, unresolved grief and even a hint of class-coded conflict. The plot resolves in the most obvious way, and the characters, which should be the stars, are reduced to one-dimensional stereotypes. All of the mess is cleaned up with a Cash-shaped ShamWow.

The fantasy works. Mollie and Cash make sense on the surface level, and they have sweet moments and communicate realistically. The attraction was definitely there, and the return to domesticity is fulfilling for its intended audience.

But I never believed Cash and Mollie truly knew each other, or that they had real love beyond the projection of the man that they were both grieving, and that they each saw in the other.

Obsessed with Emma and her diary. Funny, slice of life, and lovely.