Chapter 7
7
Conrad Strauss
Present Day
E arly mornings are my favorite time of day. When daylight barely touches the sky, and the grass is covered in dewy droplets, I feel the most at peace. It wasn’t always like this. I remember a time many years ago when I found myself wide awake throughout the long, lonely nights. The moon and stars brought me comfort in a way the harsh morning light never could. When shame was etched into my flesh and grief chipped away at my wellbeing. When the early hours brought nothing except for a sour stomach, regret, and a pounding head.
Not exactly feasible when you run a ranch, but thankfully, over the years, I’ve been able to switch around my way of thinking.
It’s almost eight by the time I make it back into my house after doing morning chores. After putting on a fresh pot of coffee, I head to the laundry room and start a load of clothes. Laundry is my least favorite chore, and if I don’t stay on top of it every single day, it’ll get backed up before I know it, and then I won’t have any clean underwear. You’d think the older I get, the better I’d get about keeping up with this shit, but that’s just not the case.
Once I’m finished, I fix up my breakfast, same as every other day. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and a slice of sourdough toast. I check the clock on the wall, making sure I’m doing good on time. Whit should be here soon, and I’m not sure how it’s going to go.
Although, knowing Whit, he’ll probably be as professional as can be. If there’s one thing Whit is a pro at, it’s keeping things strictly about business when it comes to him and I.
Well, usually.
Whit has big feelings; he always has, but he’s great at shoving them to the back of his mind for the sake of his clinic. Like Whittaker Bowman, Sr., that clinic is of the utmost importance to him. From the moment he graduated veterinary school—with honors—he’s worked for his father. And when his mother died and Senior wasn’t able to run things anymore, Whit stepped up and took over the family business, no questions asked.
We’re alike in that sense. It wasn’t easy taking over the ranch when my parents died, but I did it because there was no other option. I’ve always known the ranch would be mine one day, but I figured I had a lot more time before that happened. Figured it would be a process I could ease into. Instead, I was thrown into it in the blink of an eye, all while grieving the loss of my mother and father. Whit’s no different. He had to step up and figure out how to run a business while grieving his mother’s death and the loss of his father, because while Senior may not have died with his wife, his spirit sure as hell did.
Once I finish eating, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before I head out to the barn. It’s a chilly morning, reminding me of how quickly fall is fading, and how winter will be here before I know it. It’s not long before I hear the door of Whit’s truck shutting outside, and a zap of adrenaline shoots down my spine, excitement furrowing low in my gut, knowing I’m about to come face to face with him for the first time since the night we shared together weeks ago.
Playing it cool, I wait a moment before I walk toward the entrance of the barn, meeting Whit just outside. His dark hair, like always, is styled in a way that looks purposely mussed up. Like he’s spent all morning raking his fingers through it anxiously. His forest green eyes peer up at me from behind his thick, dark-framed glasses, and his jaw flexes as he bites down on his molars.
“Morning,” I grunt when he says nothing.
“Good morning, Conrad.” Oh, we’re back to Conrad now. “Something’s wrong with one of the bison?”
“Yeah, something spooked Bogart because he tried running through the fence yesterday afternoon,” I explain as Whit grabs his bag out of the truck. We start toward the pasture my one-year-old bison are in as I continue. “For the most part, he seems fine. He’s got a gash on his front leg that I cleaned yesterday when I found him. I don’t think he’ll need stitches, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Whit turns his head, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite place before he nods. “Do you know what it was that spooked him?” he asks.
“No. I didn’t see it happen. I was doing my rounds when I noticed he was stuck. Had to fix the fence afterwards.”
“Was Biscuit okay?”
I adopted Bogart and Biscuit as calves last year. They’re just over a year old now.
“She seemed a little off, like maybe whatever spooked her brother scared her too.”
Whit nods again, but doesn’t say anything else. The rest of the walk toward the pasture is spent in silence, which isn’t unusual for us, but I can’t deny how much it grates my nerves today, especially. Mostly because since the night of the party, I’ve found myself wanting to reach out to him, for no reason other than hearing his voice, or to find out how he’s doing with everything he confessed to me. Or maybe, most of all, how he felt about our night shared.
Did he enjoy it as much as I did?
Does he regret it?
Has it replayed in his mind as much as it does in mine?
These are all questions I’m dying to know the answer to but know I’ll never voice. I’ve never been a great communicator, especially when it comes to feelings and being vulnerable. Something I didn’t even realize was an issue until Whit pointed it out to me when we were married.
