About the Author

With big dreams of being a published author since she was an eleven-year-old girl writing Beverly Hills 90210 fan fiction before fan fiction was even a thing, SHANN McPHERSON has been writing angsty, contemporary romances for most of her thirty-something years.

Living in sunny Queensland, Australia, when she’s not writing, Shann enjoys making memories with her husband and cheeky toddler son, drinking wine, and singing completely off-key to One Direction’s entire discography.

Praise for Shann McPherson

“Devoured this captivating romance in one evening without coming up for air … Addictive”

“I was sucked in from the first chapter. I laughed, cried and held my breath a lot”

“Emotional depth, drama, romance, comedy, and witty banter … A delightfully entertaining debut romantic tale that romance fans will certainly enjoy!”

“A great read”

“A hilarious, heartfelt story … A perfect beach, feel-good read”

“Loved this book … So enjoyable”

“Moved me to laughter and tears”

Also by Shann McPherson

Where We Belong

Sweet Home Montana
SHANN McPHERSON

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Shann McPherson

Shann McPherson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008381981

Version: 2020-07-02

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Shann McPherson

Also by Shann McPherson

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Louis

Prologue

Ten years ago …

I’m the kind of girl who’s been dreaming of her wedding day for most of her life. The dress, the flowers, the groom. When I was a little girl, I used to sneak up into the attic and play dress-up with my mom’s wedding gown from the Seventies, twirling around in the beauty of the last light of day shining in through the tiny windows, catching the dust particles floating through the air like glitter. In that moment, as a wide-eyed ten-year-old with my whole life ahead of me, it was almost as if dreams could really come true.

Fast forward ten years, and here I am, staring at my own reflection, trying so hard to rack my brain as to who the woman looking back at me even is. Sure, she looks like me. She has my honey blonde hair, and the same gray eyes with flecks of blue and gold, but I don’t know her. Standing there in a white dress, gripping a bouquet of wild flowers as if it’s her lifeline, the woman staring back at me is a relative stranger, and for some reason it makes my heart jump up into the back of my throat. I can’t breathe. It isn’t right. There’s something seriously wrong. This is my wedding. I’m marrying my best friend, the love of my life. This is the day I used to dream about. I’m a bride. I’m supposed to be blushing, not barely breathing.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

I jump, pulling myself from the overwhelming thoughts consuming me from the inside. Turning, I find my father standing in the doorway, his imposing frame filling the space. He’s dressed in an impeccable black suit, a matching Stetson—the good one he saves for formals and funerals alike—perched upon his head. He looks handsome, and proud, and my uncertainty quells when I meet his eyes to see such adoration within his penetrating gaze.

I manage a nod, swallowing the lump of trepidation that sits in the back of my throat. Bunching up the heavy lace train of my dress, I cross the room, staring at the hardwood floor with every tentative step I take. Dad stops me. Reaching out, he tucks his forefinger beneath my chin, forcing my eyes to his, and for a long moment he regards me closely, and I’m almost certain he can see straight through me.

“You know,” he begins, his deep voice hushed as he continues, “you don’t have to—” With an imploring gaze, he stops himself, silencing whatever it was he was going to tell me.

“What?” I press, my brows knitting together. I’m almost positive I know what he was about to say, but I just need to hear him say it. If he says it, then I know it can’t be wrong.

But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he presses his lips together in the semblance of a smile, shaking his head dismissively. “You look beautiful, sweetheart. Just like your mother.”

My heart stops at that.

My mother.

I blink a few times as a hazy memory flashes through my mind.

I’m seven years old and I’ve just had a bath, the scent of my favorite bubblegum bubble wash lingers in the damp air. I’m sitting at the vanity in the bathroom and my mother is standing behind me, combing the tangles from my hair, a wistful smile playing on her lips, illuminating her effortless beauty.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Quinny?” she asks.

I meet her eyes in the mirror, answering matter-of-factly, “A princess.”

She laughs, a musical lilt resonating throughout the space, but then a sudden seriousness comes over her, one that she tries desperately to hide with a forced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Will you promise me something, darling girl?”

“What is it, Mommy?”

My mother sits down on the bench seat beside me, smoothing the backs of her delicate fingers over my chubby cheek, a faraway gaze in her eyes. “Promise me, whatever you do, never forget to chase your dreams.”

I notice a sadness come over her, one I’ve never seen before. In her eyes there’s a sheen that reflects the soft downlights shining from above the mirror. I blink at her, unsure what she means. And, because I’m only seven, I simply offer a smile, craning up to place a kiss to her cheek. “Okay, Mommy.”

I wish I’d known more. Maybe I could have saved her. Maybe, just maybe, less than a year later she wouldn’t have taken to her wrists with a razor blade.

“Sweetheart?”

I blink hard, shaking my head free of my memory, finding Dad looking at me, concern evident within his inky eyes. As Mom’s haunting words echo throughout my mind, my chest heaves to keep up with my suddenly racing heart. A cold sweat beads at my nape. Tears threaten what little composure I have left. My eyes flit frantically from side to side, for what? I don’t even know.

“Quinny?” Dad steps in, his large hands enveloping my upper arms and gently pulling me closer to him.

I find his eyes, the safety and familiarity within them, and just like that my anxiety dissipates enough for me to catch my breath. “I c-can’t—” I shake my head. “I can’t do this,” I cry.

He stares at me a long moment, studying me, and then he simply nods.

***

I’ve left a bunch of times. I can’t even count how many. In the three years I’ve been away at college, I’ve stood in this very spot in the center of the bustling departure terminal of Great Falls International so many times before, looking my father in his eyes as we fumble our way through goodbye. But never before have I stood here looking at my father with such a resolute finality. This goodbye feels like it might just be forever, and the more I try desperately to swallow that painful lump of emotion that’s wedged its way into the back of my throat, the more the tears sting my eyes.

Dad clears his throat, glancing away a moment before meeting my gaze. He lifts a large hand, scrubbing his stubbled chin, for lack of anything else to do with his hands. “I’ll see you for Thanksgiving.”

I hesitate a moment, averting my gaze from his eyes, which have always been able to see straight through me. And, although I’m almost certain he knows, I can’t risk him seeing the truth. That he won’t be seeing me for Thanksgiving. That I probably won’t even be home for Christmas. That I don’t know if I can ever come back. Not after what I did yesterday. Call me a coward, but my leaving is what’s best for everyone.

I nod once, lifting my chin again, and I force a smile through the overwrought sadness that’s clawing at me from the inside. “Thanksgiving,” I manage, my voice wavering.

He lifts his faded brown Stetson from his head momentarily, ruffling a hand through his salt and pepper hair, which is far more salt than pepper, nowadays, thanks to me. His dark, penetrating gaze steadies me, and in that moment, he says so much with just one look.

“In life, it doesn’t matter where we go, or how long we’re gone for. What matters is that we never forget where we come from, so no matter what, we can always go home.” Royal Wagner is a man of few words. A stoic man who stands at six-foot-three. Imposing and intimidating in every sense of the word. And yet, I find myself completely taken aback by what he’s just said to me. So much so that I can’t possibly stop my infuriating tears from breaking free, trailing down over my cheeks.

Dad closes the distance, his strong arms wrapping around me and pulling me to him. And I go willingly, holding on to him so tight, burying my face into his chest and breathing him in as more tears fall. When the final boarding call for my flight to Newark rings throughout the vast terminal, I find myself instinctively fisting the fleecy material of his vest, gripping it tight as if I can’t bear to let him go. And I can’t. I don’t want to. But I have to.

“I’ll call you,” I say through a sob, my broken voice muffled by his flannel shirt. “Every day.”

Dad presses a kiss to the top of my head, quietly shushing me, and I could stay like this forever in the arms of the man who has always been my hero. But I know I can’t. And, reluctantly, I force myself to pull away. I have to. If I don’t, I might never leave.

I swipe at the tear tracks staining my cheeks with the cuff of my New York University sweatshirt, unable to meet my father’s eyes as I crouch down to collect my backpack from the floor. And with my gaze fixed on the shiny tile, I press my fingers to my lips, blowing him a quick kiss before turning quickly and hurrying toward my gate, unable to chance a single glance over my shoulder in his direction. Seeing him standing there will only break my already shattered heart. And despite the crippling, self-inflicted pain of leaving my father and my whole world behind, I know it’s for the best. It has to be.

Chapter 1

I navigate the Monday morning crowds treading the Fifth Avenue sidewalk, balancing a double-shot Americano, my designer handbag and a thirty-page new-build proposal I was supposed to have read over the weekend for today’s monthly sales meeting. I didn’t read the proposal. In fact, I didn’t even take it out of its perfectly bound folder. And as I hurry into the marble lobby of my office building with a throbbing head, I wish I had read it. Especially last night, instead of consuming an entire bottle of pinot noir while watching Real Housewives reruns like the sad, single, almost-thirty-year-old that I am.

Once inside the packed elevator car, awkward silence ensues as we ascend, save for a few people obliging in amicable yet obviously forced conversation with others they’d probably rather avoid. My cell phone chimes loudly three times, bringing with it a few eye-rolls from the people surrounding me, but I ignore the new messages, flashing an apologetic smile at those around me when it chimes one more time. There’s no way I can manage my phone, coffee, handbag, and documents. Whoever it is can wait.

I stare straight ahead at the mirrored doors, exhaling a defeated sigh of resignation when I’m forced to look directly at my own reflection. The morning rain has caused my honey blonde hair to frizz and my mascara to run. But I shrug a nonchalant shoulder. At least I managed to make it into the office today. My bed was feeling awfully warm and cozy when my alarm went off. I glance up at the floor counter above the doors, watching as it ticks by, mocking me with every floor we pass.

