Dust and Desire (Sable Sky #1)

Chapter 1

THE FLYER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

“I think it’s just a clogged duct,” she says, looking between me and our hungry daughter tucked into the crook of her arm.

Pieces of her chestnut hair fall over her eyes as she gently bounces, nose wrinkled in discomfort.

With her free hand, Amelia nudges the side of her breast, wincing, as Sadie’s little hand emerges from the blankets, along with a singular wail.

“Right here,” she says, nudging herself, “if I could get this knot out, I think I’ll be all good. ”

Fishing my big fingers into the bottle of pain reliever, I pluck out two, and Amelia wrinkles her nose. “Just one. I don’t want to risk it.”

I let out a sigh, having read and reread all the same books as she did in preparing for our daughter’s arrival.

“Two Tylenol is safe,” I remind her, but she flashes those rosy cheeks and that gorgeous smile, and I find myself smiling back.

“All right, just the one. I’ll call your doctor, see if we can get you in today or tomorrow. ”

I stare down at that bottle in my hand, the very same bottle that I plucked that singular pill from six years ago. I haven’t taken any. She was the last person to take one.

The label is curling on the edge, and I run my thumb over it, willing it to stay down, hoping to preserve it. I don’t know why. It’s morbid, the way I come back to this bottle nearly every morning, just thinking about how everything went down. How fast it all happened.

The back door hinges squeal to heaven as Tate strolls in, a barefoot child slung over his shoulder.

He tips his hat at me, but not before his eyes move to the Tylenol bottle.

Lowering Petunia to the floor, he drags his hand through her tangled hair.

“Tell him. Go on now, and tell Landry what you gotta tell him,” he says, blinking down at his oldest child.

I place the bottle in the cupboard without closing the door, and set my focus on Petunia, trying hard to keep a grimace on my face. “Miss Petunia,” I greet, tipping my hat as I lie in wait for what I know is coming. Same news I get once a week from this child.

She stomps, her bare foot smacking against the old, worn-out linoleum floor, sun-kissed hands braced on her hips. It’s hard to look menacing when you’re wearing a Hello Kitty nightgown and your daddy’s forcin’ you to apologize, but I think she’s doing pretty darn good.

“I let Snickerdoodle out and I’m not sorry!

She likes to run and it ain’t fair she’s in the stable all the time,” Petunia says, driving her foot into the kitchen floor one more time.

I don’t dare glance up at Tate, because he’s always getting me in trouble with the faces he makes when I’m supposed to be serious.

Instead, I hook my thumbs in my belt buckle and lean my tailbone against the counter, kick out my boots, and wait.

She stomps again, this time with less fight. “She likes runnin’ free, Mr. Landry!”

I lift my brows and blink down at Petunia just as Sadie comes hauling inside, a chicken tucked beneath her arm.

The farmhouse doors sway open behind her, sunlight backlighting her little body as Big Bertha clucks her approval.

“She’s ready for her medicine!” Sadie beams, stalking past my best friend and her own best friend, on a mission.

“Miss Bertha needs her medicine, Petunia, so you apologize to Landry so they can get on with their morning,” Tate offers, nudging her forward.

Her arms fall limp at her sides, spaghetti noodles of surrender. “I’m sorry I let Snickerdoodle out of the stable, Mr. Landry.”

My lips twitch, but I stay strong as Sadie lowers Big Bertha to the ground and begins rooting around in the sack from the veterinary office. “Thank you for apologizing. And, Petunia, you know Snickerdoodle gets plenty of exercise.”

Petunia sighs. “It’s not just that,” she complains as Tate struggles to link his hand with hers. I can’t help but stifle a chuckle because Petunia Collier is the most strong-willed little girl, even though she’s only eight.

“Well, let me hear what else it is, then.” I unfold my arms long enough to grab my coffee, and take a sip as I prepare to be torn into by a little girl with blue toenails and an anklet that says BOYS DROOL.

“She wants to live! Animals want to live just like us. She wants to run and see the flowers growin’ by the road and she wants to see the wishin’ well, and everything else out there!”

Tatum’s lips twitch. “Snickerdoodle wants to make a wish in the wishin’ well, Landry, you dream killer,” he deadpans.

His satisfied smirk evaporates in an instant the moment Petunia swivels back, resting her angry gaze on her daddy. “Don’t poke fun at me.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. Now let’s get back because Mama’s making pancakes before school.” From somewhere in the kitchen, Big Bertha squawks, and Sadie lets out a relieved huff. “There. Another few weeks, Big B, and you’re all done.”

