Chapter Six
I’m sitting on the top step of my parents’ front porch, elbows on my knees, boots hooked on the edge. The paint on the railing is chipped, where I carved my and my little sister’s initials when I was twelve—WDL and PCL. Waylon David Ludlow and Priscilla Christine “Crissy” Ludlow.
I remember Momma screaming at me when she saw it. They had just had the entire house painted the week before.
I gently rub a finger over the letters.
Guess it hasn’t been painted since.
The screen door is propped open, and laughter spills out of the house. Ruby’s laugh. High and unguarded, and it takes me back to the summer before everything went sideways.
Crissy used to fill this house with laughter.
My mother’s voice follows, softer but just as full, teasing Ruby about something, prompting more giggles. There’s a clatter of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator, the familiar creak of a house that’s held generations of Ludlows.
The sound makes my chest ache.
For the first time in … hell, I don’t even know how long, my shoulders drop. Not all the way. I don’t think they ever will. But enough that I notice the difference. Enough that the knot between my shoulder blades loosens, just a fraction.
Peace is a dangerous thing. It sneaks up on you when you’re not looking and makes you believe you can stay.
I hear the truck before I see it. Diesel engine, familiar rattle, tires crunching on the gravel drive.
Caison always did like a loud truck.
It slows to a stop. The passenger window slides down, and he leans over. He’s wearing a ball cap pulled low, shadowing his eyes.
“You ready?” he says. “It’s been a long day. I could use a beer.”
I glance back through the screen door and catch sight of my daughter climbing onto a chair at the kitchen island. Already dressed in her pink pajamas, happily chatting away to her nana, who’s making hot cocoa.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I’m ready.”
“Hop in.”
I push up from the step and climb in, the seat creaking under my weight. The cab smells like leather, dust, and coffee that’s been reheated one too many times. Familiar, in a way Vegas never was.
We pull out of the drive, the house shrinking behind us, and I don’t look back. I’ve done enough of that for one lifetime. I know Ruby is safe and sound with my parents, so I can relax and let go for an evening.
It’s been a while.
Ten Points Tavern sits exactly where it always has—squatting at the edge of town. The half-lit neon sign flickers—always has. Dim yellow light spills onto the gravel lot, illuminating a handful of beat-up trucks parked at weird angles.
Inside, it’s darker than I remember and exactly the same. Low ceiling. Scuffed floors. Pub tables scarred and weathered. An old jukebox hums in the corner, waiting for someone drunk enough to feed it.
The place smells like beer, sweat, and history.
Every stool at the bar is occupied by a man who looks like he’s been worked hard by the land and life. No women. Not a one. And for once, that feels like a mercy.
We take the two empty stools at the far end. The bartender—a man I recognize, but can’t quite name—nods once as Caison throws up two fingers. A minute later, two ice-cold drafts are sitting in front of us.
Caison doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. Just waits, the way he always did when we were kids, sitting on fence rails, staring out at land we dreamed of owning one day.
“I guess you talked to Pop,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Briefly,” he replies. “Holland said you were back. Might be staying a while. Told me to find you a job and get the foreman’s cabin fixed up.”
I frown. “The foreman’s cabin? Is your foreman not using it?”
“Nope. Darby bought land when he married Cici. Built his own place.” He takes a sip. “Cabin’s been empty ever since. Two bedrooms. Half mile up from mine.”
That catches my attention. Two bedrooms. Ruby will have her own room.
I nod like it doesn’t matter, but it does. It matters a whole hell of a lot.
“You find a job for me?” I ask.
Caison snorts. “Always need ranch hands.”
“Good.” I take a long pull from my beer. “Just tell me when and where.”
“Monday. Five a.m. Office.” He glances at me sideways. “I’ll have Darby put you where he wants you.”
“Okay.”
Silence settles again, comfortable for a beat. Then Caison turns fully toward me, eyes sharp.
“All right,” he says, “tell me what the hell is going on. Because I know damn well you’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, besides working as a ranch hand on your father’s ranch. You hiding from a bookie out in Vegas? Am I gonna wake up to gunfire because of some gambling debt of yours?”
I laugh and choke on my beer, spraying half of it across the bar.
“Geezus, Waylon,” he snaps, grabbing napkins. “You think that’s funny? I’ve got a ranch expansion happening, a house to build, and a wedding to plan. I don’t need to add dodging a mob hit to the mix.”
I wipe my mouth, still grinning. “No wise guys. Promise. Only enemies I made in Vegas were a landlord and maybe a woman or two.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
I sigh and stare into my glass as the foam settles.
“There’s something I gotta tell you,” I say.
“Figured as much.”
I take a breath. Then another. “Her name’s Ruby.”
Caison freezes. “There’s a her?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it serious?”
I nod. “Pretty serious.”
