Chapter 1
Chapter One
SEVEN YEARS LATER
brIELLE
T he GPS chimes for the third time, notifying me that I’ve managed to miss the turn. Again. I blow out a breath and pull over to the shoulder, easing the car into park and turning on my hazards even though I haven’t seen more than a handful of cars the last fifty miles on this two lane highway.
What is wrong with me today? It’s not like I’ve never been to Melissa’s family ranch. Granted, it’s been a few years. But could so much have changed that the turnoff is now impossible to find?
I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest, trying to get my bearings. My eyes burn with tears, but all I’ve seemed to do the last several weeks—months, really—is cry, and I’m freaking over it. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in this stupid car for the better part of twelve hours. My legs hurt, my back hurts, and I can’t seem to find a way to keep one hip or the other from going numb at the most inconvenient and frustrating intervals. I tap my toe, counting to ten. My phone pings, but I ignore it.
I can do this .
Finding this ranch couldn’t be as hard as finding those damn messages on his phone. Or having to face down that woman while I was cloaked in the black dress that made me out to seem like a mourning wife. And certainly not as hard as shaking her damn hand while feigning ignorance over her being more than just his coworker. That’s how everyone else knew her, at least. No one in his family knew that she’d been his mistress. Not until a month later when she announced she was pregnant and sued me, trying to force the estate to settle with her instead. As if that was how estate laws even worked in Colorado.
So instead of his mistress getting his millions, I have it all—along with the daily waffling between smug satisfaction knowing she got fucked over by him just like I did and guilt that I have his money when he clearly cared about her more than me.
My breath lodges in my throat, and I force my thoughts away from the entire mess. I can’t think about any of that right now, not when I’m already knee-deep in panic over finding the ranch. The road is long and flat with copses of trees appearing every few hundred feet before the long green prairie grasses overtake the land again. The mountains seem small here, even though I know they’re just as tall and majestic as the ones I hiked in Colorado the last decade. Everything is green and tan and contrasts against the bright blue, cloudless sky.
It’s beautiful. And I can’t manage to appreciate it.
That anxious bubble swells in my chest, and I shake out my hands.
“You can do this,” I whisper, trying to believe it this time.
I glance down at my phone and can’t help but smile at the text message from Faedra.
We’re rooting for you!
And then she sends a picture of the twins on her lap, and I laugh, the sound wet with my tears. Each girl holds a sign. Iris’s bright smile is in contrast to Rose’s more sober expression, though her eyes are happy. Iris’s sign says “Luv You Ant Brielle!”, and it’s done entirely in blues and purples. The “r” is backwards, and none of the letters are anywhere near the same size, but it warms me anyway. Rose’s is simple, a heart with my name in the middle.
Faedra sends another text.
Rose wants you to know that she made the heart purple just for you even though hearts are actually red because she knows it’s your favorite color.
I laugh. I can’t help it. Of course that’s something Rose would need to clarify. She may be the spitting image of Logan. But personality? She could have been Jude’s clone. I’ve never seen a five-year-old be so stoic in my entire life. It’s freaking wild .
They’re perfect. Tell them thank you!
She doesn’t immediately text back, so I drop my phone and focus on the road again. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices I’ve traveled the same three miles on this blasted highway and calls the cops. I wipe my hands across my cheeks, ignoring how they come away wet.
Won’t that just be the fucking cherry on top of this whole mess? Nothing quite like needing a damn police escort to your best friend’s place because the turnoff isn’t where you remember it being and the sign you always used as your marker is nowhere to be fucking found.
“Come on, Brielle. You can do this,” I say. I reset the GPS and prop it against the display screen of the car. “If you can face down that bitch, you can find Melissa’s place.”
When it no longer feels like I’m half a second from losing my mind, I ease back onto the narrow highway, turning so that I’m heading the opposite direction. Going significantly slower than the posted speed limit, I manage to notice a gravel road right where the map promises there should be a turn off, though there isn’t any sign like there was last time. Large trees that were little more than saplings last time I was here tower on either side of the road, blocking view of anything but what’s directly ahead of me.
How fast do trees even grow in four years?
“Melissa, I swear to God, you’re putting in a damn sign at the road if it’s the only thing I manage to do this summer,” I mutter.
A couple hundred feet from the highway, hidden by the trees, a large metal arch spans the road. The poles on either side are large and the same black metal as the gates attached. The gates are currently pulled open and held with serious-looking locks on each side. In bold letters, the name of the ranch arches over the road, following the simple arc of metal above and below it, dark against the pale blue afternoon sky.
Misty Mountain Ranch .
She hadn’t changed the name after all.
Breathing deeply, I follow the curve, my anxiety easing away. The turn off might have changed—dramatically—but the view when I crest the hill and the valley opens below me is the same. The mountains tower in the distance, the peaks still snow-capped. The valley sprawls away from the road, reaching so far into the distance that the details blur into a singular sage green. It’s perfect today, the wind nonexistent for once, and the sky clear of any smoke from the wildfires I know are burning farther north in Idaho and Montana. It makes the scene something out of a magazine. Or maybe a postcard, something that can be sent to beckon someone home.
Wyoming was never my home except for the summer I spent with Melissa after freshman year when Mom ended up back in rehab and I had no home to return to during the break. But I’ve always felt that, maybe, this would have been the perfect place for me.
At least back then. And, with any luck, now, too.
Something boils in my chest, something I haven’t felt in far longer than I care to admit, and certainly not since handing him the divorce papers on Christmas nearly five months ago. It feels suspiciously like happiness, but I refuse to name it.
My smile is wide as I navigate the road down into the sprawling prairie and ease the car to the right when confronted with the fork that splits it maybe half a mile from the turn off, following Melissa’s directions. I can’t help but glance toward the left, though, curious how much her family home has changed since I was here last.
There are more buildings than last time, three barns instead of one and a series of cabins painted a bland middle brown that somehow manages to blend well with the light green and yellows of the prairie grasses as well as the dark forest that sprawls along the mountains rising in the distance. I love the high-rises of the city, but there’s something special about these mountains. Can I put a name to it? Not really. It’s not like Denver has a shortage of mountains. It has the most fourteeners of any state—and by a landslide. But seeing this stretch of the Rocky Mountains lightens my chest until it doesn’t quite hurt to breathe.
It has nothing to do with the mountains . That voice nudges me, but I try to tune it out. I’ve done really damn well not thinking about what moving out here might mean for running into him . It’s been ten damn years. It won’t mean anything.
The road widens, and I pull off, heading toward the largest of the buildings, following the brown and white signs that label it as the Main Lodge. It’s painted that same sepia tone as the cabins I’d seen from the road, though the roof is more complicated, a series of black clay shingles rather than the simple metal sheets that reflect the light back. The open space that functions as the front lawn is landscaped with a beautiful set of wildflowers that are planted just close enough it exudes carefree intentionality. The pinks and blues and whites complement the warm feel of the building. Large flagstones carve out a pathway leading to the railed-in porch that wraps around the far side, groups of chairs clumped together.
As soon as I ease the car to a stop in the unpaved parking lot beside the house and turn off the engine, I lean my head back and let my eyes close, breathing carefully through my nose. Another well of emotion chokes me, but I manage to breathe through it without dissolving into a second round of tears.
Made it.