Do I hate my job? No. My job, my life is what most dreams are made of. The perfect apartment on one of the best cobblestone streets in Tribeca. An enviable designer handbag collection, shoes, too. But lately I’ve found myself trapped within a funk I just can’t seem to crawl my way out of. I don’t know what it is. I suppose it could be the dreaded three-zero looming right around the corner.

When the elevator car stops with a sudden and unexpected jolt, I’m knocked by the woman beside me, causing me to lose my balance. And, in a flurry so fast I can’t possibly prevent it from happening, lukewarm coffee is soaking through the delicate silk of my shirt as the documents I was holding on to fall from my hand and scatter across the elevator floor.

I pan down to take in the state of my shirt, to the mess on the floor, as impatient people push past me on their way out of the doors, paying no mind to me or my obvious dilemma.

I sigh, my shoulders sagging in resignation.

Sadly, this is my life.

Did I mention I hate Mondays?

***

After attempting to clean myself up in the bathroom, I’m so late to the sales meeting, I can’t help but feel all eyes on me, looking me up and down with thinly veiled incredulity as I make my way into the boardroom twenty minutes after go-time, slipping into the only available chair right by Mr. Hawkins, the chairman of one of the most prestigious brokerage firms on the East Coast.

My cell chimes twice, interrupting Keith from our marketing department, as he talks to a detailed presentation on the year-to-date advertising spend. When his eyes flit in my direction, I offer him an apologetic nod as I take out my diary, scribing some important points. But then I catch my assistant, Oliver, watching me with wide eyes and an obvious smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as he assesses the glaringly obvious coffee stain on my shirt, accompanied by my frizzy, unruly hair. And it takes all I have not to throw my pen at his head from the opposite side of the glossy teak table.

***

“What on earth happened to you?” Oliver asks with a chuckle as he hurries behind me on my way out of the meeting.

I flash him a warning glare over my shoulder. “Don’t even ask,” I mutter through gritted teeth, trying my best to cover the brown stain on my silk shirt with my leather-bound diary. My phone vibrates, and I look down at the screen to see a blocked number calling. It’s the sixth time so far this morning and they haven’t even bothered to leave one message. Take a damn hint, buddy. I decline the call, noticing another three new text messages only adding to the myriad other messages already waiting for my attention.

“Is this Versace?” Oliver gasps incredulously, pulling my attention away from my phone as he tugs gently on my blouse.

“Yes,” I answer sharply, stopping momentarily to collect a stack of copies from one of the interns’ desks. “Can you please send for a new shirt from Saks. Black.” I bark my order slightly more abruptly than I had intended before softening the blow with a wavering smile. “I’m sorry. I’m meeting Shareeq at eleven o’clock, and I can’t show up like this.”

With Oliver hot on my heels, I continue through the length of the bustling sales floor, toward my corner office. The office I’ve worked my butt off to secure. The office that means that I’ve made it. Glass walls, glass doors, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the concrete jungle that is Manhattan, providing an awe-inspiring view of the Chrysler Building reaching high up into the drab gray October sky. It feels like only yesterday I was tucked away in a cubicle by the fire escape doors, head buried in client cold-calling sheets. Now, here I am, in a glass box with a nice view, my name branded across the door in three-inch gold lettering.

“Someone’s a little testy this morning,” Oliver says from behind me, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes. Someone is a little testy.” I turn offering a droll look. “In case you haven’t noticed”—I point to the stain on my shirt. “Someone didn’t get to enjoy her morning coffee …”

Oliver chuckles.

My phone chimes again with another new text message and I hold it up in the air between us. “Is there a new listing I’m not aware of?”

He shakes his head with a shrug, taking my diary from me and placing it onto the console table beside the white leather chaise in the corner of the room.

“My phone is going nuts,” I murmur under my breath, shaking my head to myself as I take my seat at my desk. I power up my computer, but when I click on my inbox, reading the subject line of my most recent email received less than an hour ago, an involuntary gasp escapes me, and suddenly it’s as if I can’t even breathe.

Dear Miss Wagner,

I ran into Adam Delaney of CRTJ on Friday evening while I was dining with some associates at the Morrisey Club. We got talking about Prince Street. He raised some valid points about your suitability to take on the project. CRTJ specialize in the new-build market, and they have a dedicated project team for this type of listing.

Mr. Delaney also mentioned that he has firsthand experience with similar developments, particularly in the Tribeca area. He was also the sole listing agent for Broadway Towers, and sold more than 65% of all units at full ask or above within three weeks of the listing date.

Unfortunately, after much deliberation with my team, we feel it is in our best interest to go with Mr. Delaney and his team at CRTJ. I do hope there are no hard feelings. While I believe you’re a tremendous agent, and I can’t wait to work with you on future projects, we just feel Adam and his team will take better care of our needs during this time.

Please feel free to contact my assistant, Leilani, if you require anything further from me.

Kind regards,

Mihir Shareeq, Head of Operations, BSG

“Son of a bitch!”

“What?” Oliver turns quickly, his face fraught with concern as he leans in closely, gawping over my shoulder.

“Adam Delaney …” I say his name in some sort of a daze as I scan the length of the email again and again, going through a plethora of emotions with each and every word. “He just– He just stole Prince Street.”

I’m just about ready to grab my computer monitor and throw it straight through the damn plate glass window, down onto Madison Avenue. My heart races as panic begins to claim me from the inside out, and I look around for something, anything, I don’t even know what.

“He can’t do that!” Oliver shrieks indignantly, his voice pitchy and piercing. “BSG signed with you!”

“No.” I shake my head as the weight of the world comes crashing down upon me. Burying my face in my hands, I could just about cry, and I probably would be crying right now if I wasn’t so pissed off. “They didn’t sign. That was my eleven o’clock with Shareeq.”

Oliver says nothing as a tense and heavy silence rings through the air.

“Can you please go out and get me a coffee from the café downstairs?” I say, smoothing my hair back from my face as I take a deep, fortifying breath, hoping like hell it helps to provide some semblance of clarity so that I can deal with this situation effectively and rationally. “I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”

“I’ll get Shareeq on the phone for you.” Oliver moves quick smart, grabbing me a bottle of Fiji Water from the small refrigerator built into my closet. And that’s what I love about him. He just knows what to do and when to do it. I don’t even have to ask half the time. He’s good in a crisis. Me? Not so much. In fact, I often have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just good at faking it.

I started at Hawkins Group fresh out of grad school with a drive like no other. And in that time, I’ve managed to work my way up the corporate ladder. From intern to assistant, to junior broker, to broker, to senior broker where I’m now in the top ten in all of Manhattan. I’ve fought hard over the years to make it to the top. I’ve sacrificed so much. Almost everything. And I’m damn good at my job. Ruthless at times, or so I’ve been told, but real estate is still very much a man’s world in this city, and sometimes only the strong survive, which is why it is imperative that I keep my cool right now. I can’t allow my emotion to show, despite my internal panic. I won’t let Adam win.

Adam Delaney has had it in for me ever since a client chose me to list his thirty-million-dollar Columbus Circle penthouse, because my pitch was better. Adam went on social media and not so subtly insinuated that I wear low-cut tops and tight skirts just to get what I want. Misogynistic jerk. I began proceedings to sue him for defamation. Our lawyers settled out of court. I won, of course. And ever since then, he’s been vying to take me down one client at a time.

And with this latest stunt, stalking the likes of Mihir Shareeq, coincidentally crossing paths with him at a members’ only gentlemen’s club in the Upper East Side and casually bringing the luxury fourteen-unit new-build development he knew I was signing into conversation, well, he may have just succeeded.

“I have Shareeq’s assistant on the line,” Oliver’s voice rings through the silence of my office.

“Thanks.” I press the flashing button on my handset and wait, ignoring my ringing cell phone as it vibrates loudly on the desk with that same blocked number. I turn it over. Face down, so it doesn’t keep distracting me.

“Miss Wagner?” Leilani, Shareeq’s assistant, comes through the line, her voice deep and sultry.

“Is he in?” I ask briskly, wishing my racing heart would calm to a more manageable thrum. The sheer inconvenience of a heart attack right now would be all I need.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wagner, he’s out of the office all morning.”

“Well do you know where he is? It is vital that I speak with him.” I stand, waving for Oliver through the glass wall to stop him on his way out. He notices my flailing hand and pauses, his brow furrowed as he waits.

“He’s meeting with Mr. Delaney for brunch at Illusions. I don’t know the address but I believe it is in SoHo.”

“It’s okay. I know where it is. Thank you so much,” I say, signaling to Oliver to forget about fetching me my coffee and to get me a car and a driver immediately before quickly ending the call.

My cell rings again as I collect my things, but I shove it and everything else into my purse. I hurry to the closet and pull out the blazer I keep in there for emergency situations such as this. After I shrug it on, it does little to conceal the coffee stain, but it’s all I have right now.

“Hawkins wants to see you in his office,” Oliver says as he opens the door for me, his hands held up in the air in surrender.

“Now?” I gape at him from the threshold.

He nods, and I can tell by the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip that this can’t be good. Mr. Hawkins knows. I just know it. I’ve just lost the biggest deal of my career. It’d be stupid to think it would be anything but bad. I release an almighty sigh and begin toward the glass stairs that connect the sales floor to the executive level.

“Quinn, I heard about the Prince Street deal …” someone says from deep within the bowels of the sales floor.

“It’s nothing,” I yell back over my shoulder, waving a nonchalant hand in the air, my quavering voice doing little to help dispel the obvious doubts of my colleagues. But I ignore everyone and everything, my jaw clenching hard as I proceed up the stairs and into the sleek lobby of the executive floor.

Mr. Hawkins’ glamorous executive assistant glances up from her computer, and I almost expect her to stop me, to ask me what I’m doing, but she doesn’t. In fact, all she offers is a look of condolence complemented by a pitiful smile as I continue past her. God, even she knows I’m about to have my ass handed to me. My clammy hands ball into trembling fists at my sides as I try to count to ten. I stop momentarily at the imposing double doors, knocking just once.

