Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Ryan
T he vineyard stretches out before me, a patchwork of green and gold under the fading evening light. The air smells of rain, fresh and clean, mingling with the earthy scent of the damp soil. I ride slowly through the property on my vintage Indian motorcycle, the engine rumbling low and steady, the tires kicking up a faint spray of water from the gravel path.
The rows of vines blur past, and memories crash into me like waves, relentless and unforgiving. I see Brennen and myself as kids, racing through the fields and laughing, our mother yelling after us to be careful. I see my father, his hard eyes and clenched fists, a bottle of whiskey always within arm’s reach. And then there’s Candace—her laughter like music, her smile brighter than the summer sun. I lost my virginity among those vines; Candace did, too. There was an old stone cottage, the original home of the founders of the vineyard. As teenagers, it had been our trysting place. The plan had been to restore it and live there after we got married.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars. This is why I haven’t been back. It’s too much. Too raw. The motorcycle, a vintage Indian Chief that I restored, helps to ground me in the here and now. I tell people I did it so it can go in the jet, but that isn’t true, I take it with me because I like riding it, and it makes a statement with its mint green and cream paint, and for me it evokes a timeless, elegant aesthetic. The brown leather saddle seat and matching saddlebags, complete with fringe and metal accents, add a rugged yet refined touch and mean I don’t have to carry luggage. It seems to me to be the perfect blend of nostalgia and modern engineering.
The path winds up toward the main house, a stately structure that looks smaller now than it did in my memories. The shutters are weathered, and the paint is peeling in places. The house is holding up, but just barely, much like everything else around here.
I park the bike near the front porch and cut the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the house as the quiet hum of insects fills the air. The sun dips lower on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange. A soft breeze carries the lingering scent of rain, cooling the tension in my chest.
Finally, I dismount, grabbing the saddle bags from the bike and slinging them over one shoulder. The walk up to the front door feels longer than it should, every step weighed down by the memories I’ve tried to bury. I hesitate at the door, my hand hovering just short of the handle.
Do I knock? Or do I just walk in? It’s still my family’s house, isn’t it? I’m still a member of the family, or so Emma keeps reminding me.
The decision is made for me when the door swings open, and a woman steps out, almost colliding with me.
“Oh!” she gasps, her eyes widening in surprise before recognition settles in. “Ryan?”
Her voice pulls me back into the past. “Joselyn Vargas?” I ask, taking her in. She looks older, of course—more polished, her hair maybe a shade darker, her features sharper—but there’s no mistaking her.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling hesitantly. “Wow, it’s been a while.”
It has. I remember her from before I left, when she was just a girl Brennen couldn’t stop talking about. I thought they’d split up long ago but seeing her here makes me wonder.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice laced with curiosity.
She hesitates for a moment, glancing back inside. “I came back to make peace with my past. Brennen and I are dating now,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact.
That catches me off guard. So much for my assumptions. “Good for Brennen,” I say, stepping aside so she can pass.
Joselyn nods once and moves down the steps, her pace brisk, as if she’s eager to give us space. I watch her go before turning back to the open door.
Brennen is waiting inside, leaning against the doorway of the living room. He doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Nice bike,” he says dryly.
“Nice vineyard,” I reply, my tone just as sharp.
He doesn’t answer, just gestures for me to come in. I step over the threshold, setting my saddle bags down near the wall.
The silence between us is thick and awkward, the kind that comes from years of unresolved tension. Finally, I break it.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“You think?” Brennen shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Look, I know this is awkward...”
“Awkward?” he interrupts, his voice rising. “You show up out of nowhere, after years of nothing, and expect me to just roll out the red carpet?”
“I’m here to help, Brennen,” I say firmly. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Help?” He laughs bitterly. “You mean, swoop in and play the fucking hero? Save the vineyard because you suddenly decided it matters to you?”
“I’ve always cared,” I snap, my patience wearing thin. “I’ve been keeping tabs—on you, on Emma, on this place. Just because I wasn’t here doesn’t mean I didn’t give a damn.”
“Then where the hell were you when things began falling apart? When I was busy realizing the extent of the crippling debt and bad business decisions dad left me?”
His words hit hard, and for a moment, I have no answer. He’s right, in a way. I wasn’t here when it mattered.
“I couldn’t stay,” I say finally, my voice low. “Not after mom died…”
“They said it was suicide.”
“I don’t care what they said. Mom would never have left us. Never. He killed her. I know he did.”
“And your answer to that was to leave us with a man you thought was a murderer?”
“He would never have touched you. He was too angry and focused on me. Besides, there were people here to keep an eye on him. The sheriff didn’t buy suicide as the cause of death. I know what was written on the coroner’s report, but only because they couldn’t find anything to support murder. I don’t know, maybe he just drove her to it.”
“But you didn’t believe that,” accused Brennen. He’s still so angry.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t. All I know is that if I hadn’t left, I’d have killed our father. Maybe not that day, but some day. I’d have ended up in prison for the rest of my life. So, I joined the Navy and found some positive ways to channel my rage and need for control.”
Brennen flinches, his jaw tightening. “How did you know about what’s going on here?”
“I have my ways, Bren. The fact is, Sapphire Development is Candace Prescott, and destroying my home is just a part of her master plan.”
“You mean your ex is responsible for this? You’re responsible for this ?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”
“I sure as hell would. Do you think I’m an idiot and don’t know how dangerous she is to the vineyard?”
