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Ari didn’t show up to the funeral a week after Gran died. She also didn’t show up to the reading of Gran’s will several months later.
The final twist of the knife lodged squarely in Isabelle’s back came in the form of Gran’s last will and testament. Each of her five sons got a modest inheritance, but the lion’s share of everything remaining went to Ari. Isabelle got nothing. Not even a modest sum. She hadn’t even been named. Fine with her. She honestly hadn’t wanted any money. She would have been elated with a single kind word from the woman she’d spent years trying to please.
If she were truly honest, Isabelle had also longed for even a tiny bit of the same lavish praise, love, affection, and undivided attention that Ari had always gotten from their paternal grandmother, but never appreciated.
The only thing her Gran ever told Isabelle on a regular basis growing up—albeit out of everyone else’s earshot—was, “Why can’t you be more like your sister, Ari? So confident. So brave. So full of life. She’s my sweet angel girl.”
Isabelle buried the hurt yet again with the memory. She always buried the pain. Knowing even at the end, she didn’t measure up in Gran’s eyes. Never had. Never would.
Ari was more outgoing, where Isabelle was shy. Ari was often in trouble for skipping school or getting caught after curfew, and drinking at parties she wasn’t old enough to attend. Isabelle buried her nose in books when she wasn’t studying, instead of attending wild parties like her older sister. Isabelle always thought that alone should have garnered her a special place in her grandmother’s heart, but it didn’t. Never had. Never would.
Isabelle tried to understand the reason Gran favored Ari, and maybe whatever the reason was a good one, but it still hurt all the same. It was never overt in anyone’s presence but hers, making it worse because her Gran’s attitude bordered on unkind.
Isabelle didn’t know what she’d done to deserve any malice, with the exception of being born second. As firstborn, Ari had been the first girl in her Gran’s arms. When Isabelle had arrived into the world, she’d been slightly underweight and spent a month at the hospital in intensive care until she’d been strong enough to go home.
Her parents must have come to understand the favoritism on some level because they always trotted out the Ari was the first granddaughter in her arms to clarify Gran’s abruptness as they’d called it.
Although, the explanation her parents gave in those few times it came up publically seemed more and more hollow each and every time she heard it. Her parents had loved her. She knew that. She took solace in the fact that they never treated her differently. She should be grateful.
Gran had always wanted a girl, but gave birth to five boys and no girls. When her boys had grown up and married, the first ten grandchildren born into the extended family had also all been boys. Until Ari came into the world.
Aribelle, who also happened to be named for their grandmother, was the very first granddaughter born to that side of her family after a sea of boys.
Isabelle figured it wouldn’t have mattered at all what she did after being born second. Even if she cured cancer, or successfully juggled chainsaws for a living without garnering a single scratch. Gran saved up and doled out all her attention, love, and affection for the “first” girl born, her namesake, and only tolerated the presence of the second one born.
Isabelle just needed to get over it. Fine. She had to some extent. But she’d also never gone out of her way to find or make peace with her sister, Ari.
Ari was alive out there somewhere, because Isabelle received postcards sporadically. Her sister didn’t ever say much. Usually, very trite things like, Wish you were here!, The beach life is great!, or Party on!, but on some level, Isabelle was glad to know she was out there somewhere doing exactly what she wanted.
Maybe one day they’d reconcile.
Maybe one day Ari would come to her with regrets over their past and make nice.
And maybe one day pigs would fly through the vivid blue skies alongside golden unicorns. Which was as far as her optimism ever got for this very personal, sisterly matter.
Chapter One
Old West Town – Enclave, Montana – Present day
Colton Landry was never as happy as he was astride a horse especially when he was able to put a kerchief up to hide his face and to ride along with the Old West Town owner’s gang, shooting up the town to add flavor to the experience for the tourists.
The shots were not live rounds, of course, but special ones their CEO Kendall Forrester had created for best realistic gunshot sounds during holdups and the like, but still safe for all involved.
