4
Three days later, I stand at the kitchen sink and soak in the guitar chords drifting through the open window.
The view of the ranch from here gets me every time. The rolling green meadows, grazing cattle, sparkling ponds—the rawness of the landscape imprints itself on the soul.
But it pales in comparison to the mesmerizing girl on the back porch.
Conor sits sideways on the steps, red hair swaying around her angelic face as she evokes powerful emotion with strings and wood. Eyes closed, she strums rhythmically, quietly singing Mile On The Moon by Sarah Jarosz.
Since that night, she’s been zoned out on songs with thematic threads of sorrow and feeling lost. I don’t pretend to understand the depth of hurt that’s been done to her or what she needs to heal. If it had been me in that ravine enduring what she did, I’m not sure I’d ever leave my bed.
That’s the difference between her and me. She’s stronger, more resilient, and she’ll overcome the physical trauma without complaining about the pain. Maybe she doesn’t need me hovering over her like a mother hen. But I need it. I need her to know she’s not alone.
So when she’s in her room, I pace outside her door. I sit in the hall. I knock and demand to fetch things for her. Then I pace some more. When she emerges, I follow her, hold her, listen to her, and feed her. She won’t eat, but I make the food. And I’ll keep making it. I don’t know what else to do.
I grab the orange juice with my bandaged hand and a plate of scrambled eggs with the other. Halfway to the door, I remember the toast. Circling back, I pull the slice from the toaster with my teeth and head to the porch.
I know Conor hasn’t mentally dealt with what happened to her. Hell, I’m still struggling with the feelings that haunt me day and night. With Wyatt dead and Lorne in jail, she and everyone else is too wrapped up in the impending trial to address her emotional wellbeing.
Has her dad even said two words to her? He has plenty to say to my dad. Dalton and John spent most of the last three days behind closed doors. When they emerge, bitter tension chokes the house. Whatever’s going on between them isn’t friendly.
With my hands full and the toast between my teeth, I work the back door with elbows and boots and step onto the porch.
The guitar falls quiet, and she peers at me from beneath her lashes. “Where did Dad find that attorney, anyway? He isn’t from around here.”
Evidently, I walked in on a conversation she’s been having in her head. I sit on the step above her.
“Shouldn’t Lorne be out on bail?” She grabs the toast from my mouth and waves it around. “I haven’t heard shit about a plea deal, and my dad won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me about the trial. Swear to God, Jake, every minute Lorne spends behind bars breaks me a little more.”
Conor Cassidy doesn’t break, but I feel her frustration and worry. All this has been eating at me, too.
I set her breakfast at her feet and position her to sit between my legs, one step down and facing the open grassland.
Jarret’s been out there before dawn every day, covering the workload for Lorne, Conor, and me.
He volunteered for the extra shifts to keep his mind off things, but I intend to pull my weight today. After I take care of Conor.
“Deep breaths. In and out.” I lean over her from behind and rub the muscles above her breasts, working upward to massage her shoulders and the curve of her neck.
She sleeps in my t-shirts and still wears one now. It swallows her tiny frame like a potato sack, brushing her knees and hanging off one shoulder. Seeing her in my clothes fills me with possessiveness. Soothing her with my hands injects shots of rightness through my blood.
“That’s so good.” Her head falls back, and she drapes her arms over my knees, the toast forgotten in her grip.
I stop.
She twists her neck to squint at me. “Why did you—?
“Eat.”
Her eyes slide to the toast, squinting harder. I know her stomach’s too twisted up to acknowledge hunger. I expect her to refuse. So when she takes a hearty bite, I mentally fist pump.
Pushing my luck, I nudge the plate of eggs with my boot. “All of it.”
“Fine.”
She eats, and I massage. She hums, and I idly stroke her hair. Together, we watch the sun climb and think about Lorne.
Curling up in the V of my legs, she hooks her arms around my thigh. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I did some research online.”
“I did, too.” Her nails bite into my denim-clad leg. “It’s all…too much to take in. Maybe I just can’t focus right now. What did you find?”
I read about homicide cases similar to Lorne’s, and the verdicts make my chest so tight I can’t breathe. “It’s too early to—”
“I need honesty. Please. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
With my arms bracketing her from behind, I lean closer and hover my mouth over her bare shoulder. She smells so sweet I ache to taste her skin.
Focus, Jake.
I clear my throat. “He shot two men. Since the first one was in self-defense, it’s negligible.