“Enter!” a booming voice from the other side demands, and I’m literally quaking in my pumps as I reluctantly step inside.

Edward Hawkins is an institution. A force to be reckoned with. At seventy-eight years old and standing at only five-feet-two-inches, with thick wire-frame glasses and sheet-white hair, he’s the most unexpectedly intimidating person I’ve ever come across in this cut-throat industry, and that’s saying a lot in a city like New York. He meets my eyes with a threatening glower, turning in his chair and reclining ever so slightly, his stubby fingers steepled beneath his white-bearded chin. But I remain defiant, my chin raised slightly higher in a show of confidence I sure as hell don’t feel on the inside.

“Sit.”

Now, let me get one thing straight. I’m definitely not a “yes, sir; no, sir” kind of gal. I’m a self-respecting, confident woman who just so happened to grow up in a house full of men and thus can take care of myself in almost any and every situation. But when Edward Hawkins fixes you with that all-penetrating and intimidating look in his steely eyes, and tells you to sit, then you better damn well sit your ass down.

“What is this I’m hearing about Prince Street?” he asks in his native New Yorker-accent.

I clear my throat, forcing a smile as I take a tentative seat in the chair across from his sprawling mahogany desk. “It’s nothing more than a misunderstanding, sir.”

My cell rings again from deep inside my purse and I do all I can to pretend as if I don’t even notice it. But I do notice it. So does he. He glances at my purse, his bushy brows drawing together. I blink once, my face impassive as the loud vibration continues through the heavy silence.

“You told me on Friday night that the deal was done,” he says finally, regarding me with a hard look over the top of his spectacles. “So, were you lying then or are you lying now?”

I swallow hard, carefully considering my words. He’s got me there. When he called me, late Friday evening, I was so happy to be able to give him the good news, and of course I told him the deal was done. Because, as far as I was concerned, the deal was done. Shareeq and I shook hands, and where I come from that means something; all a man has is his word and his handshake. Clearly, I was wrong.

“I’m on my way to meet with Shareeq right now to get everything sorted.”

Mr. Hawkins narrows one of his eyes, looking at me long and hard. “Do I need to remind you that this is a one-hundred-million-dollar deal?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head.

He quirks a dubious brow. “And do I need to remind you what losing a deal like this can do to a person’s career?”

I shake my head again, vehemently this time, not trusting myself to speak.

With one last lingering look of disappointment, he dismisses me without so much as another word, turning back to his computer, and I take that as my cue to leave, jumping up quickly and hurrying to the door.

“Wagner?”

I stop, my hand on the door handle, and I glance over my shoulder to find him still staring at his illuminated monitor. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Don’t bother coming back to the office without that signed listing contract.” He flashes me a hard yet fleeting once-over. “Do I make myself clear?”

With one swift nod I slip out of the office as seamlessly as I can, fully aware of that same relentless vibration coming from the depths of my purse yet again. I hurry across the shiny floor, cursing out loud when I make it out into the silent foyer, and I frantically press that elevator call button over and over again, as if my life depends on it.

***

Illusions is a pretentious bistro in the thick of SoHo, and with the morning traffic against me, it takes more than thirty-five minutes to get here. It’s quicker on the damn subway. By the time my town car pulls up to the curb out front, I’m a clammy, breathless mess as I cut across the sidewalk, bursting into the restaurant with such gusto, all heads turn to see what the commotion is about.

“Can I help you, miss?” The hostess glances up from her lectern, eyeing me cautiously.

I ignore her, scanning the dining room until I find a familiar head of perfectly highlighted hair, Mihir Shareeq’s face falling in stark shock when he catches sight of me, causing Adam Delaney to turn and do an almost hilarious double take.

“You!” I yell, pointing a finger at Adam from across the room, because now is not the time for manners. “Outside. Now!” I storm back out to the bustling downtown sidewalk, taking my first real breath in what feels like forever.

“Quinn?”

I turn, finding Adam stepping out of the restaurant, buttoning his blazer, his brow raised in piqued interest as he looks me up and down. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to hide his growing smirk, and my anger increases exponentially.

“Don’t give me that look, Delaney. You know full well what I’m doing here,” I hiss between gritted teeth, stepping right up against him.

He barely bothers to conceal his smugness, leveling me with a single look. And I swear, it takes every last ounce of self-control I have left in me not to clock him with my surprisingly strong left hook. “What the hell are you playing at?”

He scoffs, innocently holding his arms out at his sides. “Hey, babe, it’s just business.” He glances up toward the sky, scratching his chin in mock-consideration. “Isn’t that what you told me when you stole Columbus Circle?”

“First of all, don’t call me babe!” I warn him. “Secondly, I didn’t steal anything.” I poke him in his chest. “I won that listing fair and square. I can’t help it if you can’t pitch to save your damn life.”

He rolls his eyes indulgently before grinning down at me with that condescending smile I just want to slap right off his pretty-boy face. “Look, why don’t you just come inside, we’ll chat with Shareeq and maybe we can do a co-listing?”

I fold my arms over my chest, glowering at him.

“I don’t know why you don’t take me up on my offer to partner up. The two of us together could kill it in this city. Number-one agent—” He points to himself, pausing as he looks to me. “And what? Number … twelve?”

“Eight!” I seethe. “And I wouldn’t partner up with you if my life depended on it.”

He scoffs, quirking a brow. “That’s not what you were saying a few months ago when you were sleeping in my bed.”

I swallow back a string of profanities.

Yes. Call me a masochist, but Adam and I dated. I’m a sucker for punishment. I refer to our two-month tryst as an unfortunate lapse in judgment, a moment of insanity, something I’ve wished I could take back every day since.

“I swear to God, Adam—” My hand balls into a fist, but before I can do anything, my phone rings yet again, only this time I choose to answer it in the hope it will stop me from killing this impossible asshole in broad daylight where there are far too many witnesses.

“What?” I snap abruptly as I hit the answer-call button.

“Quinn?”

My brows knit together in confusion at the sound of the familiar voice coming through from the other end of the line, crackly and muffled, nearly inaudible. I turn away from Adam, shoving a finger into my other ear in the hope of hearing over the excessive sound of New York City going about its usual business around me. “Hello?”

“Quinn, it’s me, Cash.”

I can’t help but balk. I don’t even remember the last time my big brother called me. “Cash? W-what’s—”

“You need to come home, Quinny,” Cash says with a heavy sigh of despondency.

“What? Cash! What are you talking about?” I shake my head in exasperation, glancing furtively over my shoulder to find Adam watching on like the nosy prick he is. He probably thinks I’m speaking to another client he can steal from me. I get back to my brother’s confusing, cryptic phone call. “What is it? What’s wrong, Cash?”

“Quinn, it’s Dad,” Cash’s deep voice continues. “H-he’s dead.”

Chapter 2

It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been home. Ten years. And yet the two-hour drive from the city, following the banks of the Yellowstone as it runs through the mountains and the valleys, is a drive I know like the back of my hand. Every corner, every dip, every bump in the road is familiar. I could drive it with my eyes closed and never once take a wrong turn. And yet it’s been ten long years since I’ve bothered driving this road because I’m too damn stubborn and proud.

As I navigate my Land Rover rental through the winding roads of the Rocky Mountain foothills, beneath the sky-high ponderosa pines, their branches creating a canopy overhead, my heart races as an unbearable anxiousness begins to consume me from the inside out, the closer I get to my destination. My palms are clammy. My stomach twists. Sweat beads on my brow. I can barely even breathe. I had no intention of ever coming back here. Not after everything. I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t matter that it’s almost ten years later. I’m still the girl who left Colt Henry at the altar. The girl who broke the heart of the hometown hero. To the people of Black Canyon, I’ll probably always be that girl, no matter how many years have passed.

I still remember the look in his eyes when he came to find me afterwards. When he forced me to tell him what I feared admitting out loud.

I still remember that look of betrayal, the hurt and the pain that I was responsible for inflicting upon him. I still remember it like it was yesterday, not ten years ago. Because that kind of thing will stay with you forever. That look in his eyes haunts me, flashing in my mind every time I close my eyes, as if to remind me of everything I once had, what I’ll never have again because I was stupid enough to let it go in the first place.

I swallow the guilt and remorse that lingers at the back of my throat, reminding myself of my father and the reason that I’m here.

It still feels like some horrible nightmare. Except it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It is real. A quick glance in the rearview mirror reminds me just how real it all is. The bruise on my forehead and the graze on my cheek that I suffered when I collapsed from shock, right there on the sidewalk in front of Adam Delaney, is real. The shattered screen on my cell phone from when it fell with me to the pavement, is real. And, the call that started it all was and still is, painfully real.

My father is dead. The one man I’ve looked up to all my life. My hero. My everything. The one man who has always been there for me, to protect me, to keep me safe, to make everything better. He’s gone and I didn’t even get to say goodbye or tell him that I love him just one last time. I lost the last ten years with him because of my mistake, and now there’s nothing I can do about it.

I close my eyes for a beat and grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn a stark shade of white. My chest constricts around my heart, the pain almost unbearable. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, begging for release. But I won’t cry. I can’t. I’ve spent the best part of the last twenty-four hours crying. I don’t know how many tears I have left.

When the trees part and Black Canyon comes into view, for a moment my breath is taken away because in the ten years I’ve been gone, I’d forgotten just how beautiful it is. Surrounded by thick, lush forest, rolling hills, and looming snow-capped peaks, the tiny town really is a beautiful little secret, hidden in the middle of nowhere. A diamond in the rough of the unforgiving wilderness.

A light rain drizzles down over the windshield as I make my way into the city limits and the dark, threatening clouds begin to envelop the mountains, casting an ominous hue over the town.

