The Convict Gets His Girl (Crimson Creek #8)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Spring

Chase's brother, Hunter, laughed as he pushed the door open, not bothering to wait for a response. "Knock, knock, anyone home? Of course, you're home. Where else would you be?"

Chase tipped his head up in a nod, eyes still on his laptop. "Gimme a sec."

The numbers were lining up, forming the pattern he'd been searching for. With a few more keystrokes, it all clicked into place. A smile stole over his face as the final calculations confirmed what he suspected—the return was larger than expected. Enough for the client to send his kid to therapy. That thought settled something inside Chase, even as he pushed away from the computer.

The one-room cabin was warm from the fire roaring in the open hearth. Hunter stood close, rubbing his hands for warmth. The March rainstorm had dropped the temperatures and caused flash floods, making the air damp and cool.

"What brings you out in this weather?" Chase asked, twisting his back from side to side to stretch.

"Ma wants you to come to Sunday dinner."

Chase snorted. "That's a given. Haven't been able to weasel out of it in six months. What else?"

Hunter grinned. "Thought you'd come to the Electric Cowboy with me this weekend. Feels like I haven't seen you all week."

He didn't say it, but his brother probably knew how he felt—being surrounded at a bar, pressed on all sides, too many moving bodies, too many variables—it reminded him of fights in prison. A bar full of strangers wasn't relaxing. It was a battlefield waiting to erupt.

Chase sighed, sinking onto the worn couch. "Aren't you getting tired of the bar scene?"

He expected Hunter to joke about it, but his brother just rubbed his hands together, looking down. "Maybe, but if I don't go, the itch won't leave me alone. It's constantly under my skin, just needing an outlet, you know?"

Recognition hit Chase like a gut punch. "Of all our family, I'm the only one who knows exactly what you mean. It's like needing to move, to do something, but you can't scratch the itch because it's buried so deep."

Hunter's eyes sharpened. "Why do you think we're like this?"

Chase leaned back, propping his feet on the wooden trunk he used as a coffee table. "I'm sure Landry could turn it into a song, but I don't have the words. It's been like this my whole life. Hell, it's why I pushed myself so hard that last year in school, why I… well, the things that take the edge off that itch have never been worth the price to me."

Hunter's lips pursed, and Chase looked into the fire, remembering the night that had changed everything for him, for his life, his plans, his dreams. His nostrils flared, refusing to give in to the darkness that threatened to pull him down. He jerked a thumb toward the computer and pasted on a tight smile.

"Numbers don't lie, cheat, or die. I stick to myself out here as much as possible and play with the only thing that makes sense."

"The numbers," Hunter said.

Chase nodded, even though it wasn't a question. "When I can analyze trends, make money work for people—that's when things click and the itch scratches in my mind."

Hunter studied him. "That's why you stay out here?"

Chase hesitated before nodding. "Partly. It's easier out here. Quieter."

With less people judging him, he could make atonement and help people at his own pace, doing a thorough job on the computer to get people a better deal with their investments, tax returns, whatever they needed.

"I just scratch the itch when there's a good woman in my arms," Hunter grumbled, making Chase snort a laugh. His oldest brother was a simple man of the earth, and sometimes Chase wished he could be more like him. Free to just ride the ranch and be himself.

Hunter turned back to the fire. "You can't let people keep you in a box, Chase. You've been away from the real world for too long. Maybe come work with me more? The ranch could use someone who understands the financial side of things."

Chase huffed a laugh, bitterness twisting in his gut. "Like Ma and Dad would trust me with that."

Hunter shoved his hands into his jeans and sighed. "What did you expect when you refused to talk to them for fifteen years? They don't know you, Brother, which is why you should spend more time around the ranch. Show them who you are, if you won't talk with them."

Chase rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks heating at the thought of how he'd treated his parents when he'd first gone to prison. By the time he took responsibility for his own actions and stopped blaming everyone else, it'd been years of refusing to talk to anyone but Landry and Hunter.

And each of Hunter's calls, he'd been waiting for the blow-up that he knew would come when Hunter realized how much Chase had betrayed him. Even now, he waited and watched.

Hunter launched into updates on the family—Landry's twins turning one, their niece Connie talking up a storm, their mom hosting weekly playdates. Chase nodded along, but the idea of all that noise made him shift uncomfortably on the couch. The chaos, the shrieking, the way conversations overlapped—it was overwhelming. At Sunday dinners, he kept to the edges, half-listening, half-enduring, half-hoping someday he'd feel welcomed and loved.

Hunter eventually left, making the short drive back to the ranch. Chase exhaled, relieved. He didn't hate his family. He loved them. But being around them, when they still saw him as the screw-up, the convict, was exhausting.

He turned back to his laptop, pulling up the financial statements again. Helping this client meant more than just a tax return. It meant a father could send his kid to therapy. Therapy mattered.

If Chase had gotten it as a teenager, maybe he wouldn't have been drunk behind the wheel that night. Maybe he wouldn't have made the mistake that cost a girl her life.

The black cloud of guilt settled on his shoulders, and he clicked into the computer, diving back into the numbers and pushing the memories away. He'd deserved all he'd gotten. Hell, he deserved much, much more punishment, which is why he had to atone and help people with their finances.

If he could build an actual career in financial advising instead of just helping friends and family, maybe he'd be more than just an ex-con with baggage. Maybe someone would see past his record, past the mistakes, and take a chance on him.

Maybe he could be worth something to someone one day.

Half a year out of prison, and he was making a decent living—helping Lola with her bookkeeping part-time, working with the CPA in town to get through tax season, freelancing investment portfolios for Landry and his famous friends, even getting referrals from Parker's former teammates. His work was good. Most people trusted him with their money.

Except his parents.

They still saw him as the screw-up. Maybe that was why he still worked on the ranch part of the week. Hunter didn't really need him, didn't rely on him the way he did the other hands, but it kept him connected. Gave him a reason to be there.

Gave him a reason to hope, maybe, that one day they'd see him as something more. Maybe he'd finally be able to clear his conscience, of the accident, of his betrayal of Hunter, of his refusal to talk to his parents for so many years.

The friction and stilted relationship with his parents, the guilt he felt around Hunter, the turmoil over his actions that fateful night—those were the things that messed with his newfound peace and freedom.

Somehow, he landed on his feet, thanks to his brothers' support. They had believed in him and trusted him when they really shouldn't have. He frowned, ignoring the doubt that told him Hunter didn't actually know what had happened back then at all.