“You don’t,” I say, my voice cold. “Not like I do. She’s vindictive, Brennen. Calculating. She doesn’t just want the vineyard. She wants to bury our entire family—every single one of us—and if you let your pride get in the way, she’ll succeed.”
He glares at me, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. But he doesn’t argue.
“I’m not here to take over,” I continue. “I’m here to help. Whether you want me to or not. The vineyard belongs to you, me, and Emma. If push comes to shove, Emma and I can force you.”
“Arrogant bastard.”
“Undoubtedly, but we’re a lot stronger if it’s all three of us. Mom always said as long as we had each other…”
“You think she would have approved of what you did? What you didn’t do?”
“Not a chance. She’d have made the Navy give me up, write an apology letter to her, and dragged my sorry ass back here, but she wouldn’t have been thrilled with you, either. In fact, the only one she wouldn’t be pissed at is Emma.”
Brennen’s fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. The vein in his temple is pulsing, his jaw working overtime as he struggles to keep his cool. But I know my brother, and I know how to push him.
“You really think you can handle this on your own?” I say, my voice low and biting. “You’re drowning, Brennen. The vineyard’s falling apart, Candace is circling like a shark, and you’re just standing there, bleeding and waiting for her to take the first bite.”
“I don’t need your help,” he snaps, stepping closer.
“Sure you don’t,” I reply, stepping into his space just enough to rile him further. “You didn’t need help when Dad ran the business into the ground. Didn’t need help when Candace set her sights on this place, and you didn’t see it coming. Face it, Brennen, you’re in over your head.”
“Shut up, Ryan,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
“Or what?” I push, leaning in. “You’ll throw a punch? Go ahead. It might be the first decisive move you’ve made in years.”
That does it. Brennen’s arm shoots out, his fist aiming for my face, but I duck easily. “Too slow,” I say with a smirk, goading him further.
“You arrogant son of a...”
Brennen keeps swinging, and I keep ducking. He’s not a bad fighter and looks to be in decent shape, but I was trained by the best and most elite fighting unit in the world. Besides, I have several inches and probably forty pounds of pure muscle on him.
He swings again, and this time, I don’t dodge. I take the hit square to the jaw, staggering back just enough to keep it believable. My lip stings, and I taste blood, but I grin anyway.
“Feel better now?” I say, straightening.
Brennen looks shocked for a moment, then pissed, and then something close to resigned.
“You needed that,” I tell him. “And now, you’re going to listen to me. The only reason this place is in trouble is because of Dad’s stupid decisions and because Candace Prescott knows this is the one way she can hurt me. She doesn’t care about the vineyard, Brennen. She cares about revenge. You’re collateral damage in a fight you had no hand in creating and no idea you were playing.”
“You think I don’t understand what Candace is capable of?” Brennen says, his voice low and venomous. “I’ve been dealing with the fallout while you were off playing soldier or businessman or whatever the hell you’ve been doing.”
“And that’s my mess to clean up,” I reply. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to be pissed at me. Hell, I’d be pissed, too. I should’ve been here. I wasn’t. That’s on me. But I’m here now, and I’m not letting her take this place without a fight.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze searching mine. Finally, he exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. We stand there for a long moment, the silence heavy and charged. Finally, Brennen nods, just barely. It’s not agreement, but it’s not a refusal, either—I’ll take it.
“Your room is still your room,” he says gruffly. He pauses at the base of the staircase. “But Ryan? The winery is mine, and you’re not welcome there. Goodnight.”
“Night,” I reply, watching him disappear up the steps.
As I make my way upstairs to my old room, my thoughts drift to Candace. If only things had been different. If only we’d been together all these years. If only she were mine—my wife, my sub—I’d have the power to deal with her. I could take her over my knee, strip away that icy facade, and remind her of the fire underneath.
But that ship sailed long ago, and now the only thing left is the wreckage.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the past and the present sitting heavily on my shoulders. It’s going to be a long night.
I linger for a moment, the house around me feeling both familiar and foreign. The past seems to watch from every corner, but I shake it off and head to my old room to drop my bags. After a quick glance around, I head to the kitchen, stomach growling.
The fridge is nearly empty—beer, ketchup, and some questionable takeout containers. Typical bachelor. I grab a bottle of water and decide to head into town to stock up and maybe grab something decent to eat.
Jumpin’ Jacks, the tavern in town, hasn’t changed much. The same dim lighting, the same worn wooden bar, and the same creaky stools. A few familiar faces nod at me as I settle into a corner booth. Small talk is exchanged—questions about where I’ve been, how long I’m staying—but nothing too deep.
The waitress drops a burger and fries in front of me, and I dig in, savoring the taste of something fresh. I’m halfway through when the bell above the door jingles, and I glance up.
Time stops.
She walks in, her silhouette framed by the warm glow of the tavern lights. She’s dressed to kill in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid gold. Her eyes sweep the room, and when they lock onto mine, the air between us turns electric.
Candace.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Her cool, unreadable expression masks whatever storm might be brewing beneath. But those eyes—I know them too well—flash with something. Recognition? Anger? Something else?
She recovers first, of course. She always did know how to throw up walls in a second—part and parcel of her life as a foster kid. Her lips curl into a faint, almost amused smile, and she looks away, heading for a booth like I’m not even here.
But I see her shoulders stiffen. She knows I’m watching.
And just like that, years of distance collapse, and I’m right back to the moment I walked away from here. Right back to the mistake I’ve been running from ever since. It’s time to stop running.