Honestly, I’m not sure either… but I think I might be attracted to Seth.
And I think he might feel the same way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tex
The scrapeof the pitchfork against the concrete is a sharp, angry sound in the cavernous space of the barn. Each thrust of my arms, each scoop of soiled straw, is a futile attempt to shovel out the memory of her.
The thought that she’s gone forever isn’t a gentle wave of sadness; it’s a shard of glass lodged under my ribcage, a constant, piercing ache with every breath I take. So I clean.
I work until my muscles burn and my back screams, because the physical pain is a welcome distraction. It’s a pain I can understand, a pain I can control.
The other pain… the one centered around a pair of green-gold eyes and a soft, sad smile… that’s a wild, untamable thing.
The air in here is thick with the ghosts of a thousand summers—the sweet, dusty scent of hay, the earthy musk of horsehide, the faint, sharp tang of manure.
It’s the scent of my entire life, but today it feels hollow, incomplete. It’s missing the one element that, for a short while, made it feel like home again.
Her scent.
Honeysuckle and warm cedarwood.
It’s gone now, driven away by my brother’s fury and my own pathetic inability to do anything but watch her go.
I kick at a loose piece of straw, sending it skittering across the floor like a frightened mouse.
I need to get the last bales of alfalfa from the loft. It’s a two-person job, but there’s no one else here.
Seth is probably holed up in the house, staring at spreadsheets that won’t fix what’s broken, and Billy… Billy is wherever he goes to brood, a dark cloud of misery I’m too tired, too ashamed, to chase away.
I climb the wooden ladder, the rungs smooth and worn under my boots, each step a leaden weight. The loft is dim, the only light coming from a single, dusty window that looks out over the valley, painting the stacked hay in long, golden stripes.
The bales are at the far end, a fortress of winter feed. I’m halfway there, my boots sinking softly into the loose hay on the floorboards, when I see him.
Billy.
He’s sitting on a bale in the far corner, half-hidden in the deep shadows where the light doesn’t reach. He’s not moving, just staring out that window like he’s waiting for something that’s never coming back.
A half-empty beer bottle dangles from his fingers, his knuckles wrapped around the neck so tightly his tendons stand out. His other hand is curled into a fist, resting on his knee, and I can see the dark, mottled bruise spreading across his knuckles.
The bruise I gave him yesterday. It’s an ugly thing, a mix of purple and angry red.
I stop dead. Every instinct screams at me to turn back, to grab the bales and go, to leave him to his solitude. But I don’t.
I force my feet to move, one step at a time, until I’m standing a few feet away. I expect him to turn, to snarl, to throw that bottle at my head.
But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a statue carved from granite and grief, his profile sharp and unforgiving in the dim light.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, filled with the buzzing of a trapped fly and the distant lowing of a cow.
I should just get the hay and leave. But I don’t.
I walk over and sit down on a bale across from him. The hay shifts under my weight, a soft, whispering sound in the quiet.
He doesn’t look at me, just takes a long swallow of his beer, his throat working. “What do you want, Tex?”
His voice is flat, devoid of all emotion, a carefully constructed wall.