Releasing a trembling breath, I scrub a hand over my weary face, sniffling back the traitorous tears that continue to threaten me as I drive into the place that brings back so many memories, passing the familiar buildings that haven’t changed one bit in the time that I’ve been away. Everything is still the same, and yet nothing is the same. I’m a different person to the one I was when I walked away from this place all those years ago, never even bothering to look back.

If I could go back and undo all the shitty things I’ve done in my life, I would. In a heartbeat. But I can’t. And now here I am, ten years later and my whole world as I’ve known it is falling apart. I didn’t expect to feel so sick to my stomach. But I guess that’s what happens when you come back to the one place you vowed never to return to.

***

Ten or so miles along the desolate road that leads out of town and in the direction of the ranges, I pull into the familiar drive, glancing up at the sign hanging overhead as it swings to and fro with the violent wind of the fast-approaching storm: Wagner Ranch. Home. At least, it used to be home. It’s not anymore. In fact, it hasn’t been home for so long that even just driving through the gates and into the thirty thousand acres of expansive, sprawling land, I can’t help but feel like I don’t belong here. Like I’m an imposter. A trespasser at the risk of being shot by a ranch hand.

I follow the rocky drive, looking out over the fields to my left where what appears to be a hundred head of cattle are grazing high up in the hills, to my right where buffalo are roaming free. Wagner Ranch lies in the thick of the country, what feels like a million miles from the rest of the world, a whole lifetime away from the metropolis of New York where I’ve spent most of my adult life.

Thick, heavy clouds cover the mountains, and in the distance a deep rumble of thunder follows a violent fork of lightning, but thankfully, just as the rain starts to fall harder against the windshield, the main house comes into view up ahead and I breathe a sigh of relief. The imposing log and stone structure I grew up in, the place I used to pretend was my castle and I, its princess, is illuminated like a beacon in the darkness of the fast-approaching storm, each window aglow giving off an air of warmth and comfort like only a home can.

Pulling into a makeshift parking spot between a shiny Dodge Ram with the ranch’s logo emblazoned across the side, a sleek Range Rover and a rusted F-250 pickup with a busted tail light, I grab my slicker and my handbag, leaving everything else in the car before making a run for it. By the time I make it up onto the porch, my sneakers are covered in mud and my jeans are soaked up to my knees.

Inside, the house is as I remember it, and as I take in the vast foyer, looking up at the exposed beams in the twenty-foot ceilings I’m struck by a million memories flooding through me at once, and despite my sadness, I can’t help but smile. The mounted bison head that used to scare me as a kid and, quite frankly, still does, sits high above the stairs, its black eyes lifeless yet terrifying as they bore into me. Then a sudden wave of emotion crashes over me, tugging painfully at my heart, and never before have I missed my father the way I miss him right now. He feels so close and this place smells just like him. But there’s something missing, and it’s so obvious that despite everything that is so familiar to me, so much like him, he’s no longer here, and that familiarity suddenly feels so empty and void.

With a defeated sigh, I hang my slicker on the hook by the front door before inviting myself in. The great room that steps down to the left is empty, the fireplace alight with a crackling fire that warms the cavernous expanse of the entire downstairs. The kitchen and dining to the right is empty, not a single thing out of place. I continue through to the corridor, stopping at the framed photographs of me, my brothers, my father, our mom lining the walls, and as I study the old picture of my parents on their wedding day, I reach out, gently stroking the glass with a resigned smile because I know they’re together again in a better place where my mom is happy, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

Hearing the faint sound of a murmured conversation coming from my father’s office at the end of the hall, I hesitate momentarily, smoothing my hair back from my face before heading toward the voices. I knock on the open door before walking nervously inside, and it takes a moment for my glassy eyes to adjust to the muted light in the room. But when they do, I pause on the spot when I find Cash standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the land, his silhouetted form cutting a lonely figure that hurts my heart.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I startle, turning in the direction of the desk, to the darkened figure standing so fast, the chair topples to the floor, big hands slamming down upon the glossy oak in a show of fury I hadn’t been prepared for, which causes me to jump in fear for my life.

I manage to collect myself, clutching at my racing heart. “Hey … Tripp.”

My twin brother looks at me in a way that stings like an abrupt and unexpected slap to the face. The disdain in his hard glare is unmistakable, piercing through the dim light of the room. He folds his arms across his broad chest, shaking his head at the sheer sight of me, his top lip actually curling up in disgust, and I can’t say it doesn’t hurt. It hurts like hell and it’s an added pain I’m not sure I can handle right now.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he asks again between gritted teeth before looking to Cash for answers. “Cash, what’s she doing here?” he demands, waving a hand in my direction.

“I called her,” Cash says gruffly, turning, his eyes finding me.

I shake my head incredulously. What am I doing here? Is he actually serious? “My father is dead!” I exclaim, my eyes wide as I gape at Tripp. “You actually thought I wouldn’t come home?”

“Like you give a shit,” Tripp mutters, shaking his head.

“Are you serious? How can you even say that?!” I yell, my voice breaking from the overwhelming emotion coming over me at just how little he clearly thinks of me.

“We ain’t heard squat from you in years!”

I balk at his words spoken with such vitriol, gaping at him.

Haven’t heard from me? Yeah, well whose fault is that, Tripp? I want to laugh in his face. But I don’t. He really does still hate me, even after all the time that’s passed. But he’s so wrong it’s scary, and although it doesn’t really matter at this time, I have to correct him. “I call him every single day. And every Sunday after church,” I yell, my tears getting the better of me, which I’m quick to swipe from my heated cheeks with the sleeve of my sweater. “I sit on the phone with him for an hour every Thursday morning while he approves the payroll. Hell, I call him after every damn Packers game because I know how worked up he gets watching his team play!” I take a deep, racking breath trying so hard to calm myself, closing my eyes a moment to placate my emotion.

“Yeah, well, he’s dead. You won’t have to worry about calling no more,” Tripp says, looking down at the desk, to the papers strewn across it.

I gape at him, at his brutally harsh words, tears blinding me. But I bite back my retort. He’s hurting. We all are. I soften a little. “I came home to help.” I glance at both of my brothers. “Any way that I can.”

Tripp scoffs, a derisive laugh void of any humor ringing through the air. “You’re here to help? Or you’re here sniffing around for your inheritance?”

My jaw actually drops, my heart stammering. His words are like a rusty knife to my stomach.

“Easy, little brother …” Cash warns, taking a step forward to stand between us.

Tripp looks from me to Cash and back again, murmuring a few choice curse words under his breath that I can’t quite make out over the sound of the rain as it pours down outside.

I hold my trembling hands in the air in surrender. “Look, Tripp. I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to say goodbye to my father …” Emotion gets the better of me, a sob bubbling up from the back of my throat, but I force myself to continue. “To help with the funeral, and—”

“We’ve been doing just fine without you, Quinny,” he interrupts with a huff, looking me up and down, a scornful glint flashing within his steely eyes, a look that cuts straight through me. “We don’t need no help. Especially not from you.” And, with those parting words, he turns and storms out of the room, leaving an air of anger, sadness and loathing in his wake.

I stand there a moment, my shoulders falling in defeat. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I knew my return wouldn’t receive the warmest of receptions, but I never expected my own brother—my twin—to ever look at me the way he just did. I swallow the painful lump that feels as if it’s strangling me, sniffling back the emotion threatening to break what little composure I have left.

“He didn’t mean that.”

I turn, finding Cash’s eyes watching me, and I exhale a trembling breath, pressing my lips together in the semblance of a smile. “Yes, he did, Cash. He meant every word.”

Cash crosses the room, coming to stop in front of me, and I’m actually a little taken aback when he pulls me into his arms, enveloping me in a hug that just about knocks the wind out of me. I hesitate, because an embrace like this is foreign to me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s held me in such a way. I tentatively wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes, and as I breathe in his familiar scent that reminds me so much of Dad, I realize right at that moment that this is exactly what I need.

“Well I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers into my hair before pulling away, his big hands resting on my shoulders.

I blink back my emotions, looking up at him with a small smile. “W-where … Where is he?”

“They took him to the city for an autopsy. He’ll be transported back tomorrow.”

I clear my throat. “When can I see him?”

“I’ll take you to the funeral home tomorrow.”

The words are all too real right now, and my knees feel weak. I reach a hand out, gripping Cash’s in the fear that I might actually fall to the floor. He steadies me, and I meet his dark eyes that are so much like my father’s it’s almost frightening.

“What happened?”

Cash presses his lips together, shaking his head as he so clearly searches for his words. “He was out in the back paddock with Colt—” He stops himself, and it’s as if he suddenly realizes what he’s said. He flashes me an apologetic glance before averting his eyes and casting his gaze down to the floor.

For a moment even just the mention of his name causes my stomach to twist, my heart jolting in my chest, fighting against the vise-like grip my emotions have on it. “Colt …”

Cash nods, and I find some semblance of comfort knowing that it was Colt who was with my father at the time. That he wasn’t alone. That Colt, the boy he loved like another son, was there to comfort him until help came, whether he knew it or not.

“They were out riding the east boundary, checking the fence. Colt said one minute he was fine, the next he just fell from his horse like a ton of bricks. Heart attack. The coroner called just before you got here to tell us he was most likely dead before he even hit the ground.”

I close my eyes, trying so hard to process my brother’s words but it’s almost impossible. It’s hard to believe because I don’t want to believe it. I spoke to my father just two days ago. Two days. And two days ago he was fine. He said he was even thinking of finally taking me up on my offer and flying out to the East Coast to come visit me after years of begging him. I shake my head at that thought. It should have been me who came back here to see him. Why couldn’t I just come home?

“God dammit …” I hiss under my breath, wiping at my damp cheeks.

“C’mere,” Cash mutters through his own emotion, pulling me back into another embrace.