The prosecutor will go after the biggest charge.
With Wyatt, Lorne acted in the heat of passion.
It wasn’t premeditated or coldblooded. If they see it that way, he’s looking at manslaughter.
” I rub the sudden stiffness in her arms. “It’s better than first-degree murder.
Minimum sentence for manslaughter is ten years. ”
Her chin trembles, and the auburn crescents of her lashes spread over her cheekbones, hiding the torment in her eyes.
I decide not to mention the 85 Percent Rule, which would require Lorne to serve at least 8.5 years before he can even be considered for parole.
That’s the best-case scenario. Since he used a deadly weapon, he could face life in prison. How much has he admitted to the detectives? Do they know he rode out to the pasture with the intent to kill a man?
Levi Tibbs. I now have the name of the motherfucker we let live.
I flex the hand wrapped in gauze, anticipating the eventual scar. All four of us will carry that scar and never forget the blood oath we made. In the meantime, I will plan and wait with godlike patience.
Levi Tibbs sits behind bars on charges of rape and aggravated assault. Turns out, he and his dead accomplice came from Oregon, with mile-long criminal records and outstanding warrants. Apparently, they were on the run when they spotted Conor in town earlier that day and followed her home.
It sickens me that she blames herself. As if she deliberately attracted those men and caused Lorne’s arrest. We argued about this yesterday, and I vehemently reminded her that she saved my ass. If she hadn’t broken through my fog of rage that night, I’d be in jail right now, facing murder charges.
I brush my nose along the soft skin on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything? More food? A book from your room? Sunblock?”
If she sits out here much longer, her skin will burn.
“My legs aren’t broken, Jake.” She turns her head toward me and kisses my cheek. “I miss Ketchup.”
Her black mare. She was twelve when we got our own horses. I let her name mine Barnabe and thought it was the worst name ever until she announced, “I’ll call mine Ketchup, because I’ll always be in the lead, shouting, Catch up! ”
“What did the doctor say about riding?” I ask.
“I’m on restriction for four weeks.” Her sigh brushes my cheek, and she leans back against my chest. “I’ll bring her some apples today and hang out with her in the stable.”
“She’ll like that.”
Outside her bond with Ketchup, Conor doesn’t have female friendships. Maybe because she grew up with three boys. Or maybe because she didn’t have the softer influence of a mother in her life.
I’ve never seen paint on her nails or cakey goop on her face like the girls wear at school. Her wild mane of red hair doesn’t come from a box or a salon. It’s all hers, and when it’s caught in the wind, she looks like a mystical goddess.
It’s so easy to be besotted with her. I don’t care if that makes me pussy-whipped. Let the haters burn with jealousy, because the hottest girl alive only has eyes for me.
“You’re beautiful.” I ghost a kiss against her neck.
“Me?”
“You.”
The screen door opens behind us. Footsteps creak the wood decking, and the door slams shut.
“Jake.” My dad’s irritated tone stiffens my shoulders. “Come here.”
I twist my neck to glare at him. “What?”
He stalks forward, dressed in a black suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, white Stetson on his head, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. No tie. I’m not sure he owns one.
His deep-wrinkled scowl fits the occasion. Wyatt Longley’s funeral is today, and he’s the only one in our household brazen enough to attend.
His polished boots pause at the top stair, and he towers over us looking for all the world like a pissed-off oil baron. “Conor, go inside and put some clothes on.”
What the fuck? The shirt hangs past her knees and completely hides the shape of her body.
My hackles bristle, snapping my voice. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“It’s okay.” She grabs the guitar and breakfast dishes. “I need to take a shower.”
She slinks by my dad, chin tucked and eyes lowered in a way that fuels my anger. She’s always been respectful toward him, but lately, he hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it.
When she steps inside and closes the door behind her, I stand, putting myself at his height.
He was an attractive man once. Maybe he still is, but the years have multiplied the lines on his face and sagged the disapproving scowl that’s become his permanent expression.
“What’s your problem?” I clench my hands at my sides.
“Watch your tone.” His voice shudders the air between us as he leans into it. “I told you to stay away from her. Especially now. Last thing she needs is you knocking her up.”
“Jesus, Dad.” My eyes bug. “She needs her friends. Her family. She needs all of us.”
“We’re here for her, but there’s going to be some changes around here. You kids are grown, and the house is getting cramped.”