Bull Rush

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Hazel

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we can’t process this request without your husband’s signature.”

“Oh. I think there’s some confusion. I’m engaged, but I’m not married.” I smile at the woman as she slides the paper back to me.

“I don’t think there’s any confusion. It lists his name here. I can bring it up.” She types into her computer, and then she frowns and frowns some more. “Yeah, unfortunately, this might be more complicated than I thought, as it’s showing your husband is currently serving the rest of his sentence on parole for a felony. The loan won’t get approved if he’s on it. We’ll need to address that before we can process your application.”

“A felony?” I laugh nervously. “I assure you my husband—my future husband—doesn’t have any felonies. He’s never done anything wrong in his life. I’m not sure he even has a parking ticket on his record. ”

“Well, ma’am, it’s not my place to get involved in any kind of domestic disputes, but I assure you that our records don’t lie. You may want to have a talk with your husband when you get home.”

I’m not sure what I hate more, being in this stale bank office where happiness goes to die, filing a mountain of paperwork just to be told I have to refile it on a clerical error, or having to find a polite way to insist that she’s making multiple mistakes without using a tone that belies my underlying irritation and sounds like I’m one more ma’am away from asking for a manager. I flash a bright grin, trying my best to look like I’m just asking questions to help me figure out my error.

“Could you tell me when that information was filed into your system? Or how I might correct it? Because I’m not married. Curtis and I are still very much in the midst of wedding planning.”

“Curtis? No, ma’am. I have the name listed here as Ramsey Stockton.”

My blood runs cold, and I nearly choke on my own breath. Ramsey.

“That’s a mistake. We’ve been divorced for years.”

“You’re Hazel Stockton, though, correct?”

I nod. This is how I know I’m far outside my hometown of Purgatory Falls, parked in an office chair in a high-rise in the city instead. Because no one at home says the name Stockton like it’s Jones or Smith.

“Yes, but only because I’ve been slow to change my name. I hate paperwork, and so I decided I’d wait until I got remarried. But I’m definitely not married to Ramsey anymore. We divorced years ago.” I try to look the part of the confident, reassuring client who definitely should get her loan approved today. Who needs to get her loan approved today.

“Hmm. Not according to the records that were pulled. ”

“There must be a mistake.”

“You’ll want to phone the downtown office then. It’s rare that they make errors like this.”

“All right. But I assure you this is one. When can I speak to someone down there?”

“Let me see…” She pauses and stares at her computer screen for a few moments and then looks back up at me, a customer service smile plastered on her face. “That person is on vacation right now, but they’ll be back next week. They’re available on Wednesdays from one to two p.m. at the downtown office in Pueblo, and on Thursdays from nine to ten a.m. at the downtown office in Denver.”

“That’s it?”

“Those are the only times they have public office hours, yes. But you can also schedule an appointment online. It looks like…” She scrolls through the list. “They have an appointment available in about seven weeks.”

I have to choke back the audible sound of disgust.

“Seven weeks? Okay. Well, then I’ll go during their office hours, I guess.”

“Okay. Well, if that’s the case, then once the error is cleared up, we’ll be able to finish processing the paperwork for the refinance of the inn.”

“Do you know how long it usually takes for it to show on your end once they clear it?”

“It just depends on the office processing times, ma’am. Sometimes they’re very quick, and sometimes they’re not.” A saccharine smile breaks out across her face, and I have to squeeze the pen I’ve been bouncing on my knee to keep the smile on mine. “But once they’ve cleared it up, it should only take a few days for our database to be updated, and then we can get you scheduled to come back in.”

“Is it still going to be a week’s waiting time to get an appointment here?” I ask nervously. We need the money, badly. I don’t have time to wait, but I guess thanks to this paperwork error, I don’t have much of a choice.

“Yes. That’s likely so. It might clear up a little by then, but I can’t make any promises. Unfortunately, we’re very busy.”

Apparently, everything around here is unfortunate, including me, if I’m truly still married to Ramsey Stockton on paper. Except… I wouldn’t have the inn or the ranch without it—without him . It was his family’s ranch and their inn that he’d inherited. Then he left them with me when he took off for bigger things and brighter lights. My stomach rolls as I think of him. I need this to be a clerical error because I’m not prepared for what it means if it’s not.

