I continued to read the first letter.
I was two. That was how she started most of them after acknowledging the check. An age. A marker. Not a memory.
She didn’t write about who I was becoming. She wrote updates. Bullet points dressed up as concern. I liked lining things up. I hated socks. I climbed where I shouldn’t. Here’s something about the kid, followed by the number at the bottom of the page.
Ten thousand this year. Rent was up. School fees. Medical bills. Always a reason. Always urgency.
My dad appeared only as a justification. She said he was angry, impossible, that she needed help, and my grandfather owed her, because it was all his fault for sending my dad away.
Seems like throwing things out ran in the family.
There was never warmth in my mom. No comfort. No safety. Whatever anger my father carried, she didn’t absorb it or blunt it. She stepped back and let it hit, then faded into the background entirely.
Reading what she’d sent left me numb. I was a bargaining chip. Blackmail. Information for money.
I closed the box and took it to my room, shoving it under the blankets I’d used that first night. Then, restless, I headed outside, my breath still fogging despite the shoots of spring showing, and caught sight of Gunner. “Gunner!” I called and saw him stiffen before turning to face me with a wary expression.
“Mr. Barrett?”
“Lucas. I said to call me Lucas.”
He blinked at me. None of them called me by my name; it was Mr. Barrett this and Mr. Barrett that.
“Okay,” Gunner said, although I knew he wouldn’t.
“Where is Jesse today?”
“Not sure,” Gunner lied and winced when I raised an eyebrow and waited him out. “God damn it. Last I saw, he was heading to his office.” He was acting as if handing out the information was akin to betraying Jesse, and I patted his arm in understanding.
“I’m not gonna hurt him,” I said with a grin.
“He’ll hurt me for telling you,” Gunner muttered as he turned away.
I headed straight there, stole coffee from the kitchen because I could, then knocked on Jesse’s door and slipped in before he even had time to say “enter.” He hadn’t spoken yet, and my brain betrayed me—his hands braced on the notebook, scarred and capable; his mouth set in that hard line that softened when he looked up; his eyes sharp and unreadable. Heat flared low and unwanted, and I had the ridiculous urge to lean in and kiss him, and I hated myself for it.
He glanced up. “I’m busy,” he said and closed a big notebook on the desk.
He stared at me in that way all the men working here had when they were all stoic and channeling cowboy.
“Can you tell me about the day my grandfather died?”
He was confused. “Youknowwhat happened.”
“I’ve seen reports, and I know my grandfather was in some kind of barn fire, got out, and had a heart attack. Whatwashe doing in the fire?” I waited, but Jesse seemed to be having trouble swallowing. “I mean, you said something about your dad, so was it an electrical thing, or…”
“Walter went in to save the horses and rescue Miguel, who was in there sleeping with a sick horse. Docs said it was too much strain on Walter’s heart.”
Oh no. Poor sweet Miguel was in there helping horses and could have been hurt? “And Miguel was okay?”
Jesse’s eyes widened. “He was good, the horses were good.”
“Where were you?”
He swallowed again. “At a breeding conference with Gunner. Why? You gonna say I didn’t do enough, or blame me for Walter dying?”
“What? No,” I said quickly. “It was a random fire. He left you part of the ranch. That says something. I just—” I broke off, heat creeping up my neck. “He meant something to you, and I hope you didn’t have to see him pass. That’s all.”
Jesse stood. “Yes, we were close,” he said, voice rough. “He was better than a father to me.” He grabbed his Stetson and shoved it on too hard, shoulders stiffening as if he were bracing for a hit. His breath was short, controlled, and he took one step away from me, as if proximity itself was a risk. “If that’s all.” Then, he eased past me, but I was blocking the exit.
