Chapter 14
LONDON
M y alarm blares for the third time when I finally decide to put myself out of my misery and get some relief from the pounding inside my head.
Yesterday was a complete mindfuck. Processing seeing Laney again after all these years still hadn't fully sunk in, and then she showed up at the wedding.
Did I expect Laney to leave town with no questions asked after I demanded she do so?
Not exactly. I assumed she would have shown up on my doorstep and demanded an explanation of how I'm here and why, but I sure as hell didn't expect her to show up at the wedding.
She sat in the second row, with Trigg's arm draped over her chair and Sydney Downs on her right.
Two fucking ghosts from my past and my brother, whose eyes scrutinized my every move.
Knowing he was looking for a reaction already had my blood boiling, but seeing Laney—standing feet away from her and trying not to look in her direction—was like standing behind the gates of hell.
I was on fire and attempting to be unfazed by her presence.
She wore a satin yellow dress—a replica of the one she wore to prom.
Laney knew exactly what she was doing, putting that dress on.
She wanted to get my attention. I guess it's a good thing she didn't know she would have it without the dress.
I throw my sheets off, my heavy steps matching the pulsing in my head as I pad over to the bathroom in search of the ibuprofen.
I open the drawer, quickly twist off the cap, and toss four into my mouth before turning on the faucet and drinking straight from the source.
I take messy swigs, drinking more than enough to wash the pills down in an attempt to quell my thirst. I feel like shit, and when I have had enough water, the reflection I see in the mirror tells me I look like shit too.
I close my eyes, hating how I handled things, only to be reminded of why I drowned myself in a bottle of bourbon: Laney.
She's different now. Her hair is longer, still darker at the roots and platinum at the tips, and her soft curves have been replaced with lean muscle from riding.
Still, it wasn't her looks or even the sinful yellow dress that had me twisted up inside.
It was her smile and how someone else kept putting it on her face.
I had no right to be jealous, but every time I saw it, I couldn't help but remember the days when it was reserved for me.
I open my eyes, and the images of her disappear. Good. I need carbs and electrolytes.
I can smell Baylor's thick, black coffee as I walk down the hallway, and today, the sludge actually sounds palatable until I turn the corner and find Trigg in the kitchen too.
He's the reason this is happening: inviting her here and entertaining conversations.
I try to ignore it, even though I want to confront him and make him reveal his intentions.
However, I hold back because doing so would also mean revealing my own.
I take a coffee cup out of the cabinet and stop at the fridge to pour a generous amount of half-and-half into my mug.
Then, I hurry over to the coffee pot so I can sit on the back deck and find some peace before I start work.
"Good, you're up," Baylor says, entering the kitchen mid-pour. "I need ya to come inspect the fields up by Bristol Creek with me today."
My brow furrows, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and repeat his words, ensuring I heard them correctly before saying, "We don't have fields by Bristol Creek."
We have trails by the creek but not fields. There's a thick acre, if not two, between an old pasture that Baylor turned into a barley field and that creek. The land that sits on the other side isn't ours. It's Fairfield land.
"I'll go with you, Dad," Trigg says as I take my first sip of the mud Baylor calls coffee.
"Naw, Dallas knows the land better, and you got a tour to give." Baylor gives us our working orders like he does every day, but today, I can tell by the sour look on Trigg's face that he doesn't like it.
"I grew up on this land. I know the land better than Dallas," he pipes up, his tone ruffled.
"You know good and well that ain't what I meant," Baylor dismisses the comment.
"Then explain it to me, because lately, it's starting to feel like the exiled guest is the prodigal son."
My eyes widen as his comment takes a direction I didn't see coming. Trigg and I aren't enemies, but Laney, and now this… I'm wondering if I haven't misread the relationship I thought we had.
"What in blue blazes has gotten into you, boy? You ain't been interested in farmin' a single day in your life. You handle the horses. He handles the land."
"Not that land," he says with bitterness that has me suddenly wanting to ride up to the damn creek.
Why the hell does the creek named after my father have him spiraling?
Baylor's eyes flick from him to me, and he sets his cup down hard, the contents spilling over the side onto the white granite countertop.
"I don't know what's got the two of y'all fightin', but you better listen here.
It ain't worth it. Nothin' is worth not havin' your blood.
" He swallows hard, regrets undoubtedly choking him up.
"I reckon y'all know better than anyone that I know the God's hard truth 'bout how accurate that statement is. "
Trigg's knuckles turn white as his hand tightens around his phone. "That's rich, considering he's never even told me his real name. Neither of you has ever explained why he's here. "
"You never asked me my name!" I point out, my own annoyance piqued.
The week I arrived in Bardstown, he was away in Louisville.
Baylor wasted no time introducing me as his brother the second Trigg walked in the front door.
We stood there, stunned and looking at each other, realizing we had both grown up believing we were the sole offspring, only to discover we weren't. The hallway's grandfather clock ticked five full seconds before Trigg finally broke the suffocating silence with just three words: "Where you from?
" When I answered, "Texas," his lips curved into a smirk, and he said, "Welcome to the family, Dallas.
" I know he hasn't forgotten that day. He gave me the damn name.
"It's London. My name is London Hale," I answer the first half of the question only to freeze on the second part.
I've kept my secret because it doesn't just protect me.
It protects her. But Baylor is right. You should be able to trust your blood.