“You muckin’ stalls later?” Tate asks, knocking his hat back as Petunia hugs Sadie, and they exchange a whispered secret.

I nod. “After I leave Dr. Vargas’s office.”

He bobs his head. “All right then. I’ll be by.” He pauses in the door, eyeing me, voice a little higher than normal. “You been there in a few days?”

I shrug, and sip my dark roast. “Not since early last week, getting Big Bertha’s meds. Why?”

Tatum studies the worn tips of his work boots for a moment before guiding his daughter out with a hand between her shoulders. “No reason.” A partial smile. “All right, I’ll see ya soon.”

I wave at Petunia, and so does Sadie, sitting up on the window’s large sill as she watches her friend traipse back through the tall grass to her house next door.

For a moment, I get lost in the way the Texas sun pours through her mess of chestnut hair, the way it highlights the natural pink in her cheeks, and the excitement burning in her eyes. Sadie can’t wait to be home from school, tearing around this farm with all of her animals and her best friend.

Amelia would have loved to see our girl this way—loving our ranch, and this land that’s been in my family for four generations.

We took pride in Vaughn Ranch, and the life we built here together.

Seeing that same adoration for this place flashing in our daughter’s features would absolutely bring her great joy.

I cast one last glance at the old bottle of Tylenol in the open cupboard, at the place where the label lifts from the bottle, age and wear evident in the yellow discoloration of the plastic body.

It’s been six years, but that hollow feeling in my chest, that hole in my heart where my entire world used to comfortably fit, feels new every single sunrise.

Dr. Vargas tosses a final amber bottle into the bag, rolling down the paper top with a smile. She passes it to me. “This should get you through the next month.”

Instead of taking the bag, I fish my wallet out of the back of my jeans, and dig out a few crisp bills I just got at the bank. “I sold a mare yesterday.” Snickerdoodle’s sister, in fact.

Elena smiles, the kind of smile that says poor guy, the kind of smile I’m sick of being the recipient of.

People used to stare at me, point my way, take pictures of me walking into the feed store, side saddle at my diner table and beg for an autographed napkin.

Some mornings, after a wild ride at a roaring rodeo, Amelia and I would wake up to people lingering outside our property, hoping to steal a photo of Landry Vaughn, toughest roughie around.

Now people avoid lookin’ my way, and when they do, I get this. This pseudo smile. But I can’t blame any of ’em. How would I look at a man who had it all, and is now struggling to keep his land and animals? Probably not far from the way they look at me.

Despite the expression, Elena is different from the rest.

“Landry, you know you don’t have to—” she starts, but I press those crisp, sharp, pungent bills into her palm and keep our hands pressed together, green between them.

“Please,” I croak, my voice thin and hoarse, the way it was after a rodeo years ago.

All the hollering and whooping paired with celebratory cheers, I’d leave there sounding like a smoker of thirty years.

The remaining slivers of my ego clamber together, driving out one more sentence, but not before peering back to make sure the little office door is closed.

I don’t want anyone knowing about my failures, not unless they have to.

“It’s not even about the money, Elena. I need to feel like I’m—like I can…

” I lose steam halfway through my thought, but she picks up on it easily, taking her hand away to stash the bills into her jacket pocket.

“Okay,” she concedes softly. “Thank you.”

Colic treatments, hurt hind quarters, that time Snickerdoodle got her leg cut on the broken fence and needed a house call, foaling, Big Bertha’s meds, the antibiotics for the chicken feed—you name it, and Elena’s been coming through for Vaughn Ranch in the last five years.

I’d be dead in the water without her generosity and big heart. I hate that I need the help, but with Sadie in the picture, I can’t deny that I do.

Adjusting the Stetson on my head, I nod. “Thank you. But please, I have to ask that you add the rest of the debt to my line of credit.”

Elena’s head tips to the side, and her lips part, irritation wrinkling her forehead. I lift my palm, unwilling to hear her argue. “One day I’m going to pay every cent back,” I start.

“I have zero doubts,” she says softly.

We stand there, staring at one another a moment before Elena quietly passes me a bag loaded down with meds for my stud, Fabio.

Our fingers brush when I collect the goods, and I wonder if she is thinking about the last time our hands touched.

The day of Amelia’s service, when she came to the side of the casket, and took my hand while saying a lot of very nice things about my wife.