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Roaring Fork Ranch, one of six hundred Centennial Farms in the state of Colorado—meaning owned by the same family for over one hundred years—hadn’t always prospered. It was the second largest in Gunnison County, and our family, like so many others, struggled with whether to divide the property and let a portion of it be used for development. It was something our pop had vehemently opposed, regardless of whether the ranch was profitable.
Stubborn didn’t begin to describe Roscoe B. Wheaton, Sr. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted. He had no interest in hearing the opinions of his offspring or that of other ranch owners.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“Bad enough that we might lose it.”
Whether my siblings lost it or not would be dependent on how our father had divided the ownership. One thing I knew for certain was that none of it would be coming to me, and for that, I was thankful.
“You leave, and you won’t be welcome back,” the bastard had said the day I told him I was given a full-ride scholarship to a university on the East Coast. He took it a step further when I actually left. “You turn your back on it, you’ll never own a square foot of Roaring Fork,” he’d warned.
I didn’t hesitate to tell him I didn’t give a shit. I still didn’t. But that was between my father and me. Nothing that had happened was Porter’s fault.
“The brothers and I have some ideas.”
“Look, Port, I’m happy to let you run stuff past me, or even give my opinion if you really want it, but what happens at the ranch isn’t any of my business.”
It was dark in the truck, but I could see the look of confusion on my brother’s face.
“He cut me out, Port. You know that.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The lawyer is going to read us the will after the funeral, but we had to assure him you’d be here.”
What the hell? What had the old man done? Left me a dollar to humiliate me? The fucker was dead, so I wouldn’t be able to tell him that no matter what he did, he no longer had any kind of hold over me.
“What are your ideas?”
I laughed out loud when Porter turned his head and his face broke into a wide smile.
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
4
Stella
I knew better than to have so much to drink. Not only did I have a headache and feel sick to my stomach, it also gave me indigestion. Long gone were the days when I could consume whatever I wanted. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, I had to stay away from things like pizza too late at night, alcohol any time of the day it seemed, plus a myriad of other things my digestive system used to be able to handle.
Even eating an apple, usually a fail-safe cure for heartburn, was no match for the combination of whiskey, bitters, and vermouth.
“Fucking Buck,” I muttered. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his fault I felt like shit. At least not physically. Scratch that. It wasn’t his fault my stomach was bothering me. It was his fault I was so horny that even my vibrator, equally as fail-safe as the apple, did nothing to combat how much I wanted to feel his naked body against mine.
I’d hoped that after the wedding, he and I would end up back here, purging our desire for people who could never be ours by ravaging each other’s bodies. I’d even managed to ignore the possibility that Buck might not be interested in having sex with a woman so much older. The last relationship I’d had was with a man sixteen years older than me. I hadn’t had to worry about my age with him—I was practically a kid in comparison.
So here I sat with a huge itch that needed to be scratched. Buck was gone God knew where other than here, and it wasn’t likely he’d be coming back. He’d only been in DC initially to protect Ali. When she went home to California, he went with her. It wasn’t a job that had brought him here last week; it was the bachelor party and today’s wedding.
I grabbed my laptop, got in bed, and searched for him on the internet. Nothing. Just like I expected.
“What the hell,” I muttered out loud, pulling up the dating website I trolled from time to time. Given Buck was no longer an itch-scratching option, maybe I should consider doing what others did and find a stranger who could take care of it for me.
After a few minutes, I slammed my laptop closed, turned off the light, and opened up the reading app on my tablet.
When I opened my eyes again, the sun was streaming through my window. I reached for my phone, remembering then that I’d turned it off last night. I dreaded the idea of turning it back on enough that I let it sit on the nightstand when I went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
At the same rate the steamy brew filled my cup, guilt over Aunt Barb filled my chest. It wasn’t just that I’d abruptly ended our call last night, today was Sunday—the day of the week I usually paid her a visit.