“I’m gonna go back into town.” I swallow a sob, prematurely breaking our hug and taking a step back. “Grab a room at the Oakmont or the Lodge,” I say with a casual shrug, smoothing my hair back from my face.

“No, Quinny, don’t leave.” Cash shakes his head, his face falling, and for the first time I can see a distraught sadness in his eyes, and it’s heartbreaking to see my brother who has always been the strong one, stoic like our father, reduced to such a state of fragility. “Stay. This is your home. Dad would want you here.”

More tears prick my eyes at his words but I blink them away. “I think it’s best if I just stay away from Tripp for a few days.”

“Don’t worry about him. Come stay in the Foreman’s House. It’s just me, Shelby and CJ,” Cash offers, his eyes hopeful. “Don’t you wanna see your nephew? He’s always asking about you.”

“Of course I do! But … I-I just … I can’t—” I shake my head, and while Tripp is my main concern, I’m also conscious of the fact that Colt is a permanent fixture around the place, living in my grandfather’s old cabin on the property, and I just don’t think I’m ready to risk facing that whole situation right now.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. First thing.” I nod, stepping around my brother and walking out of the office.

Continuing back down the hall, I see Tripp on my way past the doorway to the kitchen, and I pause in my tracks. His eyes momentarily meet mine and I witness a flash of something I wasn’t expecting to see in his glassy gaze, but whatever it was is quickly replaced by that same anger and pure hatred they’d possessed moments earlier, so I continue on my way down the hall toward the entry.

As I shrug my slicker on in the foyer, I can’t mistake the sound of my brothers’ voices arguing from down the corridor. They’re fighting about me. I know it. But I choose to ignore their heated exchange, walking outside where I’m met with gusty winds and torrential rain blanketing down from the low-hanging clouds in the looming gray sky.

“Home, sweet home,” I mutter under my breath as I pull my hood up over my head, making a run for it down the steps and through the knee-deep puddles, back toward the safety of my rental car.

Chapter 3

Growing up, I was a daddy’s girl. From the day I was born. Daddy’s sweet little fair-eyed angel. His favorite; and those are his words, not mine. Hell, he used to say it all the time even in front of my brothers. I was his favorite. It was an undeniable fact.

When our mother lost her battle against depression, Tripp and I were only eight years old. Cash was twelve. Tripp seemed to be okay, following in his older brother’s footsteps. Me? Well, I latched on to my father. I went everywhere with him. I was his shadow. He and I were so close. The best of friends. No one could make my father smile the way I could. I think it was because I reminded him so much of my mom. The two of us were inseparable. But then, I unknowingly went and broke his heart.

The first time I broke my father’s heart was when I was fifteen. I asked him if he could drive me into town so I could meet Colt at Danny’s Diner for ice cream. Of course he asked me what the hell I was doing meeting up with the likes of Colt Henry on a Saturday night without Tripp. I was honest, and I told him it was because Colt asked me. It was a date. My first. With my twin brother’s best friend of ten years, no less. I’ll never forget the look of resignation in my father’s eyes that day. I think that was the moment he realized I wasn’t his little angel anymore. I had a new guy in my life. It was time for poor old Dad to take his seat.

When Colt asked me to be his girlfriend that night at the diner, of course my brother made a big fuss out of it, accusing me of coming between him and his best friend, of stealing Colt away. But I didn’t steal Colt. In fact, it was Colt who began choosing to hang out with me instead of Tripp, when he wasn’t busy working for my father on the ranch or playing football for our high school’s varsity team. But that’s what happens. Kids turn into teenagers, and teenage boys start to choose teenage girls over their best friends. I felt bad, but at fifteen years old I’d fallen head over heels for that green-eyed boy from the wrong side of town, and neither my father nor my brother could do anything to get in the way of a star-crossed love like ours.

The second time I broke my father’s heart was when Colt asked me to marry him. He’d surprised me on the five-year anniversary of that first date, with his grandmother’s ring tucked into the pocket of his pants. Colt, dressed in his Wrangler jeans and pearl-snap shirt, and the big shiny belt buckle he’d won at some rodeo a few months earlier that had secured him the money to be able to fly out to New York, looking so out of place in the city. He got down on one knee right there by the fountain in the middle of Washington Square Park and asked me to be his wife. And of course I said yes. I loved him. More than life itself. He was my all. My everything. I couldn’t imagine my life not being with Colt, and I immediately started to plan a June wedding at the ranch for when I would be home that coming summer.

Despite his reservations about ultimately being replaced as the man in my life, my father was happy. Even Tripp was okay about our engagement. In fact, everyone was excited for us; mine and Colt’s wedding was the talk of the Canyon, the event of the year. The wealthy rancher’s daughter and the boy from the wrong side of town. We were that couple. Two people who were born for one another. Our love was a love that people depended on. It gave them hope that true love really did exist, and that it was more than a myth read about in fairy tales.

But then the doubts started creeping into the back of my mind. I loved Colt. Irrevocably. I knew I’d never be able to love anyone else the way I loved him. But was I really ready at twenty years old to legally commit myself to one man for the rest of my life? I was still a kid. I had my whole life ahead of me. I’d dreamed of business school, and then I planned on building a career for myself in the city. But Colt hated city life. He had no intention of ever leaving the Canyon. Was I supposed to marry Colt, forfeit my dreams, and live happily ever after as nothing more than a rancher’s wife who gave up everything for the man she loved?

I couldn’t do it. Anytime I so much as considered it, my mind would wander back to that time just before my mother’s death, when she made me promise that I would chase my dreams. I couldn’t stay. She gave up on her dreams to stay with my dad and raise a family, and look how that turned out. Granted, she was unwell, but I just couldn’t risk ending up like that. I owed it to my mother to live my life and chase my dreams, despite my love for Colt.

My father was the only one who stood by me through my decision. Sure he told me what I did was wrong. But he still stood by me. And that was the third and final time I broke his heart. When I left. He could see it in my eyes when I said goodbye to him at the airport that day. He knew I wouldn’t ever be coming back, and that broke his heart.

Maybe my father’s death wasn’t my fault, but I’d broken his heart so many times it was fragile because of me, and I can’t help but feel as if my hands are stained with his blood.

***

I pull up to a parking spot in the middle of town, the rain relentless as it thunders down onto the roof of the car, so loud it’s almost unbearable. And, for the first time since getting onto the Delta flight back at JFK, the weight of everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, the last ten years, comes crashing down around me. I grip the steering wheel so tight as if it’s my lifeline, bowing my head as a sob racks through me, hot tears falling onto my cheeks as I cry over everything I’ve lost. My father. My brother. My home. Everything my life was once about is gone. In one day it feels as if my whole life and everything I’ve ever known has literally been ripped right out from underneath me, and all I can do is cry.

After a moment or two I somehow manage to pull myself together as best I can, sitting up a little straighter and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand when something catches my attention, flickering in the reflection of the rearview mirror. I turn, glancing over my shoulder, my bleary eyes finding the familiar neon sign of Duke’s flashing on and off through the darkness of the gloomy gray afternoon. With a deep breath that trembles through my emotions, I grab my handbag, pulling my hood back over my head, and I force myself out into the rain. I swear I’ve never been so desperate for a shot of whiskey in my life.

Duke’s Saloon, the main bar in town, is the kind of place that can turn pretty nasty after dark when the cowboys show up to drink away their troubles. But it’s also a lot of fun. We used to come here when we were kids. Duke, the owner, would serve us even though he was friends with most of our parents and therefore knew our ID’s were blatantly fake. It didn’t hurt that I was the daughter of Royal Wagner. Growing up in a town like Black Canyon, where everyone knows everyone else, it was difficult to get away with too much trouble, but Duke let it slide. Many a night was spent underage drinking, dancing to the live band while having the time of our young lives right here at Duke’s, and I can’t help but smile at the long-forgotten memories playing through my mind as I walk into the saloon.

Inside is quiet. Just a few die-hard locals perched at the bar nursing beers while an old country song twangs softly from somewhere in the background. I continue with my head down because I’m not sure I’m ready to risk showing my face around here just yet. If my own brother can’t even stand the sight of me, then I doubt the rest of the town will be very welcoming.

I take one of the stools at the far end of the bar, placing my handbag onto the counter while I scan the shelves of liquor, sniffling back my earlier tears. I rifle through my purse, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill and gripping it with a trembling hand while waiting for service, which is when a curvy brunette with one arm completely covered in tattoos walks down from the opposite end of the bar, an enviable sway to her rounded hips.

“What can I get ya, doll?”

I clear my throat. “Crown. Straight up.” I place my money onto the bar. “And keep them coming, please.”

She nods, an impressed glimmer in her eyes as she regards me a moment before grabbing a clean glass and the bottle of Crown Royal from the selection of colorful liquor bottles. She expertly pours my drink right in front of me, sliding it over with a smile. I drop it back, wincing at the afterburn as it trails its way down my throat, tapping the empty glass against the walnut counter, which she quickly refills.

“You’re not from around here, huh?” She smirks at me, quirking a perfectly microbladed brow as she fills a second glass for herself.

“What gave it away?” I ask with a perfunctory shrug, sipping my whiskey this time.

She leans forward, looking over the counter, assessing me. “Gucci sneakers. Chanel purse.”

“Girl knows her designers,” I say with one arched brow.

“What can I say? I keep up with the Kardashians.” She laughs lightly, meeting my eyes as she drops back her own shot of Crown.

“I used to be from around here.” I shrug again, offering her a small smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes, and something passes between us. I can tell she senses my sadness. “Not anymore …” I add dismissively.

She stares at me, pressing her lips together, before holding her hand out. “I’m Rylie.”

I look down at her long, pointed nails, glittery and perfectly painted. I meet her eyes once again, noticing the precise winged liner and thick lashes that must have taken her forever to apply. She really does keep up with Kardashians. And I like her. Not because of the Kardashians, but because she obviously chooses not to conform with a place like the Canyon. Tattoos. Winged liner. Neon nails. I like her a lot. I could be friends with a woman like Rylie.

