Roaring Fork Roughstock (Roaring Fork Ranch #2)

10. Cici

10

CICI

T he custom shell casings I’d pulled out sat on Dad’s desk like accusing fingers. Until now, I hadn’t realized that each one represented a threat, a warning, a promise of violence. But it wasn’t just their presence that made my hands shake—it was realizing the ranch had been in the same amount of danger before my parents died as it was now.

I ran my palm over Dad’s worn leather desk chair, remembering how he used to sit here late into the night, going over financial reports and making calls to his network of contacts. The room still smelled like him—leather and the hint of aftershave he’d worn since before I was born. The scent made my throat tight with memories.

“What spooked you earlier?” Porter’s voice was gentle but insistent. He’d been watching me since we returned to the house. Before that, actually. He’d noticed my reaction at the fence line, those perceptive eyes missing nothing. The way he leaned against my father’s desk reminded me so much of how Dad used to stand there that it was hard to breathe.

I picked up one of the casings, turning it over in my palm. “I found these a while back but didn’t think they were significant. Not until today.” I set them in front of Porter. “These are match-grade ammunition. Custom loads, like you said. My dad used to special order them from a guy in Wyoming. Said they were the only rounds he trusted for long-range shooting.”

Porter went still. “You’re saying these came from your father’s supplier?”

“The engravings match. See this stamp?” I pointed to a tiny mark near the rim. “Dad told me once it was like a signature. The guy who made them was proud of his work, wanted people to know where they came from.”

“Do you remember his name?”

I shook my head. “Dad handled all that. But…” I pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, rifling through old receipts and documents until I found what I was looking for. “Here. This is the last order he placed.”

Porter studied the paper, his jaw tightening. “This was dated two months before the accident.”

“Exactly.” My voice cracked. “Which means either someone got access to Dad’s supplier, or?—”

“Someone knew your father’s contacts.” He set the receipt down.

The implications made me feel sick. Before I could respond, the sound of breaking glass echoed from the other room, followed by shouts of anger, which had us both racing in that direction.

Maverick had returned downstairs and was standing near the kitchen, whiskey bottle in hand, facing off with the sheriff. Shattered glass from a picture frame crunched under his feet.

“You don’t get it,” Mav was saying, his words slurring. “None of you understand what—” He stopped when he saw us, swaying slightly.

Something passed between Porter and Kaleb—a look loaded with meaning that made my skin prickle. They knew something. Something about my brother that they weren’t sharing.

“Mav,” I started, but he cut me off.

“Don’t.” He pointed the bottle at me accusingly. “Don’t use that tone. Like you’re so fucking perfect, so in control.” His laugh was bitter, hollow. “At least I’m honest about being broken.”

“That’s enough.” Porter’s voice was quiet but firm.

“Or what?” Mav challenged. “You’ll stop me like—” He caught himself, fear flashing across his face before the anger returned.

“Maverick.” I stepped toward him, glass crunching under my boots too. “Please. Talk to me. What’s really going on?”

For a moment, I saw my little brother again—scared, vulnerable, desperate for something he couldn’t name. Then the walls slammed back up. He hurled the bottle to the floor and stumbled outside.

“I’ve got him,” Porter said before I could move. He caught up to Mav, but they were too far away for me to hear what he was saying. Whatever it was made my brother’s shoulders slump in defeat.

I watched in amazement as Porter guided him farther away from the house. As much as I wanted to follow, I could feel Kaleb’s presence behind me.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked.

He nodded. “It isn’t my story to tell.”

“Whose is it?”

“Porter’s. And Mav’s.”

There was something in the way he phrased it. “Are they different?”

“You’ll have to ask them. I got a call I need to follow up on. If you need me to come back later, just let me know.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. Did he think we’d have another round of shots fired or animals hurt? I couldn’t think about that now. I was too worried about my brother.

Twenty minutes later, Porter returned to the house with a much calmer Maverick. How had he done that? How had he reached my brother when I couldn’t?

After getting Mav settled in his room, Porter found me in the kitchen, staring into a cup of coffee that had long gone cold.

“How did you get through to him?” I asked without looking up.

He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “Because I know what it’s like. The guilt, the anger, the need to numb it all.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been pretty much sober since before Christmas.”

Christmas? That made no sense. The accident happened between then and now. The one where Mav had almost lost his life.

A crash from outside interrupted whatever accusation I was about to hurl at him. We both jumped up, but it was just a branch hitting the window. The storm that had been threatening all evening finally arrived.

“Come sit with me,” he said, leading me into the living room, where we both settled on the couch.

As we listened to the wind and snow swirling outside, Porter told me about his own battles with alcohol, about hitting rock bottom, about choosing sobriety one day at a time.

I found myself sharing too—about the pressure of trying to keep the ranch afloat, about watching Mav spiral, about missing our parents so much it physically hurt.

I didn’t bring up the fact that he’d been drunk the night his truck hit Mav’s. It felt wrong. He must’ve slipped up, had a drink that night, and when one led to several more, he’d gotten behind the wheel of his truck and almost killed my brother. Those had to be demons he was dealing with now, doing his damnedest to get his sobriety back under control. Regardless of what I said, it wouldn’t change what happened, so I let it be.

Somewhere between the stories we shared, my head found his shoulder. His warmth and the steady sound of his breathing lulled me into a peace I hadn’t felt in months. The last thing I remembered was his hand stroking my hair, his voice a low rumble as he talked about his first horse.

I woke briefly when he lifted me, strong arms cradling me against his chest as he carried me upstairs. Part of me wanted to protest that I could walk, but a larger part savored the feeling of being taken care of. It had been so long since I had someone do that.

“Stay,” I murmured as he pulled the covers back, set me on the bed, then tucked me in. Yeah, I was still wearing the same jeans and flannel shirt I’d had on all day, but as tired as I was, I didn’t care.

His hand brushed my cheek with a featherlight touch. “Get some sleep, Cici.” I felt the mattress dip when he sat on the opposite side—on top of the covers rather than under.

As I drifted off again, I thought about the timeline he’d revealed. About that look between him and Kaleb. About all the little things that didn’t quite add up about the second accident that shook my already devastated world after the loss of our parents.

But for tonight, I let myself believe in the safety of his presence, in the possibility that not everyone who came into our lives was meant to destroy them. That maybe—just maybe—things would work out between him and me this time. When I rolled toward him, he drew me closer so my head rested on his chest, and I wrapped my arm around his waist. God, I missed the feel of him in bed, beside me.

Tomorrow would bring new threats, new questions, new reasons to doubt. But right now, in the quiet dark of a stormy night, I allowed myself to trust in the strength of Porter Wheaton and the mysteries of his heart.