Chapter Twenty
I SEE IT before we get there.
Rawhide. The Grayson ranch.
Written in white on a hanging sign made of dark wood.
The words are flanked by a fancy R on both sides, just like the one on the cap he wears.
It looks old, the sign, with cracks running through the wood, creeping into the painted letters.
Like it’s been here for years, decades. Maybe that’s why it looks so grand despite those little dents and chips.
For its tenacity to keep standing year after year.
Or maybe it’s the fact that it stands against the backdrop of a vast blue sky and rolling green fields.
Not to mention, the mountains that jut out in the distance.
I lived in Black Rock for the first eleven years of my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky so blue or the ground so green.
Or the tips of the faraway mountains so sharp and snowy-white.
I don’t know what I was expecting at Rawhide, but… Actually, scratch that. I know what I was expecting. Something dilapidated. Something neglected and, yes, fraught with danger. Rusted signs, broken fences, scorched earth. But it’s something out of a picture book.
As we ride up to the entrance, more things come into view.
Tall trees in full bloom; a winding dirt road just beyond the sign that leads to a log mansion so sprawling and majestic that it puts the bungalow on Wildfire to shame.
I mean, just look at the wraparound porch on this thing and those thick polished pillars.
There’s a wide set of stairs that lead up to the porch and cushioned rocking chairs that look like the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever seen after riding on a horse for close to a week.
But the most striking feature of this mansion/house has to be the massive front facade.
It’s made of stacked horizontal logs the same color as the sign—although the wood here is more polished and looks restored—giving it both a rustic and a modern look.
The mansion isn’t the only building on the property, however.
As we follow the path, I notice a bunkhouse up ahead and a barn.
There’s also a corral, just off the barn, with horses circling along the wooden fence.
It would all be very normal-looking if not for the fact that a bunch of ranch hands in their leather chaps and cowboy hats are leaning against the fence, watching as a horse tries to throw off its rider.
The man on the saddle is trying to hold on, his hands gripping the reins, but it’s obviously not easy.
The horse keeps kicking his hind legs back, his body bucking like a wave.
Over the loud neighing and thudding hooves, I hear the men cursing and hollering.
They clap when the horse bucks so hard that the man bounces off the saddle and boo when, despite that, he still manages to stay on.
Then, a second after that near miss, the horse jerks so hard that his front legs leave the ground in a cloud of dust; and no matter how hard the man was gripping the reins, his hold slips and he flies off the saddle in an arc, hitting the ground with a thud.
Followed by a round of applause and whistling.
I’m so invested in all of this that I sit up straight and gasp. And then I hear a muttered, “Fuckin’ show-off.”
Which reminds me of my own dire situation.
Behind me, I feel him move and then dismount as gracefully as ever.
Like we haven’t been riding for hours on end and every muscle in his body isn’t screaming with a deep-seated ache like mine are.
And as always, he stands there, with his arms up and his features impassive, to help me down as if things are normal.
Like the last week didn’t happen. Or last night.
Like he doesn’t know my real name and I’m still his wife—not really.
He does and I’m not.
I have zero energy; I have no inclination to pretend otherwise. I didn’t even think I’d be alive to see today, and I’m just over all the lies. So I accept his help without a word and get down. As soon as my bare feet hit the gravel, I hear someone exclaiming from behind me, “Holy fuck.”
I spin around to find the group of men facing us, now watching us as a spectacle.
Some with confusion, and others with shock and familiarity.
One of them, though, is on the move. He’s already pushing through the group and striding toward us.
I think he’s the one who said those words.
As he takes off on a run, I realize he’s the rider who got thrown off if his dusty clothes and scraped-up cheek are any indication.
Also, he’s not a man. Or rather he’s too young to be called one.
At least way younger than the man standing beside me.
Before I can make any other judgment about the newcomer, though, he reaches us and throws his arms around Arsen, holding tight, his Stetson falling off his head with his actions.
And when I say tight, I mean it.
Although his hold on Arsen has nothing on when Arsen winds his arms around him and squeezes. He does it so hard that the younger guy’s feet almost leave the ground and he emits a loud bark of a laughter. The younger guy I mean, not Arsen.