“Quinn.” I shake her hand.

“So, Quinn …” Rylie leans forward, resting her elbows on the bar, steadying me with a penetrating stare. “What’s a Gucci-wearing gal like you doing in a dive like this?” She waves a hand in the air, indicating Duke’s Saloon.

“I like this place.” I take in the familiar surrounds. “It reminds me of home.”

Rylie watches me for a beat, and I know she can tell there is so much more to my story. But, like a well-trained bartender, she doesn’t pry; she simply waits until I choose whether or not I feel like she’s a complete stranger I can trust. Bartenders get this a lot. It’s part of their job. A prerequisite. To listen to drunk fools bitch and moan all day long about their problems while pretending to care.

“Can I ask you something, Rylie?”

She nods, offering a casual shrug as she tops up both of our glasses.

I hesitate momentarily before suddenly asking, “Do you believe in redemption?”

She blinks at me, and I guess the topic of redemption is pretty heavy for four-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. So I add, “Like, if a person’s done something terrible in their past, do you think they can really redeem themselves?”

Rylie takes a sip of her whiskey, glancing up to the low-hanging beams in the ceiling for a moment. She narrows one of her eyes as if to seriously consider my question before finally meeting my stare once again. “I think it depends.”

My brow furrows. “On what?”

“On whether or not the person is an asshole.”

I stare at her, not having expected such a brutally honest response.

“I mean, you’re either an asshole or you’re not,” she continues. “Good people do shitty things. It doesn’t necessarily make them bad.” She shrugs again. “So, if you’re not an asshole, then I think you can definitely redeem yourself. But, if you are, then you may as well just keep on being an asshole, because nothing’s gonna change the way you are.”

I press my lips together, looking down at my glass. No words have ever resonated with me more.

“But, Quinn?”

I glance up again, meeting Rylie’s eyes with my own. She cocks her head to the side, offering an ever so subtle smile. “You’re not an asshole, doll. I can tell.”

She offers me a conspiratorial wink before turning and heading over to a customer holding his empty glass in the air, and I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s just something about Rylie; I trust her. I like her. And, she’s right. I’m not an asshole. I just hope I can redeem myself. I need to at least try to make things right—for my father, my brother, for myself.

But, right now, before I begin making anything right, I need to get drunk. I need to forget. And as I down yet another shot of whiskey, that is exactly what I intend on doing. Redemption can wait until morning.

Chapter 4

Two, maybe three hours later, I’m drunk as sin. So drunk, in fact, I can’t even find my damn lips to drink from the bottle of Miller Lite my cute new cowboy-friend bought for me at the bar after offering me a panty-dropping grin I’m sure works for him most nights with all the girls.

That’s the great thing about cowboys. They come and go, from one town to the next, so often, a woman like me is a literal nobody to them. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know I’m Royal Wagner’s daughter. He doesn’t know I’m the girl who left Colt Henry at the altar. He has no idea the unimaginable pain I’ve caused to some of the people I love most in my life. This guy knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about him. He could be an ex-con for all I know, running from a jaded past like most cowboys who come through the Canyon. He could have a damn wife and kid back in some trailer park somewhere. Who knows? We’re strangers, he and I. And right now that’s just what I need. To be a stranger. A nobody. To forget everything, even if only for one night.

Outside, the earlier downpour is nothing more than a few deep puddles on the ground, but the air is icy cold and thick with the threat of more rain. I shiver, my teeth involuntarily chattering together as I try to smoke the cigarette my cowboy has kindly given me. I don’t smoke. But I guess I’m smoking tonight. I’m doing a lot of things I wouldn’t normally do tonight, such as barely managing to keep myself upright, swaying unsteadily as I breathe a plume of toxic white smoke up into the inky night sky.

Inside, the band continues playing an emotional, guitar-heavy tune that rings through the air, the music comforting on a night like tonight. But, out here, I’m all alone with my cowboy as he stands so close, one arm wrapped around my waist, keeping me from falling to the ground. And as the sad song drifts out through the saloon doors, I keep thinking back to the way Tripp looked at me back at the ranch. I’m not an idiot. I could see it in his eyes. He doesn’t just hate me. He despises me. In fact, I bet he’d rather I was dead right now, instead of our father. I know I hurt him with what I did all those years ago, I know what I did was wrong. I hurt Colt, I hurt my brother, I hurt everyone with my decision. But haven’t I paid enough for my mistake?

“You okay, sugar?”

I lift my chin to see the cute cowboy looking down at me, his lopsided grin faltering momentarily. And it’s at that moment that I realize I’m crying, my cheeks damp from my silent tears. I sniffle, shaking my head. I’m not okay. I’m far from it. My father just died. He’s gone. I’m not going to ever talk to him on the phone again. I’m never going to hear his gruff chuckle, the laughter he tries to hide through a fake cough. He’s just gone. And I’m here, drunk on a darkened street corner, with some random cowboy who so clearly just wants in my panties, smoking a damn cigarette.

This is the last place I should be, right now, and it’s time for me to go before I do something I’ll no doubt have to add to the already long list of my life’s regrets. But as I turn, murmuring a goodbye, I start to walk away, but his hold on me tightens, and I stumble against his reluctance to let me go.

“Whoa.” He takes the opportunity to wrap both his arms around me, pulling me even closer to him in the process. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Normally those words might sound sweet, endearing. He’s not going to let me fall. He’s got me. But there’s something in the way he’s looking down at me. Something in his darkening eyes. Something in the way his hands move down to my hips, holding me almost indecently, like a man shouldn’t hold a woman he’s only known for fifteen forgettable minutes.

“I s-should go,” I stammer. “I need to get home …”

“Home?” He scoffs derisively. “I thought you had a room here in town …”

I try to move away, but his hold tightens so much that I’m almost sure my skin will bruise. I meet his eyes and when I catch something dangerous within his hard stare, something I don’t like, my fight-or-flight responses begin to stir, and I know I have to stand up for myself or else he’s going to think he’s won.

So, with as much force as I can muster, I shrug out of his grip, causing him to falter just enough to lose his cool. And suddenly, my cute cowboy with the lopsided grin is replaced by a pissed-off jerk with fire in his eyes. He puffs his chest out, looking me up and down, and it’s clear within his dark gaze that no woman before me has ever fronted up to him. Lunging forward, he grabs my wrists, pulling me so close I can feel his hot breath on my skin, and it is at that precise moment that I’m reminded we’re out on a dimly lit side street, all alone, and I can’t help but think I might be in way over my head.

“Let me go!” I yell, forcing myself not to cower beneath the weight of his intimidating glower, but it’s difficult. I consider myself a strong woman, but the look in his eyes alone is terrifying.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead he throws me back against the side of the truck parked at the curb, flanking my petite frame, each of his hands planting on either side of my head. On the inside I’m petrified. I’ve never been in such a position. I know this could turn bad at any moment. But I’m also drunk. And with the alcohol comes Dutch courage that is strictly for show.

“What are you gonna do, huh? You gonna hit me? Rough me up a little?” I quirk a brow, challenging him with a wavering smirk.

He slams his hand against the metal right beside my head. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you little bitch …”

“What did you just call me?” A sudden burst of fury sears my skin, bubbling just beneath the surface from his words, alone. Call me whatever you want, but bitch? That is one word I simply will not accept. Immediately, I see red. My trembling left hand balls into a fist at my side, and before I can even consider the consequences, that same fist is connecting to the side of his face, knocking him senseless, even if only for a moment.

Unlucky for me though, he manages to collect himself with little effort, and before I can prepare myself for the impact, a big, calloused hand connects with my cheek with such force I can taste the metallic pang of blood in my mouth as silence rings through my head and my knees finally give way. With one slap he’s knocked me out of it. I can’t even see straight. It feels as if the entire left side of my face is on fire. But he keeps me upright, pinning me back against the truck, the back of my head slamming violently against the metal.

His steely eyes blaze through the darkness, his top lip curling as he looks down at me in disgust. And I know this is it, this is my demise, but for some reason I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the liquor. Maybe it’s everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, the last ten years, but I laugh still, the sound empty, hollow, void of any humor.

“Do it!” I hiss, tears spilling onto my cheeks, despite my maniacal laughter.

With the way he’s looking at me, I’m almost certain he’s going to do it, whatever it might be. I’ve never been looked at in such a way. Like he could happily finish me, leave me for dead right here in the gutter, and sleep like a damn baby afterwards.

But, before he can do anything, a shadowy figure lurches out from the darkness, and in what appears to be slow motion, the cowboy is taken down in one fell swoop.

What the hell?

I stagger sideways, breathless as I try to compose myself, looking down at the two men grappling with one another on the pavement to the soundtrack of muttered curse words and bare-fisted knuckles connecting with bone. My mind is a haze of liquor, confusion and emotion. But then, my savior comes into the dim light of the nearby street lamp, looking up at me with one of his arms wrapped tightly around the cowboy’s neck, holding him in place. And everything stops.

I’m rendered speechless, breathless, and everything in between.

Colt.

He forces the cowboy to look up at me, blood pouring from the man’s nose as he chokes against the thick, sinewy arm strangling him.

“Do you know who that is?” Colt’s gruff voice breaks through the silence of the night, a threatening growl. He pummels the cowboy once more in his gut with his relentless fist until he answers him.

“Who? Her?” The cowboy shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know—”

“I’ll ask you one … more … time!” Colt says slowly, continuing his incessant assault. “Do you know who that is?”

“No!” the cowboy cries, and I almost feel bad for him.

“Tell him!” Colt shouts, not looking at me. “Tell him who you are, Quinny.”

I stare down at the cowboy, his strength diminishing with every one of Colt’s strikes. His eyes bore into mine and I hold his gaze as I spit the remnants of blood from my mouth to the ground right beside him. “Quinn … Wagner.”