The three of us have found our way. Our relationships aren't perfect, and even though my gut tells me Trigg is up to something, that his interest in Laney isn't blind innocence, I don't think he'd intentionally cross me, but his hurt might.
"I—" I start to give him the answer he seeks when the doorbell rings.
"That must be your tour now," Baylor says, his eyes locked on Trigg's with a bit of sorriness and tough love.
He sighs frustratedly, and his voice drips with enmity when he asks, "Do I at least get a name?"
"Fisher Downs," Baylor answers coolly, and I spit my coffee.
"I'll get it. I'll do horses today," I frantically rush across the room.
He might be a ghost from my past, but I never wanted to leave things unresolved, and if he's here to collect on words I left unspoken, I'll be damned if he hears them from anyone else.
"How is it you always weasel your way out of being a shitty excuse for a best friend?" Fisher says as he pours a second glass of bourbon from Baylor's small batch.
"I'm not trying to weasel my way out of anything. I don't deserve your brotherhood, and I wouldn't hold it against you if you walked out of this silo and never spoke to me again. It's what I've earned, what I deserve." I twirl the amber hair of the dog in my glass before tossing it back.
"You've become really good at deciding what you think you deserve." He sets the bottle down. "But you don't get to be the judge and executioner." He takes a look around the refurbished silo that's been converted into a private tasting room for Baylor's bourbon. "So now what?"
"What do you mean?" I tap my glass on the counter.
"You're surely not returning to how things have been. You're going to tell her."
"No," I say curtly.
"London, she deserves to know. She may not have asked it yet, but she will. What are you planning to do, then? Lie? You're telling me you can really stand there and look her square in the eye and lie?"
"No," I grind out, reaching for the bottle of bourbon.
"Are you going to say something more than no?" This time, I don't say anything. I can't lie to him any more than I can lie to Laney. "You have to tell her. You can't just take her choice away."
"Choice?" I question with a wince, swallowing my freshly poured bourbon too soon.
"Yes, choice. That truth, the one that's kept you away from her…from me…from everyone…" His hurt eyes find mine. "It wouldn't have changed things for her. I know it."
Every day, the ghosts of my decisions feel more like a physical burden than a mental one.
His proposition dangles the possibility of erasure.
Yet, I've made peace with my past choices.
The pain remains. It's a constant companion I've embraced, acknowledging what will forever be lost and what was gained.
I'll continue to shoulder the burden, not for certainty, but for that singular, haunting "IF" that promises everything while guaranteeing nothing.
Causing Laney any more pain is not an option.
"I can understand why you made the choice you did, but that doesn't mean I agree. I want to know why you cut me out too? I would have been there for you in a heartbeat. Anything you needed, I would have made it happen, but you cut me out like I was nothing."
I sent everyone a letter with the help of Sheriff Townsend shortly after I left so that they would stop pestering the Willow Creek police department.
My letters could have been written with more care.
Out of all my choices, I wish I had handled those differently.
They were supposed to be my last words to people I cared about, and they were shit.
I know it's not a consolation, but I wasn't in a good place either, and words were hard to come by without sending me into a dark place that threatened to consume me.
"Not saying more than what I did is something I regret most, but it never had anything to do with you. Laney needed you. I didn't."
"I'd say you're a little wrong about that last part. It's been a few years since I last saw you, but it's going to take a little bit more than playing cowboys and screwing pretty girls that ride horses to convince me that you're out here living your best life. I'm not leaving."
"You work in Paris," I counter.
"I can work from anywhere. Besides, I was always supposed to end up in Louisville. I'm the one who convinced my father to send me to Paris to start participating in races there. He's wanted me to come here for years, and now I'm wondering if it's not because he knew you were here all along."
"I wouldn't know. We don't discuss what happened when I talk to my dad.
" I reach behind the bar and grab a tin of roasted nuts.
"Let me ask you something. Growing up, your dad never hid the business from you, and Sydney and you always knew you'd take it over one day.
Did you know about this place? Did you know my family's ranch was your sole breeder? "
His brows pull together as he runs his hands over his five o'clock shadow.
"I didn't look at the books back then, and when we came to Louisville, we never visited Bardstown, but I had met your uncle.
When my father introduced us, I was young, and they addressed each other by first name.
After graduating and being pulled into everything, I noticed the breeder was listed as Baylor Hale, Hale Ranch.
Considering our father's friendship, I assumed there was a relationship, but I had no idea he was your uncle.
" I toss a handful of nuts in my mouth before he steals the can, taking a heaping handful for himself.
"What's the story there? How come you didn't know about this place? "
"It's a saga, and I need carbs," I say, getting up from the bar.
"Good thing I have nothing but time. You can tell me over lunch."
"Fine," I agree. I usually don't tell other people's stories, but technically, it's mine too.
"And then when we're finished, we can figure out how you're going to get your girl back." He squeezes my shoulder as we walk out, and I stop dead in my tracks.
"I'm not doing that. I can't?—"
"You have to let her decide that. You can't decide for her."
"You don't get it. Sheriff Townsend…the Donovan's…coming here and starting over…that's only half of it. The other half—her half—I can't…"
"What do you mean other half ?" He points to where we sat at the bar. "You're still keeping secrets?"
I drop my head, the weight of my secrets too heavy. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you so you can understand why I can't break her."
"You already did. The question is, are you man enough to fix it?"
That's a good fucking question. I want to be, but some things can't be fixed.