I think he’s too busy feeling a surge of emotions to laugh or even crack a smile in this moment.
I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t watching it with my own eyes, but Arsen’s usually impassive and hard features are scrunched up slightly and are lined with what I can only call longing.
There’s a wet sheen to his dark eyes that’s so bright, just like the midday sun, that I have the urge to blink my own eyes against the glare.
But I dare not because I don’t want to miss this reunion.
That’s what this is, isn’t it? A reunion after eight years.
I also think I know who this younger guy might be: Axton.
He’s the first to break away, and as soon as he does, he rears back and lays a punch on Arsen.
The sound alone of flesh meeting flesh makes me flinch, but Arsen, other than his head jerking to the side, hardly moves.
He doesn’t even reach up to touch the spot or acknowledge it in any way.
“That’s for being an asshole every time I came around to see you and you wouldn’t see me,” the younger guy growls.
Arsen simply looks at him and dips his chin. “Noted.”
I watch as maybe-Axton’s shoulders go up and down with his heavy, noisy breaths. “You look… old.”
At this, Arsen finally barks out a laugh. “Eight years’s a long time, huh.”
His shoulders heave again. “Yeah. A fuckin’ long time.”
Arsen’s jaw clenches for a second before he dryly delivers, “You look the same, though.”
The guy chuckles. “Fuck off.” Then, his head shaking, “I can’t fuckin’ believe you’re back.”
Another flash of longing moves through Arsen’s features before they go impassive like always with a hint of condescension. “Yeah, well, eight years and nothing’s changed. You’re still gonna get your neck broken and end up dead before you can legally drink.”
“What, that?” He motions with his thumb over his shoulder. “That was just a little bet to see who gets to break that bronco first.”
“You don’t really seem to be winning.”
“Are you kiddin’?” Axton waves his objections away. “I’m the only one who’s been on that sucker for close to thirty seconds. It’s been a week since Rad rescued it from some real hillbilly type. Ain’t no one been able to touch it let alone ride that bad boy.”
Arsen shoots him a look that I can only call superior. “Well, that’s about to change, ain’t it? Because as you said, I’m back.”
I don’t really see it because Axton’s back is turned, but I feel him rolling his eyes. “Think you should probably worry less about me and more about you. Because where the fuck is your shirt?”
Before Arsen can say anything, we hear a shout—a woman’s—bursting from the direction of the mansion. Thankfully. I wasn’t prepared to hear his answer.
“Axton Jonah Grayson, get your lazy ass back in the house and pick your tighty-whities up off the floor right now or I’m gonna lose it. I’m not your fucking…”
The voice trails off, because the woman it belongs to bounds down those wide stairs and stumbles upon the scene in front of her. By that I mean, she catches sight of Arsen and comes to a sudden halt. Her eyebrows scrunch up and her mouth falls open, a reaction similar to the younger guy’s.
Is this Annie?
As soon as the thought flashes through my mind, I’m ashamed of it.
For a variety of reasons. Including that this potential moment is much bigger than my useless fascination with a girl that I know for a fact is important to the man I was forced to marry.
So important that he’s ready to burn down the world in his quest for revenge for her. So important that I think he loves her.
He does, doesn’t he? Because you don’t go to such lengths for someone you don’t love.
And this woman here, she’s beautiful. She might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
She has the blackest, shiniest hair, which goes past her hips, and her skin is a beautiful shade of bronze, making me think she may be of Native American descent.
Her eyes are catlike, with arched ends and a dark fringe of lashes.
And her lips are plump and dark pink with an enticing curve.
With a plaid shirt, skinny jeans, and cowboy boots, she looks at home here.
Like she belongs on this ranch. I wonder what that’s like.
I watch her mouth Arsen’s name before she takes off just like Axton. She runs up the path, her long hair flying behind her, and right in front of my eyes, she jumps into Arsen’s arms. Her feet lift off the ground and her arms wind around his neck like she’ll never let him go.
Despite myself, I press a trembling hand to my belly. There’s an acute pain down there that only increases when I see Arsen rocking her in his arms. I hear a soft sob escaping her as she hides her pretty face in the side of his neck.
Like I did.