Recognition washes over him at the mention of my surname, his face suddenly falling in stark surprise. Oh he sure knows who I am now. “I’m s-sorry. I’m— I didn’t know, I—” He splutters through his words.

Colt’s fist connects with the cowboy’s face one final time before he releases his hold of the man’s bloodied shirt, leaving him in a heap on the ground as he makes his way up to his feet, brushing his hands over his jeans. Calmly smoothing his chestnut hair back from his face, he blows out a breath between his lips, casting a furtive glance up and down the empty street. He turns to me, barely even indulging me with one single look, doing everything he can to avoid my eyes, his own evidently conflicted.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” he mutters in a low voice, shaking out the swollen knuckles on his right hand. He turns and stalks up ahead, disappearing around the corner with nothing but the threatening air of anger left in his wake.

I cast one final glance down at the cowboy as he clutches at his side while whimpering in pain; sorrow and regret clear in his eyes when they meet mine. “I’m sorry,” he groans.

I stare at him long and hard, shaking my head dismissively before hurrying as quickly as my drunken feet can carry me to follow after the ghost of my past.

Main Street is dark. Everything is so still. It’s almost as if the whole world is asleep. Eerily silent. Icy cold. Ominous. The only sound ringing through the air is that of my sneakers as they squelch upon the wet pavement, through the puddles. Adrenaline, alcohol and something else races through me as I try to catch up to Colt, his long strides almost impossible to keep up with, even with the unsteady gait caused by the limp of his left leg. I stop then. A painful lump balling into the back of my throat at that thought. I caused that limp. That was my fault. I broke him. My heart suddenly hurts, but I try so hard to ignore the pain, running after him.

“Jesus, will you slow down?” I huff.

Of course, he doesn’t slow down. In fact, I’m almost certain he speeds up. And that’s it for me. If I wasn’t drunk, I probably would just do as I’m told and follow him, but the whiskey in my veins fuels the stubbornness I inherited as a Wagner, so I stop right there in the middle of the wide empty street, glaring at the back of Colt’s head as he surges toward the same shiny Dodge Ram emblazoned with the Wagner Ranch logo that had been parked back at the main house earlier.

I can’t help but wonder … was he there when I was there?

Colt must sense I’m no longer following because he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me, and when his eyes find me planted to the spot, a deep crease pulls into his brow. “C’mon, Quinn. I’m not playing.”

“I’m not going back to the ranch.” I shake my head defiantly. “I’m staying here. In town.”

Colt guffaws, holding his hands out at his sides incredulously as he looks up and down the dark, empty street. “Where you gonna stay, huh?”

“The Oakmont,” I answer matter-of-factly.

“They’re closed for renovations, genius.”

Of course they are. I’m in no state to get behind the wheel and drive across town to the Lodge. I curse under my breath. “Well,” I begin, shrugging. “Then I’ll just sleep in my rental.”

He offers a sardonic look, quirking a brow.

“There is no way in hell I’m going back to that place.” I shake my head vehemently. “I’m pretty sure Tripp is going to kill me in my sleep.”

Colt looks up to the dark night sky, pinching the bridge of his nose. He seems to hesitate, considering something, then he curses out loud, meeting my eye with a no-bullshit look as he approaches me, stopping just a few feet away. “God dammit, Quinn. I ain’t got time for this shit.”

“So go!” I yell, throwing a hand in the air.

“You’re still a stubborn piece of work,” he grunts under his breath. But before I can even think of a retort, he crouches down and I’m suddenly being lifted off my feet, into the air, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, the whole world literally turning upside down, which isn’t helping my current state of intoxication.

“What the— Let me down!” I scream, hands and feet flailing. But he ignores my demand, carrying me in the opposite direction of my rental car.

I hear the sound of metal hinges creak in objection before being up-righted and placed into the cab of Colt’s truck. I go to say something, but he just slams the door right in my face, glaring at me through the foggy window before moving around the front and silently making his way up into the driver’s seat. The loud engine comes to life, roaring thunderously through the night and drowning out the palpable silence between us.

“You know, I didn’t ask for you to swoop in and save me back there.”

He scoffs once under his breath, shaking his head to himself, and without saying a word, he shifts the truck into gear and pulls out onto the road and we drive in an uncomfortably steely silence through the pitch black of night.

The air between us is thick with tension, but I take the opportunity to glance at him from the corner of my eye, the dashboard lights illuminating his face, highlighting his infuriatingly striking features. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful he truly was. And wow. It’s as if he’s gotten even more so over the years. His strong jaw is now shadowed with a few days’ growth of scruff. Those dimples are still there, the ones that pull into his cheeks each time he rakes his teeth over his full bottom lip; something he’s always done whenever he feels awkward as hell and doesn’t quite know what to say. A prominent nose, with the slightest bump on the bridge from when he broke it after coming off a bucking bronco for the first time when he was just sixteen years old. Thick lashes frame eyes that capture the glow of the muted lights, reflecting peridot and gold and silver.

He looks exactly the same as he did ten years ago. Maybe a few extra lines and creases at the corners of his eyes, his widow’s peak a little more defined now than it was when we were younger, but he’s just as handsome as I remember him, and the years have been kind. The sheer sight of him brings back those same overwhelming feelings I spent the last ten years of my life trying to get over. Or maybe I’m just drunk.

Colt suddenly casts a fleeting glance across to me, catching me ogling him, and I snap myself from my reverie, clearing the bubble of emotion from my throat while shifting a little awkwardly.

“You know, I could’ve kicked that guy’s ass myself. I was doing just fine on my own.”

“Yeah, you really looked like you were handling it,” he murmurs sarcastically, his eyes focused intently on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel tight, causing his split knuckles to glisten as fresh blood seeps from the painful-looking cracks.

“Why do you care, anyway?” I scoff, leaning an elbow on the doorjamb to rest my chin upon my hand. I exhale a heavy sigh. “You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

At that, my brows knit together in confusion and I turn to look at him. He flashes me a casual glance, the anger in his eyes replaced by nothing more than an impassive indifference, blank and hollow, void of any semblance of emotion whatsoever.

He shakes his head once, shrugging one of his shoulders as he turns back to the road. “I stopped hating you a long time ago.”

“Y-you did?” I gape at him, sufficiently confused, and maybe even a little more excited than I’d ever admit out loud.

Colt nods, momentarily meeting my gaze once more. “I don’t care enough about you to hate you, no more.”

My shoulders fall at his words. I stare at him, blinking once as a million and one thoughts race through my mind.

Damn.

I’ve never felt more dejected in all my life.

I’d almost prefer he did hate me; I’m pretty sure it would hurt less.

Chapter 5

I wake with what can only be described as the taste of trash in my mouth. I don’t necessarily know what trash tastes like, but I’m assuming this is it. Pure trash lingers on my sandpaper tongue, as does the taste of blood, while pixelated memories of the night before come over me in nauseating waves. When a vision of Colt flashes through my mind, I think I might actually be sick. But I’m startled by the faintest murmur of a cheeky giggle that sounds light years away, pulling me back to the now and rendering me frozen.

What the—?

One heavy lid opens, my eye scratchy as I search the dimly lit darkness surrounding me.

Where the hell am I?

Suddenly, warm breath fans over my cheek, followed by a wet tongue slobbering all over my face. I jump up, screaming out, pushing what feels like a furry beast away from me, but after a moment I come to enough to realize the weird-as-shit situation I’m actually in; I’m hungover as hell, in a dark room where I don’t know where I am, and a freaking dog is licking my damn face.

I manage as best I can, pushing up to my elbows, finding a German shepherd almost as big as me, panting in my face, next to a shaggy-haired boy who looks exactly like Cash did in the photos from when he was a little boy.

“CJ …” I rasp, scrubbing a hand over my face, managing the best smile I can right now.

But he just squeals, deafeningly so, scampering out of the room as quick as his little legs will carry him, his loyal four-legged friend following closely behind.

I scrub another hand over my face, rubbing my gritty eyes before taking a look at my surroundings. I’m still dressed in what I was wearing yesterday, covered with an afghan, on a sofa in the den of the Foreman’s House where Cash and his small family currently reside. Stretching, I stifle a yawn before forcing myself up. My head throbs causing me to wince, but I push through the pain as I make my way to my unsteady feet, stopping to find what little balance I can collect before continuing out of the room.

The house is quiet, warm, and I can see outside it’s raining again, making the morning appear dark and gloomy. I make my way through the short corridor and into the big kitchen, which is where I find my nephew perched at the table, his eyes smiling at me as he eats a bowl of cereal, giggling quietly to himself. I stop when I find Shelby, Cash’s beautiful wife, standing at the island, a mug of something steaming in her hands. Her ebony eyes go wide when she notices me, gawping at me, and I linger on the spot realizing I must look a state.

“Hey …” I croak, waving my hand awkwardly.

Shelby’s eyes remain wide as she stares at me, her face stark, and while I try not to take offense, it’s not easy when you’re being looked at like you’re a circus freak.

“Cash Junior!” Shelby says in a chastising tone, turning to her son with bulging eyes. “What did you do?”

I glance between Shelby and CJ, my brow furrowing in confusion, but before I can say anything, Shelby places her mug onto the counter, grabs her cell and comes toward me, her phone held up in my face right as a bright flash goes off, almost blinding me.

“What the—” I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, seeing spots as I blink frantically before slowly focusing on the screen held in front of me, finding a picture of myself from seconds ago, my face covered in what appears to be Magic Marker doodles.

“CJ Wagner!” Shelby chides her son.

“It’s okay, it’s just marker,” I placate her with a light chuckle, walking over to the kitchen sink and dampening a handful of paper towels. I scrub at my cheeks, which makes me hiss out in pain, and the memory of being slapped into the middle of another decade last night comes rushing back to me, and I close my eyes tight a moment, taking a few deep breaths.

