2. Cici
2
CICI
I slammed the farmhouse door behind me, my hands shaking as I peeled off my snow-crusted coat. Damn Porter Wheaton. Damn him for showing up here. Damn him for saving Thunder Cloud. And damn him most of all for reminding me of how things used to be.
The kitchen was dark and cold. I hadn’t bothered relighting the wood stove when I saw his truck approaching. Now, I crouched in front of it, willing my fingers to stop trembling long enough to get a fire started.
“Cici?” Maverick’s voice came from the doorway. “I heard voices outside. Was—” He stopped when he saw my face, squared his shoulders, and continued. “Was that Porter Wheaton I saw headed into the bunkhouse?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The kindling finally caught, and I added larger pieces of wood, anything to avoid looking at my brother.
“What’s he doing here?”
I rolled my shoulders, wishing I had more time to come up with a story to cover what was really happening to our ranch.
“I’ll go talk to him.” Mav’s crutches clicked against the wooden floor as he moved farther into the kitchen. He didn’t need them all the time. Mainly when he was worn out, which had been happening more frequently lately.
“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. I stood, facing him. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”
Maverick’s face darkened. At seventeen, he was trying so hard to be a man, to carry his share of the burden. But I saw the pain in his eyes every time he looked at his mangled leg and saw his dreams of bull-riding championships dying a little more each day.
“I can handle myself,” he muttered.
“I know you can.” I softened my tone. “But Porter Wheaton is not coming within fifty feet of you. Not after what he did.”
Something flickered across Mav’s face—guilt maybe, or fear. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Why is he here?” he asked a second time.
I sighed, wishing I could shield my brother from this news, but Porter being here made that impossible.
“He brought this.” I pulled the crumpled bank papers from my pocket, scanning them again. “He says he can help.” I laughed bitterly. “As if he hasn’t done enough ‘helping’ already.”
Mav took the document and studied it.
“This is bad, Cici.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Did you really think I didn’t know?” he accused as much as asked.
“What do you mean?”
He sneered, an expression I saw too often lately. “I knew how much trouble the ranch was in. Is in.”
“We’re managing.”
“Are we? Because these papers say differently.”
I sighed, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s just temporary cash flow issues. Once spring comes?—”
“ Spring? This says we have thirty days, Cici. We don’t have time to fuck around?—”
“Watch your language,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at the floor, then maneuvering himself into the chair across from me. “All I’m saying is why not let him help us? Porter knows this business. He has connections?—”
“Connections?” I stood so abruptly that my chair scraped against the floor. “The only connection that matters is the one between his drunk driving and your destroyed leg. Or did you forget that part?”
Mav flinched. “I haven’t forgotten anything, but it seems you have.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m seventeen, not seven. You treat me like a damn kid.”
“I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t be. Just quit lying to me all the time.” His tone made me pause, and his words hung heavy in the air, weighted with something I couldn’t allow myself to think about. The way his voice sometimes caught. The way he so often refused to meet my eyes. I wasn’t surprised when he turned around and left the room, angry like he always seemed to be.
I stood and looked out the window at the worsening storm. The wind from it rattled the windows. We needed new ones; there just wasn’t any money to pay for things that, now, felt more like a luxury than a necessity. I went into the kitchen, stunned to see Mav standing there.
“I need to check on the horses,” I said, reaching for my coat.
“Cici—”
“Get some rest, Mav. I’ll bring up some soup when I’m done.”
“You can’t keep avoiding this conversation forever,” he called after me. “About Porter, about the ranch, about Mom and Dad.”
I froze with my hand on the doorknob. “What about Mom and Dad?”
“Don’t you ever wonder why they were out on that road that night? The timing never made sense, Cici. Dad knew better than to drive in weather like that, especially with Mom?—”
“Stop.” My voice cracked. “Just stop. They hit a patch of black ice. It was an accident. End of story.”
Mav met my gaze steadily. “Because I’m not blind, sis. And neither were they. Something was going on at the ranch before they died. Something bad enough that Dad was worried we might lose it, the same way?—”
“That’s not true,” I snapped. But even as I said it, memories surfaced—hushed conversations behind closed doors, Dad’s worried frown as he reviewed the books late at night, Mom’s insistence that we learn to shoot, to defend ourselves. “They would have told us.”
“Would they? Like you tell me everything?” His eyes were too knowing. “Like you told me about the rest of the letters? And I don’t mean from the bank. I mean the threatening ones.”
My breath caught. I’d found the first two weeks ago, shoved under the front door. Crude letters cut from magazines spelling out, “SELL OR SUFFER.” I’d burned it before Mav could see it. It hadn’t been the last of them, though.
I escaped into the storm before he could say more. The truth was, I couldn’t bear to see the defeat in his eyes. Not when I was supposed to be the strong one—the older sister. Not when I was failing so miserably at keeping our family legacy alive.
And not when he was getting too close to the questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Questions about our parents’ death, about the ranch’s sudden decline, about why Porter Wheaton’s arrival felt less like coincidence and more like another piece of a puzzle I couldn’t quite fit together.
Snow stung my face as I made my way back to the barn. Through the swirling white, I could see Porter’s figure moving between the outbuildings, no doubt taking stock of everything we’d let fall into disrepair. Everything I’d failed to maintain since Dad died.
The sight of him made my chest ache with a confusion of emotions—anger, yes, but also a traitorous flutter of something else. Feelings from the past that I’d buried long ago. Just not deep enough.
The way he’d moved so quickly to save me from Thunder Cloud, the gentleness in his hands as he’d freed the stallion’s leg, the raw honesty in his voice when he’d spoken about my dad—it all brought back memories that threatened to rip me to shreds.
Those thoughts were too dangerous. Porter Wheaton had wrecked me in ways that had nothing to do with drunk driving and everything to do with how easy it had been for me to accept his help. Why had I? Was I really that weak? God, I made myself sick.
I gritted my teeth and pushed forward. It wasn’t like I had a choice. No one else had shown up, offering their help. I had one month to turn things around. Surely, I could endure his presence that long. And then, he’d be gone, taking his guilt and his memories and his damn hero complex with him.
But Mav’s words echoed in my head. Something had been going on at the ranch before our parents died. Something that might explain the letters, the financial troubles, and the whispered rumors in town about a curse on Morris land. That was the one that hit me the hardest. There were times it sure was easy to think our family was cursed.
As I reached the barn door, Thunder Cloud’s wild eyes flashed in my memory. If Porter hadn’t been there…
No. I wouldn’t go down that road. I couldn’t afford gratitude, couldn’t afford to see him as anything but the man who’d destroyed my brother’s future. The man who’d shown up uninvited to witness our slow decline, holding a letter from the bank he had no business getting his hands on.
One month. That was all. I just had to keep my walls up that long.
“You okay?” Porter’s voice carried through the snow, closer than I’d realized. He stood a few yards away, watching me with those damn perceptive eyes. “You’ve been standing there…”
“I’m fine.” The words came automatically, the same lie I’d been telling for months. Years, maybe.
He nodded slowly. “Sure you are, Cici.”
Before I could tell him to fuck off, he turned away, disappearing into the white curtain of snow like a ghost.
I just had to keep reminding myself that Porter Wheaton was the enemy. No matter what my treacherous heart felt when he’d tackled me out of harm’s way. No matter how his voice had softened when he spoke about my dad. No matter how the bad news kept piling up, threatening to bury me like the endless February snow.
One month, then everything could go back to normal.
If only I could convince myself that “normal” wasn’t just another word for watching everything I loved slip away, one piece at a time.