Apple of My Eye (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Knox Alexander

If you worked on the Off-Duty Rescue Ranch, you didn’t miss Sunday evening “church” unless you were bleeding or dead. Even then, someone would argue that you should be there.

You wouldn’t find a building with a steeple, and no knee-breaking pews or hymnals in sight. Just a bunch of military vets and ranch hands sitting about on lawn chairs around a large fire pit with the Lone Grizzly Mountains behind us, the big sky above.

Technically a big potluck, nobody remembered who first named it “church.” Maybe Chris or Ash, the first of us to arrive at the ranch, but these Sunday evening gatherings with food and beer and fellowship became something sacred.

Even the Wylde sisters joined in, becoming more like family than friendly neighbors.

Their presence improved things immensely among this rowdy group. Which was why my ass remained planted on a bench, a beer in hand I’d barely touched, because Daisy Wylde sat five feet away, tipping a mason jar of strawberry wine to her rosy lips like she needed it more than air.

A Montana evening like this, with a pretty woman to stare at, was enough to make a man like me pause and think about life for a while. Didn’t help that two of the men here had women now—Ash with Willow seated across his lap, and Colt and Ivy shoulder to shoulder, laughing over an inside joke.

Yeah, seeing them paired off got a man thinking about the future too damn much.

Daisy sighed, flipping her red ponytail behind her.

“I’m just saying, Dad’s old hunting coat had a hole chewed through it as big as my fist, probably from a mouse.

It belonged on the trash pile,” she argued with her sisters, each with their plates balanced on their laps, discussing their day of cleaning out the attic of their family home.

“Which is why I’ve been pushing for us to do this for a while now.

Basement, too. God knows what we’ll find.

” Ivy’s eyes left Colt’s long enough to make that point, tossing her long blonde braid over her shoulder.

It was as if these two sisters used their hair to position themselves at the start of a battle.

“I know, Ivy. But the trees are heavy with fruit. We should have picked apples today. The house could have waited. The mice could have had a few more nibbles of Dad’s coat.

” Daisy retorted and emptied her glass. Then she reached for the bottle of wine and filled it for the third time, which wasn’t like her.

I rarely saw her have more than one drink.

“Quit arguing over Dad’s jacket, which is now in my room. I’m going to patch it up and use it to hunt,” Sage said, pushing thick-rimmed glasses up her pert nose. I’d always found her to be the more practical of the four Wylde ladies.

“Don’t you have like two already?” That was Poppy, showing her youth with every word and eye roll.

“Can’t have too many in my opinion,” I quipped to no one in particular, scratching through my beard. At least Colt to my right chuckled at that.

He also attempted to enter the conversation. “You made good progress today on the attic, from what I could tell of all the boxes in the yard when I picked Ivy up tonight.”

“Thirty years of family life to sort through was more work today than I expected it to be, I’ll give you that,” Ivy conceded. Daisy grinned, the victor in this small sisterly squabble. “It helped that we made rules. Keep, donate, or trash.”

“Sounds ruthless,” I said.

“It had to be. Otherwise we’d still be up there arguing over broken dishes and old newspapers Dad could never throw out,” Daisy explained.

“We kept the important things,” Ivy added, her voice softening just enough to shift the surrounding air.

“Yeah. Photos. Mom’s wedding gown. Dad’s journals,” Sage supplied.

“Those were not up for debate.” Daisy pointed with her glass. “I only skimmed a few pages, but apparently he noted what we were doing almost every single day since we were born. Of course, I kept them.”

Poppy piped up. “Which feels a little invasive, but also kind of sweet and amazing that he did that.”

“Dad wrote all his observations about life. I admired that about him.” Sage gazed wistfully away, and if I had to guess, with wet eyes.

“The man was obsessive about his note-taking.” Daisy shook her head. “But if it weren’t for following his notes in the ledgers at the orchard shed, we wouldn’t have the plentiful crop we’re seeing this year.”

A weighted pause settled in, thick and heavy, like something they weren’t admitting.

Sage cleared her throat. “It’s the anniversary of their passing this week.”

Fuck. The anniversary. That explained everything about her mood tonight.

Daisy went still, as if her body had forgotten how to move. Only our eyes met. Despair, heartbreak, stress… I could read each one of the emotions filling her wet eyes in a rare moment where she almost let me in.