He contemplates that for a moment. “Well, look at us two serious guys. How long have you known her?”
“A couple of months.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Months? And it’s serious enough for you to bring her back to Wildhaven and introduce her to Holland and Priscilla?”
“Yeah.”
“She must be something else.”
“She sure is,” I say.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet her. She back at the house?” he asks.
“She is, but she’s probably in bed by now.”
His brow furrows, and he glances at the clock above the bar that reads eight p.m.
“She’s four.”
His eyes snap to mine at that announcement, but he doesn’t interrupt. Just lets me keep going.
“I didn’t know at first,” I say. “Met her mom out there in Vegas. She was a dancer at a club. I was a bouncer. We had fun. Briefly. Got drunk together. Got naked. And she got gone by Monday morning. By the time she found me again and told me she’d gotten knocked up that weekend, Ruby was already three years old. ”
“What happened?”
“She wasn’t the same girl. Addiction had gotten ahold of her.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, damn.”
“Did she come to you for help?”
I shake my head. “Not for herself at least. I fed her and gave her forty dollars for her next fix,” I say simply. “And she gave me our daughter.”
Caison swears under his breath. “That’s a good thing.”
“You think? Fuck, I was barely more suitable to have her than her mother was. I was working security at a casino at night. Drinking all the time. Gambling away all my money. Bouncing from relationship to relationship.”
“Shit,” he mumbles under his breath.
“I was in a dumpy studio apartment in a seedy spot outside of Old Vegas. Not that I cared. I was enjoying life. It worked for me, but it was no place for a kid.”
He finishes his beer and orders us both a water as I forge on with my sordid tale.
“Last week, I gave my notice, and I packed up what I could,” I continue. “Swallowed my pride. And came home. Because she deserves something solid. Something better.”
He nods slowly. “You did the right thing.”
I hope he’s right. I hope I don’t screw this up the way I screw up everything else.
We sit there, beers empty, jukebox humming, the weight of the past and the future balanced precariously between us.
“How did Holland and Priscilla react when you showed up on their doorstep with a kid?” he asks.
I chuckle. “Exactly how you’d imagine. Momma was thrilled and overwhelmed by tears of joy. Pop was damn near about to explode or keel over from a heart attack.”
“I bet.”
“But it won’t take long for Ruby to wrap him completely around her little finger.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d just as soon kick me out on my ass than look at me, but he won’t. What he will do though is serve me a big ol’ slice of humble pie by having me muck stalls.”
“Eh, a little hard work ain’t gonna kill you,” he teases.
“Nah, I’d eat horse shit if it meant Ruby had a safe place to call home for once. And her very own bedroom to boot. I guess they aren’t ready to share Crissy’s though.”
Pain slides through me as I think of the big, beautiful pink room that sits across the hall from mine, upstairs in my parents’ house. Untouched by time.
Caison’s eyes drop to the glass of water in his hand.
“It’s been seventeen years. I thought it would be easier now. But her ghost still walks the halls of the house, like it always has,” I mutter. “And he still blames me. I can see it in his eyes.”
His head shakes. “He blames himself.”
“No. He blames me. Hell, so do I.”
“It was an accident, Way.”
“I was supposed to be watching her.”
It happened in December, the year I turned eight.
Every year, the week between Christmas and New Year’s, Pop would pack us up and take us to the Grand Targhee Resort, about an hour west of Jackson Hole, for a family ski vacation.
It was my favorite time of year because he worked sunup to sundown on the ranch every other day, and it was the one time we got his full attention.
That morning, Pop and I had gotten up early and gone skiing.
When we came back to the valley to the cabin we rented, Momma and our grandmother had lunch ready.
We ate together, and Momma and Pop went back to the slopes.
I wanted to go with them, but Pop told me to stay behind and help Grandma with Crissy, who was only four years old, so they could get some quality time on the advanced slopes.
I was being a brat about having to stay back with my sister, but Pop promised to take us all out snow tubing after supper.
It was a particularly snowy day. Great for skiing but bad for driving, with low visibility down in the valley.
Grandma had settled in by the fire with her knitting needles, and I begged her to let Crissy and me go outside to build a snowman.
She agreed but told us to stay in the front yard, where she could see us through the window, and I promised to keep an eye on Crissy.
It only took a minute. Less than that. I was rolling a huge ball of snow for the snowman’s base, and I told Crissy to find some sticks for its arms. She wandered over near the tree line to look for some fallen branches when a car came around a curve too fast. The driver lost control, and it skidded toward the cabin and veered straight at Crissy, who was bent over, picking up twigs.
I screamed for her and took off running, but my legs wouldn’t carry me fast enough.
I close my eyes, and I can see it happen in slow motion all over again.
“Waylon?” Caison’s voice drags me back out of the memory.
I slide the empty mug aside and signal for the bartender.
I’m gonna need something stronger.