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Make peace with yourself.
I wish the words would stop flashing like a neon sign in my memory. I’ve had forty-eight hours of hearing them and forty-eight hours of wishing she would explain or clarify or take them back.
From the outside looking in, I probably look cold and uncaring. Who goes back to work on the worst day of her life? Who leaves the comfort of family to spend time in a barn?
Me, that’s who.
Because this barn is home. These horses are family, and that shit up at the big house is a reality I’m not interested in living.
Mom would understand.
When I’m done and the sun wants to set, I head back to Pop’s with Luna on my heels. She’s been quiet for the last handful of days. Smart dog. She can read the room. We don’t deserve dogs. Like horses, they’re wise and kind. They get me.
After dinner of who knows what—I can’t taste anything and can barely swallow—we all meander our own ways.
Exton is staying here with Pop. Pop is…. Well, I can’t go there today.
“I’m going to head to the office and then home,” Brax says, tentatively, almost as if asking permission. No one knows exactly how to move around each other here.
Exton nods and lifts a hand.
“I’ll follow you out,” Layton offers. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Love you kids,” Pop says, his voice rough and quiet. “See you tomorrow.”
I walk to him and kiss his cheek. “I’m a phone call away.” I don’t say I’ll see him tomorrow. He already knows. I’m here at least six days a week already, and that won’t change. “Goodnight. Luna, let’s go.” I head for the door and into the cold, dark night.
THREE
LIKE EVERY FANTASY I’VE EVER HAD
BRIGHTON
Isit on my sofa, all the lights off except for a lone lamp on the end table, a tumbler of vodka in one hand. The bottle sits on the coffee table. It was this or tequila, and, straight with no chaser, tequila is disgusting. Vodka isn’t much better, but my liquor cabinet is sorely lacking.
Lights flash on the path to my house, and Luna lifts her head. A low rumble vibrates through her throat. It must not be a car she knows. She whimpers when Brax or Pop drive up and dances at the door by the time they’ve put their trucks in park.
This car doesn’t have the rumble of their big diesel engines either. It’s too quiet, too small.
I slide my handgun from the foyer table, verify a round is in the chamber, and wait.
The knock a few seconds later isn’t met with Luna’s growl or bark. She rises from her laying position to sit, but isn’t on high alert.
“Who is it?”
“Elias.” There’s a pause. “It’s Eli.”
I pull the door open, and there against the still, black night, silhouetted only by the porch light is Elias Finchley.
He’s clean shaven, hair precisely cut, with fairer skin than mine. His pale green eyes are my favorite color in the world. He’s lean and cut, but not in the flashy way that Layton is or the bulky way Braxton is. But in the Eli way. In the way of a man who runs and takes care of himself because he should. Because it keeps his body healthy and his mind sharp, and he needs both in life and business.
His eyes take me in, drinking in the red splotches on my face, the clothes I threw on after getting home. He never makes it to my bare feet. His gaze snags on the pistol still in my palm.
“May I come in?”
I turn, set the gun on the entryway table, and push the door closed behind him, not moving from my place in the foyer.
“This is new.” My voice is small. I don’t have it in me to offer any more.