Ramsey

The only thing standing between me and freedom right now is the sky-high pile of paperwork sitting on the table in front of me. The five-month-long sentence for my assault charge has been commuted to parole, and as soon as I finish the last of this exit interview, I get to walk out the doors and finally start living again. But the tired-looking processer currently swishing the last of his stale coffee around in a Styrofoam coffee cup is taking his sweet fucking time, going through every single question like I’m an imminent threat to society.

You’d think I killed some—I keep forgetting that I actually did, in fact, kill someone. In part because I’m still missing time from that day, something the in-house therapist has been working through with me, and another item on my long list of things they’ve suggested I continue through my parole. I suffered my way through a half dozen pre-parole meetings and checklists that made my eyes twitch from the inanity, packed up everything remotely sentimental in my cell, gave away everything extra I had from the commissary, and arranged to have someone pick me up today. If I don’t get to take a long breath of fresh air outside these four walls by dinnertime, I might just lose my mind.

“I see your home of record is in Purgatory Falls, Colorado—is that correct?” The man taps the paperwork in front of him with a blue ballpoint pen that’s seen better days.

“Correct. Or rather, it was. I live in an RV now.”

“An RV? You need a permanent residence for the period of your parole. Your lawyer should have explained that to you.” He rears back like I’ve told him I hate stuffy pencil-pushing bureaucrats. Which I do, but I have the good sense not to say it out loud. A few of the things my mother taught me stuck.

“I’m moving in with some friends. Parking on their property and using their hookups. I can give you the address. I’m sure they’ll give me a bed indoors if that makes a difference.” I try to stomp out any semblance of irritation from my tone. I’m happy to be headed for parole, but the idea they can control my life this closely when I’m not behind bars chafes.

“So you’re estranged from your wife at the residence of record then?”

I have to pause to process his question. It’s been a long time since someone has mentioned my wife to me. Anyone who knows that history knows better than to bring it up.

“My ex-wife lives there.” I keep my answer terse.

“Ex-wife?” He flips the page up and then pages through several more. The resulting flutter nearly blows a few of the pages we’ve already completed onto the ground. I press my palm to them, pinning them to the beige linoleum surface. The last thing I need is to spend thirty minutes watching him pick them up and sort them back into order, checking and rechecking while I wait.

“Ex,” I confirm.

A flash of her comes to mind like she’s standing here in the room with me. I can’t imagine what she’s thought about all this. That I’m a murderer now—justified or not. That I’m a felon, and my career playing ball is likely over, at least barring the Chaos is willing to take me back on a discount. Which seems unlikely, even if my last season was my best yet.

I can see her standing in front of me, arms crossed over her chest. Long, soft deep-brunette hair flowing over one shoulder, the rest tucked behind and cascading down her back. Her pale-blue eyes look me over and find nothing but disappointment in their wake. Her lips purse when they fall on the out-of-control five-o’clock shadow I have—the kind she loved and hated in equal measure. A lot like she felt about the rest of me. Until the hate overtook everything else.

“No. It says here she’s your current wife. Still married.” The processor taps his pen on the desk.

“We’ve been divorced for five years. Give or take. I don’t know the exact date.”

“Because there isn’t one,” he says sharply.

He turns the paper around, taps the blunt end of his pen to the marriage certificate, and then flips to where it shows a bold “M” next to my name. “You’re still married. You know lying in this interview could get your parole rescinded.” It’s half-threat, half-empty irritation on his part. I think he wants me out of here, he just seems to want to take all day doing it. Nevertheless, the threat has me sitting up straighter, and my lawyer puts his phone aside when he senses the tension and turns his attention back to us.

“My client is divorced to his knowledge. If you have documents that say otherwise, I’d like to see them,” my lawyer says before I can speak.

My heart skips a beat. A mistake in paperwork sounds a lot like I go back into a cell, and we start over on another day to be determined. Everything about this place is bureaucracy and piles of paperwork. I’m fairly certain there’s an employee just printing duplicates and crossing t’s and dotting i’s. That might be the first rung on the corporate prison ladder before you get to whatever this guy’s title is—somewhere in the inner circle of hell.

I’ve already been imagining the freedom of driving on the open road again, tasting the chili dog and steak I’m going to eat, the cold beer I’ll drink at Cooper’s, and the feeling of sunshine on my face when I walk out of here later today. Now they’re all fading away into the distance like the dreams I have of her when I first wake up. All because of a little black M where there should be a D.