“I’m so sorry, Quinn.” Shelby’s voice startles me, and I turn to find her standing right there.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about—” I stop when I notice the sadness in her eyes, and I realize she’s no longer referring to the Magic Marker on my face. I manage a tight-lipped smile, fully aware of CJ curiously watching us from the table. “It’s fine,” I say again, nodding once before allowing Shelby to take me in her arms, hugging me tight for a moment.

“Coffee?” she asks while pulling away. Emotion is thick and heavy in her voice as she crosses to the shiny coffee machine sitting on the island, and she clears her throat to even her tone.

“Yes, please.” I amble across the kitchen, pulling out the chair next to CJ.

“How do you have it?”

I meet CJ’s curious gaze with a salacious wink. “Black. Like my soul,” I say in a deep voice directly to him, his eyes widening at my words as he continues shoveling Cheerios into his mouth.

Shelby joins us, placing a mug onto the table in front of me, taking the seat opposite her son. She leans over, ruffling his messy hair with her hand, smiling at him, and he giggles, focusing intently on his breakfast.

“Are you doing okay?”

I nod, shrugging noncommittally, fleetingly glancing at CJ. I don’t know if he fully understands what has happened. That his grandfather is dead. So, I tread carefully. “I think it’s still sinking in …”

Shelby regards her son. “Hey, baby, do you wanna take your breakfast into the living room and watch your cartoons?”

CJ’s brown eyes light up. “Can I?”

Shelby nods, helping Cash Junior off the kitchen chair, handing him the plastic bowl. “Don’t spill it.”

He grips the bowl carefully, looking down at it with every step he takes, disappearing through the doors and into the sitting room. Seconds later, the Paw Patrol theme song can be heard from the next room, and I can’t help but smile.

“How are you, really?” Shelby asks, and her hand on my arm causes tears to sting the backs of my eyes. I meet her kind gaze, her smile soft and genuine. I don’t know her that well, despite the fact she’s my sister-in-law and has been for six years. Our only communication has been via a Skype call every week, ever since CJ was born. I hate that I didn’t make it home for his birth, or the wedding. But I just couldn’t bring myself to get on that damn plane. It was just all too much. Yes, it was a coward move on my part, and an added regret to my long list of regrets. Cash wasn’t happy with me. But Shelby managed to turn him around, made him understand. She’s one of the kindest women I know. And the empathy within her inky eyes right now is warm and sincere.

I shake my head. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, I was only speaking to him on the phone a few days ago. And now he’s … he’s gone.” I stare down at my coffee, tracing the rim of the mug with my finger. “It’s so unreal. This place just doesn’t feel the same, now. It’s like it’s some alternate universe. The same, but different in a way that I don’t like because it’s missing the most important person.” I shake my head. “What are we supposed to do without him?”

I chance a glance at Shelby, finding her watching me with sadness in her eyes.

“He was the glue that kept this dysfunctional family together. Without him …” I shake my head again, at a loss for words, but thankfully she gets it. She shifts a little closer, covering my hands with hers, and we just sit there for a moment, saying nothing, as CJ’s cartoon fills the void of the words neither of us can seem to find.

“So, anyway …” I break the silence, taking a sip from my cooling coffee. “Where is my brother?”

“He went into town to get your car,” Shelby says, quirking a brow at me from over the rim of her coffee mug as she takes a small sip. “What the heck happened last night, anyway?”

I blink at her.

“You passed out in Colt’s truck.” She smirks, a knowing glint shimmering in her eyes. “He carried you inside, and when Cash questioned him about it, he went all broody and Colt-like, and stormed right outta here.”

My eyes widen as I remember back to last night, Colt’s words reverberating through my head: I don’t care enough about you to hate you … Those words sting even more now that I’m sober. Well, semi-sober, at least. I take a big gulp of my coffee, wincing as it burns its way down my throat, but the burn brings with it some semblance of clarity. And I shift a little in my chair, meeting Shelby’s questioning gaze. “I was at Duke’s. He showed up. Brought me back here.” I shake my head dismissively. She doesn’t need to know the rest, and I don’t want to relive it and think about just how badly it could have ended.

“You were at Duke’s?”

I nod.

“And Colt was there, too?” Her brows furrow.

I shake my head. “No. He just found me outside …” I say no more, purposely avoiding anything about being attacked by a cowboy, press my lips together, and an overwrought silence seems to follow my words. And as I stare into Shelby’s eyes, I can tell her mind is working overtime.

“What’s his deal, anyway?” I ask as casually as I can. “He’s still living in the cabin … Is he married?”

“Nope.” Her response is short. Curt. And for some reason, her silence speaks volumes, and I know there’s something she’s not telling me.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.” She shakes her head, looking down at her coffee. “He’s single.”

Before I can press her any further, the sound of tires crunching over loose gravel outside interrupts the moment, and we both glance out through the bay window to see my rental pull up, Cash hopping out and jogging toward the house through the rain with his head down. Moments later, my brother walks through the door that leads from the mud room, through the laundry and into the kitchen, raindrops clinging to his dark hair. His eyes find me, his brow furrowing as he studies my face, the Magic Marker clearly still glaringly obvious.

“CJ saw fit to color your sister’s face.” Shelby answers his unspoken question.

“O-kay …” Cash shakes his head, dismissing his confusion. “Well, we’re going to see Dad at ten o’clock.” He offers me a knowing glance, and I check the time on the clock above the wall oven, realizing I have less than an hour to get ready if we’re going to make it into town by ten. I thank Shelby for the coffee and take my mug to the sink.

CJ suddenly bursts into the kitchen, squealing in delight and launching at his daddy with his arms outstretched.

“Hey, buddy.” Cash effortlessly lifts his son into the air, kissing the top of his head, and I smile watching their exchange, despite the weight of what’s going to happen today hanging over my head.

“I think you should head back up to the main house.” Cash moves in closer, his voice low.

“What?” I gape at him. “Why? You don’t want me here?”

“Of course that’s not it.” He swallows hard. “I just … I think Tripp could use someone up there with him.” He scratches at his bearded chin. “I’m worried about him.”

I gauge him a long moment, considering his words. I know what he’s saying. What he isn’t saying. And, although I can’t be certain my twin brother won’t stab me the second I step foot inside the front door, he’s still my brother, my blood. I can’t stand the thought of him being up there in that big house all alone.

I sigh, nodding once. And, with a quick glance at Shelby, I manage a smile, reluctantly taking the car keys from my brother.

***

The main house is silent when I walk inside with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, pulling my oversized wheelie-case behind me. Inside the great room, the fireplace is void and cold. In fact, the whole house seems frigid and dark, and heartbreakingly empty. I continue through the main foyer, to the bottom of the stairs, listening out for any sign of life. But I’m met with piercing silence. Nothing.

“Tripp?” I call out.

Still nothing.

With my case weighing almost as much as I do, I begin up the stairs, cursing under my breath with every impossible step. Breathless, sweaty, and exhausted by the time I make it to the landing, I continue down the hall toward my old bedroom, which is when I’m stopped by the unexpected yet obvious sound of sniffling coming from the other side of the door to the master suite.

I pause, standing there a moment as I consider my options. Sure I could ignore the sound of my brother, a grown man, crying. Or, I could go in there and check that he’s at least okay. Either way, I’m sure I’ll be the bad guy for whichever choice I make. Cracking my knuckles, I go over and over the two options in my head before giving up and slowly pushing open the door, entering the room without so much as knocking.

“Tripp?” I poke my head around the door, finding my brother sitting on the edge of the big bed, hunched over, holding what appears to be one of Dad’s button-downs in his hands.

He jumps, clearing his throat loudly before violently swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. When his eyes meet mine, they’re red-rimmed and glossy, the whites painfully bloodshot, and I wonder if he’s even slept a wink since it happened.

I was Daddy’s girl. Cash was almost like his protégé. But Tripp … Tripp and our father never really saw eye to eye. They were always butting heads. Arguing. Fighting. I remember when we were seventeen, Cash was away at college, and Tripp and Dad got into a disagreement that turned so quickly, Colt actually had to pull the two apart. I don’t know what it was about. Like all of their quarrels. I’ve never understood the differences between them. All I know is that they each love hard, but they fight harder. Wagner men, through and through. But it’s heartbreakingly evident that the residual pain of their volatile relationship is making Dad’s passing so much more difficult for Tripp.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice gravelly and broken. He turns his back to me, busying himself with placing the shirt he’d been holding into the suit bag lying on the bed.

I step tentatively over the threshold. “A-are you all right?”

After a moment he mutters something about being fine, but I know it’s a lie. He’s anything but fine. I can see it in the way his hands tremble, the way in which his broad shoulders seem so small and frail, like the weight of the world is causing him to just about break. But at least he isn’t yelling at me.

“You know I’m here if you need—”

“God dammit!”

I cower instinctively at his brash words, but then when I see him struggling with the zipper on the bag, I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize his outburst isn’t directed at me for once.

“Here, let me,” I say, hurrying across the room.

He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, stepping away, and I carefully fix the stuck zipper, slowly pulling it closed, taking a moment to look down at the black bag that holds the clothes my father is going to be wearing while he spends the rest of eternity buried six-feet deep in the cold ground. I release a stammering breath, emotion rearing its ugly head. But I manage to blink back my tears, maintaining what little composure I have. I turn slowly to find my brother staring down at the bag, fresh tears sliding down over his cheeks. And never before have I ever felt someone else’s pain the way I feel his right at that moment.

Tripp looks at me, meeting my eyes just as a sob bubbles out from the back of his throat. And suddenly, as he falls apart right there in front of me, I quickly close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him close. He cries on my shoulder, sobs inconsolably, and I smooth a hand over his racking back, our differences set aside in that moment, for now at least.

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