If no one was around, I’d offer her a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold, and a chest to lay her head on and rest a while. But then, just as quickly, she glanced away, with her hand knuckle-white around the jar at her lips, gulping down the wine.

“I bet your dad would’ve been proud to see you girls working things out,” Ash added.

“Your orchard is something special,” Willow said.

“We have endured a lot.” Ivy reached over and gave Daisy’s hand a squeeze. Daisy only nodded once, her jaw twitching, trying to hold it together.

“Say, do you got any of your mother’s old apple recipes?

I’d love to try some out,” Eldon inquired.

As our resident cook, food was the answer to everything.

His question seemed to bring them all back, breaking the tension, talking about apple dumplings to apple fritters.

The noise of the evening rolled right back in like nothing had happened.

Then the conversation among the group turned toward the sheriff election heating up in town, and the upcoming barn dance here on the ranch to support the incumbent Sheriff Patrick.

“We’ll need everyone working that night. It could be bigger than the fall open house we held here last year,” Ash explained. “Chris is throwing money and all his support behind the Sheriff, anything to ensure Trevor Brewster doesn’t get voted in.”

All of us knew the owner of our ranch wasn’t a fan of Congressman Brewster, and that apparently extended to his son, Trevor, too.

At that, Daisy shot up and left the circle. I couldn't unsee what moved through her face at the name. It wasn't grief, exactly. Grief I'd seen from her before. This was more guarded than that a door she shot very fast.

I couldn’t unsee the pain she was hiding, the one advantage I’d gained over the past year, having observed her so often. I was pretty sure I knew her well.

Didn’t make things any easier to watch as she sauntered away from the group over to where a few of the ranch hands were doing shots of tequila. Ivy got up and followed her.

“Daisy’s going to regret that shot in the morning,” I muttered.

Colt slapped my back, following my line of sight. “Are you counting her drinks for a reason?” He asked low enough so that the other two sisters didn’t hear.

“Only observing.”

He let out a slow breath. “You tend to do that when she’s around.”

“We’re all like family here. I’m concerned is all.”

“Right.” He arched a brow. “Only I wouldn’t put on thick cologne like you do for my actual sisters.”

“Shut it,” I clipped.

He smirked, but didn’t push further. Good thing, because the truth was, I noticed everything when it came to Daisy.

Always had. From the first day she pulled up in that beat-up farrier rig of hers, handling hoof care for our horses with all the confidence and no-nonsense attitude a Montana woman could possess… to now and the way she carried grief.

It did something to me to see her like this. Made it damn near impossible to leave her alone. So when people started heading out and the night wound down, I saw her slip away toward her truck, unsteady on her feet. Ivy had already left with Colt. Poppy left with Sage.

Daisy almost tripped and face-planted in the prairie grass that grew plentifully on this hilltop overlooking the ranch.

Shit. I was by her side before she could reach her door. “I’ll take those keys, Daisy.”

She looked up, surprised for half a second before that familiar wall she always kept between us snapped back into place.

“I’m fine, Knox.”

“You’re slurring my name a little.”

“It has one syllable. Impossible to slur.” With her hands on her hips, she swayed just enough to prove my point, her jaw tightening like she was furious at herself for it.

“The world spinning?”

She blew out a breath. “A little.”

“Then let me drive you home.” I held out my hand. “I’ll be as safe as can be with precious cargo. Promise.”

She snorted. “Precious what? I’ve never been called that before.”

“You’ve never let me call you anything before.”

She considered me for a long moment, chewing her cheek, then finally pressed her keys into my palm.

“Fine. Get me home, cowboy.”

I held the passenger door open, offering my hand to help her up, which she didn’t take. I sure as hell buckled her in though, nice and tight.

“I could have managed myself,” she balked. “Like I do with everything else in my life.”

“Yep. But precious cargo, remember? So I need to make sure you’re secure,” I said, and ignored her further ramblings on the issue.

The engine of her rig rumbled to life, and we eased down the hill, out the ranch drive, over the cattle guard, and onto the mountain road, gravel crunching beneath the tires before it smoothed out.

For a minute, neither of us spoke.

She tipped her head back against the seat, eyes half-closed. “Dad used to say this was the most dangerous mile in the county.”

I glanced over. “Oh, yeah?”

“He said people get too comfortable with it. Think they know every curve. That’s when they mess up.”

The only curves I cared about were hers. I took my time on the road anyway.