Fuck.

“I’m not concerned about a mistake like that. I’d just like to get out of here today.” I look between the two men who seem more concerned about record-keeping than my freedom.

“You’ll have to look into that on your own time. All I can tell you is our documentation is never wrong. We don’t make mistakes. If it says he’s married, it’s because there’s still an active marriage license registered in the state of Colorado.” He flicks his eyes in my direction before he jots something else down in a highlighted box in front of him.

My lawyer turns to me, a question lingering in his eyes, and I shrug. I don’t have any answers. I didn’t want to air my dirty laundry in front of prison officials. All I know is she asked for a divorce and rode my ass for months to get my signature. Eventually I caved. I signed the papers and gave them to her. Hazel’s always been the responsible one of the two of us. I assumed she took care of it, and we never spoke about it or anything else again.

“She filed the paperwork, but I signed it. There’s no way she didn’t submit it.”

“Well, we need to know the exact date so we can get them the updated paperwork, and we’ll have to look into the records department for the county in Colorado.” My lawyer looks at me thoughtfully, always calm and calculated. I suppose that’s why I pay him so much.

I nod.

“I’ll make a call. Maybe we can settle this right now. Do you mind?” My lawyer nods to the door and waits for the processor’s response.

“Sure.” His eyes practically roll, and the sarcasm licks over the word. A few moments later, he excuses himself, and I’m left sitting and staring at the peeling paint on the cinder block walls. My mind’s obsessing over the possibility of being put back in my cell. Every hope and excitement I have for leaving this place is wavering in the balance as I imagine they’ll use any excuse they’ve got to make this difficult. It might be one of the nicer prisons, lax security and lots of perks you wouldn’t get if you didn’t have six figures behind the first number in your bank account, but still a miserable cage I’m desperate to escape.

My heart is pounding in my chest when my lawyer walks back into the room, shaking his head.

“County confirmed it. No divorce on record. Just the marriage license.”

“As I said…” The processor smirks, satisfied that his paperwork is all in order and I’m the problem. Never mind that it ’s just shattered everything I thought I knew about my life. But I’ve got to deal with one problem at a time.

“What does that mean for today?” I ask, looking between my lawyer and the processor.

“I checked with my superior while your lawyer was making calls. We’re still good to release you, but your parole officer will want to review the discrepancy. You said you’ve lost your job. Is that correct?” He asks the question like that’s not obvious. I can’t imagine many jobs willing to hold over for a five-month vacation, let alone one at this brand of resort.

“I can’t play this season. I’m hoping for next if I’m able.” Football season’s fast approaching, and the guys are already in the middle of camp. A couple more weeks and it’ll be preseason, and opening game will be here before they know it. Even if I wanted to play and the Chaos wanted me back, I wouldn’t be able to get back in shape that quickly. I’d need a couple months at least, and by that time, the new guy would be in his groove along with whatever rookie they drafted to replace me.

“They usually prefer you reside at the home of record unless you have an outstanding reason, like a job, to remain out of your home state.” The processor doesn’t bother glancing up from his box checking.

“This is my home state now. I’ve lived here for five years. Wouldn’t they prefer I be here?”

“Usually, yes, but you’ve never had a permanent address here. Part of your parole is that your home life remains consistent and predictable. Drifting from one RV lot to another won’t meet the terms.”

“They approved my plans to stay with friends until I can find employment and a permanent residence.”

“But you own a family home in Colorado and have a wife who lives at said property. I assume it’s where you’re from originally? ”

“Yes.”

“So I’m just the messenger telling you not to be surprised if they press on that issue once they’re alerted to the discrepancy.” Just as he reaches the end of the paperwork, he flips back two pages and starts reading through something again.

My eyes dart to my lawyer, and he shakes his head, indicating I need to keep my mouth shut. So I do, politely nodding my understanding and forcing a half-smile instead of arguing the point further.

“All right. Let’s finish moving through the rest of this so we can get you out of here, sound good?”

I nod again. That promise lifts the iron weight from my chest. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get out of here today. The rest is tomorrow’s challenge.

Because the idea that Hazel’s still my wife? Well, that has possibilities—ones I can only explore once I have my freedom again.