25. Romy
25
romy
I sat in front of the computer in Jude’s office, staring at a blank document screen.
Exhausted from being out in the fields and a night of training, he barely had enough energy to eat our dinner of grilled chicken before he collapsed on the couch. He was snoring by the time I got out of the shower.
Leaving him to rest, I decided to do what Ms. Hoya, Hazel’s defense attorney, asked of me. Ignoring her calls, she had decided to show up at the ranch when I returned from the trail ride to speak with me. She said if I didn’t decide to testify in court, the least I could do was write a character letter for Hazel she could provide during the hearing.
I didn’t know what I could say about Hazel. I didn’t feel like I knew my sister at all—at least not the one she became over the last decade. I only knew the big sister I idolized in my childhood, who held us together when Mom passed, the one who was our father’s pride and joy and refused to respect my boundaries with him. At least, that’s where I could start.
From the time I could walk, I wanted to be just like my big sister. She never once complained that her baby sister followed her around. In fact, she mothered me just as much as our mother did. She took care of me. She stood up for me with other kids, even with our own father at times. Frank and I never got along, and she was our buffer.
When I wanted to learn to ride a horse, she taught me everything she knew. When I wanted to learn to put on makeup, she let me use whatever she had. She listened to me. She was always patient with me, even when I was a brat and probably needed to be yelled at. She never once made me feel undeserving of her time. Some of my favorite memories were when she would cancel plans with her friends to take me horseback riding or floating down the river.
Everyone loved Hazel. She was popular at school. Even at home. I can confidently say she was my parents’ favorite child. My mom might have denied it, but my father would probably confirm that today. She was the responsible one. She was happy and easygoing, always making friends. She was beautiful and generous, always giving of her time. She loved horses and barrel racing, and she loved teaching others what she was passionate about. I’m a certified teacher, but I’m certain Hazel has more patience for teaching than I ever will.
When our mother passed away from breast cancer, Hazel held us together. She was the one who made sure I got to school, had dinner on the table, and saw that the perfectly healthy parent who was still alive got out of bed. We wouldn’t have gotten through that first year without Mom if it wasn’t for Hazel.
I never wanted to stay in Willows like she did—or maybe she felt she had to because I didn’t. She supported my dream to move to a big city, to do something rewarding with my life. I was never bitter toward her, even though I constantly felt compared. Our father always reminded me that I was the disappointment. She knew if I didn’t leave, it would beat me down to the point that I might not have survived it. She didn’t want that for me, and she made sure I could leave. But she stayed.
I wonder if she would have left, too, if our mom hadn’t died or if I had decided to stay? I think she might have felt obligated to stay for our father and for the town that loved her and named her their rodeo queen.
I don’t know what happened over the last twelve years. I’m angry at myself for not making the effort to be there for her when she probably needed me. I’m angry at her for not asking for help when she probably needed it. I’m angry at her for letting things get so bad that whatever choices were made landed her where she is now. I’m mad that no one, including myself, anticipated the costs of these choices until now.
Through my blurry vision, I reread my words. I might not be able to trust Hazel. I might be livid with her for making the choice to shoot that gun, but if I could support my sister once in my life, this was the best I could do.
Not ready to email it to the lawyer, I saved the document, shut down the computer, and went out to the living room.
A tear escaped my eye, and I wiped it away before it could course down my cheek. I sniffed it all back, gulping down the emotions.
Jude snored softly, a blanket pulled up to his bare chest, his corded arms resting behind his head. God, he was handsome. He looked so peaceful, a lock of hair lying across his forehead, dark lashes fluttering as he dreamed. My heart ached, and I wanted him to hold me.
He didn’t even open his eyes when I lifted the corner of the blanket and scooted in beside him. Jude emitted a low hum, his body shifting to his side so he could pull me back against his chest. His arm wrapped around my middle, holding me to him. His breath coasted across my ear while his legs intertwined with mine, his chest rising and falling soothingly against my back. Why did I ever think of running from him?
He laid a soft kiss to my head, his stubble catching my hair, before tucking my head beneath his chin.
“ Romy ,” he breathed, before settling back into sleep.
For as long as I could remember, I’d been running. I didn’t want to run anymore. Because for the first time ever, in Jude’s arms, I knew I was home and I could finally breathe.