Growing up, there wasn’t room for feelings in my household. My parents were very old-fashioned in the sense that you did what you needed to do without bitching about it. We didn’t express when something bothered us, didn’t sit down and talk about our day and how it went. And I guess, in turn, I brought that same old-fashioned mindset into my adult life. The fall of my marriage was a very eye-opening moment for me. I don’t think I truly understood my faults until they took away the one thing that meant the most to me, and by the time I realized it, it was too late.
The bison come into view, and my gaze immediately flits to Whit and the way his whole face lights up when he spots them. My lips curve up as I watch his steps become quicker the closer we get to the large animals. He’s always excited to see these two.
Biscuit spots us first, abandoning her brother as she lazily trots over to us—or more specifically, over to Whit.
“Good morning, big girl,” Whit coos in a baby voice that I’ll never get tired of hearing. “How you doin’ today, hmm?”
Biscuit waltzes right up to Whit, letting him stroke a hand along the top of her head between her curved horns. Most people would be terrified of these large creatures, but not Whit. For as long as I’ve known him, bison have been one of his favorite animals. When he was much younger, he used to dream about one day owning a bison rescue. It’s not exactly something I’d hold my breath about, but I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t in the forefront of my mind when I found Biscuit and Bogart for sale a few towns over.
It’s silly because we aren’t together anymore, but it feels worth it when he comes over and lights up just being near them.
“I’m going to check on your brother really quick,” he murmurs to Biscuit before his feet carry him through the grass toward Bogart, who’s doing his best to ignore Whit, almost like he knows Whit’s here to poke and prod at him. “Howdy, big boy. Heard you tried to run through a fence yesterday. That’s kind of silly, huh?”
With the utmost care, Whit crouches down and inspects the injured leg, all the while Bogart lets him. These animals have a reputation for being aggressive and a little unpredictable, but either Whit’s the bison whisperer or I adopted the world’s most docile bison, because both are pretty tame.
Standing to his full height, Whit scratches Bogart’s beard. “You were right,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze over to me. “He doesn’t need stitches, but just keep an eye on it. Wouldn’t want it to get infected.”
I nod. “Can do.”
Truthfully, I probably didn’t need to have Whit come all the way out to the ranch to tell me that. I’ve been doing this long enough to be able to doctor the animals myself with most things. It’s rare that I require a vet’s assistance out here, but a part of me I refuse to give a voice to enjoys seeing Whit here from time to time, even if it’s always in a professional setting.
After the divorce, I kept waiting for the moment when I’d feel okay. When I’d feel confident in saying I was over him. Over the loss of our marriage. That time never came. Not with time. Not with distance. Not even when he started dating again. My love for Whit has never once lessened, but after the way I treated him at the end of our marriage, I never felt as though I deserved a second chance. Whit put up with a lot—way more than he should have—and telling him how I feel would be the most selfish thing I could do.
So, I bottle it up, die a little inside every time I see him with his dweeb of a boyfriend, and I soak in the moments I get to be near him.
After he gives some more love to Bogart and Biscuit, we begin the trek back to the house. It’s quiet once again, and while that normally doesn’t bother me, today it’s like nails on a chalkboard.
“How have you been?” I ask, about halfway through the walk back.
Whit’s head snaps in my direction, confusion overtaking his features. “Um, fine?”
I don’t miss the way he phrased it like a question. Although, I’m not sure if it’s because he truly doesn’t know if he’s fine or if he’s just taken aback by the question coming from me.
“You sure about that?”
His thick brows pinch under the rim of his glasses. “Yes. Why? Do I not look fine?”
“You look more than fine,” I mumble, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just want to make sure everything is okay with you. You know, the money issues that we talked about last month.”
Whit stops walking, turning to face me, body visibly tense. “What’s going on right now? Why are you asking me this?”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I plant my hands on my hips and gaze down my nose at him. Why does this have to be so damn hard? “We haven’t talked since that night we…you know.” Jesus. “You were distraught, and I just want to check on you and see how you’re doing with it all. See if there’s anything I can do to help.”
His brow furrows as he takes me in, like he is truly at a loss for words. “I-I appreciate that, but it’s fine. I’ve got it handled.”
The way his gaze averts when he says that has me thinking otherwise. “Do you?”
“Yes, Conrad, I do,” he bites back.
“Okay.” Holding up my hands, I say, “I just wanted to check. But also, I don’t know where your head’s at about what happened between us. We haven’t talked about it.”
Balking at me, Whit folds his arms over his chest. “You want to talk…about what happened between us?”
“Yes.”
He huffs, arms dropping back to his sides as he begins walking again. “Well, too bad,” he calls out behind him. “Because I don’t.”
“What?” Catching up to him in a few large strides, I grab him by the arm, forcing him to stop. “Why not?”
Anger flares in his dark green orbs as his eyes narrow on me. “What the hell do you mean, ‘why not?’” He rips his arm out of my grip and takes a step back. “Since when do you want to talk about anything ?”
It’s not often Whit gets all pissed off and huffy; for the most part, he’s a pretty soft-spoken guy. But whenever he does, I can’t help but find it endearing and adorable. The way his eyebrows crash together and his cheeks get red. Except right now, I also find it aggravating because I just want to fucking talk to him, and he’s shutting me out. Then there’s the voice in my head reminding me that this is my karma for all the times I shut him out when we were still married...
I fucking hate that voice.
“I like to talk,” I mutter pathetically. “Sometimes.”
Whit snorts out a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about his expression. “Again, too bad, Conrad. That night was a mistake.” He enunciates the last word, and it’s a knife to the chest. “It shouldn’t have happened, and I have zero interest in talking to you about it. I’d rather just pretend it never fucking happened.”
His footsteps stomp in the damp grass, hands balled into fists at his side. I rub a hand over my mouth, stifling a laugh because, as frustrated as he’s making me, I can’t deny how adorable he looks when he gets mad. He reminds me of that cartoon character that represents anger from that kids’ movie—what’s it called? Inside Out ?
“Yeah, well, it did happen,” I yell to him before I start walking behind him again.
“Way to go, Captain Obvious!”
“Someone’s feisty this morning,” I grumble, quiet enough that I’m not sure he hears me. That is, until he stops dead in his tracks and spins around, fury plastered on his face as he points his index finger up at me.
“You think this is funny?” he spits out. “I have a boyfriend, Conrad! Reggie is a nice guy, and he doesn’t deserve what I did to him. This is not funny!”
“He’s not good enough for you.”
Eyes narrowing into thin slits, he asks, “Excuse me?”
“You damn well heard me, Whit,” I growl, taking a step closer. “If he is such a nice guy, where the hell was he when you were having a breakdown? If he’s so fucking great, why wasn’t he the one you sought comfort from?”
Whit rears back like I physically slapped him. “Screw you, Conrad. You have no right to give your opinion on my relationship. Nor do you have the right to throw what I confided in you that night back in my face.”
“That’s not what I was?—”
“Save it,” he cuts me off with a hand raised in front of him. “I don’t want to hear it. That night was a mistake, and it’s not happening again. Unless it pertains to the animals, we have nothing to talk about.”
I bite down on my molars as I watch him storm away, but this time, I don’t follow. Instead, I stand in this field, muscles coiled tight, as I replay everything he just said to me about half a dozen times before I finally head back toward the house. By the time I reach the front lawn, his truck is long gone. There’s a gnawing ache in the center of my chest that, no matter how much I rub at it, won’t go away. I knew good and well going down that road with Whit again, getting to feel him in my arms, would break my heart, but Christ, this feels worse than I could’ve imagined.
Over the years, I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my feelings at bay, but now, after that night and the way he’s so easily dismissing it, it’s like I’m starting from scratch. Like the Whit-shaped wound that he left when he moved out has been shredded open again.
Back in the house, I grab a glass out of the cabinet, filling it with water. After I chug the whole thing in one go, I proceed to pace the length of my house, frustration bubbling inside of me. On my fifth or sixth lap of the house—truthfully, I’ve lost count—I notice the red light flashing from the answering machine on the desk in the corner. I’m one of the few people I know who still has a landline phone and an answering machine. It’s typically only used in case of an emergency or for my nana, who lives in Greece.
Pressing a finger down on the button, my nana’s voice fills the room. Warmth spreads in my chest as I listen to her. She spends much of her time traveling, and between that and the time difference between us, we don’t talk as much as we used to. Growing up, she was a huge part of my life. For many years, she and my grandfather lived just down the road. After he died, she moved to Greece, where he was from. She said it made her feel closer to him.
It’s not until she’s nearly done that I realize what she’s rambling on about, and my heart stutters.
“…I’ll fly in to the Cheyenne airport on the twelfth. It’s a one-way ticket. I’ll book my return trip while I’m there, but I imagine I’ll be staying for a couple of weeks, at least. Can’t wait to hug and kiss you both! Love you.”
The message ends, and I can do nothing but stare at the machine like maybe if I look hard enough, it’ll make the message less true. She always ends her voicemails like you would a letter or an email, and most times I find it endearing, but right now I’m too panicked to even think twice about it.
Nana is coming here…in a month.
And she can’t wait to see us .
Fuck.