Chapter 3
three
Chance stared at the coffee machine as it sputtered and spit, his fingers drumming against the counter.
The machine was working like usual, but it felt damn slow this morning. Probably because Chance needed some coffee before he called his sister-in-law. Ruby was good at taking charge of situations—she was a teacher, after all.
Cordy needed help. She might claim she didn’t, but she wouldn’t have put that ad up if she wasn’t desperate. He couldn’t stop thinking about the glint of panic in her eyes as she’d insisted she’d be just fine.
She might not want Chance’s particular help, but Cordy needed someone .
“Watching it ain’t gonna make it go faster,” his brother, Quint, said.
“I’m thinking.”
Rye, their younger brother, looked between them but said nothing. Rye was the quiet one.
The mid-morning coffee break was a Southwinds Ranch tradition. The Kessal boys grabbed a quick breakfast and got to work early, but at nine, they always came home to the old ranch house and had some coffee. The machine wheezing on the counter had been there since Chance’s dad had been a kid. Wasn’t broke, so no one was going to fix it.
“Thinking about what?” Quint demanded.
Chance blew out a sigh. Yeah, Ruby was probably his best bet. However, Rye might be a good second choice. Rye was always calm, steady, which Cordy might prefer. She definitely couldn’t accuse Rye of being a player.
No, Rye only had one dark incident from his past, but it was a hell of a one. Back when he was a senior in high school while driving with two friends, he’d crashed his car into a tree. Poor Liberty had been hurt badly enough to end up in the ICU, although she was okay now. Still a little weird around Rye, not that she could be blamed for that.
Rye never talked about that night. Chance found it hard to believe his brother could have done something like that—Rye had never once gotten into trouble before that. But Rye had insisted he was at fault and had served out his probation with no complaints. And then went back to never putting a foot wrong. Rye definitely wasn’t sleeping with women he didn’t plan to see again.
Cordy might be right about Chance’s suitability as a partner. He wasn’t exactly the model of a settled man and certainly not the kind of man who would be in a birth class. Despite that, Chance was always careful. He’d never even come close to becoming a father.
Still, it rankled him to think of Rye helping her and not him.
“Cordy Johnson needs help,” Chance said. She might not admit it, but it was clear as day.
Rye merely raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is she okay?”
“She needs someone to go with her to a childbirth class.” Chance left out the rest of what Cordy had told him. His brothers wouldn’t go blabbing, but Cordy had made it clear what she’d said stayed between her and Chance. “I was thinking of calling Ruby.”
Quint’s mouth went flat. He stared at his empty mug, then muttered, “Someone’s got to bring the old man in from the back porch. Guess it’s me.”
“Well.” Chance stared after his brother as Quint stomped off. “Sounds like things are going great at home with him and Ruby.”
Sometimes, his brother and his sister-in-law were on speaking terms, and sometimes not. Chance never understood what kept the two of them together. Well, he understood what kept Quint in the relationship—pure cussedness and the curse of being a Kessal man—but not what kept Ruby.
“Can’t Cordy ask Hailey?” Rye lifted his mug for a refill. “Or Mrs. Saxon?”
“There’s… issues there.”
“Hmm.” Rye didn’t demand an explanation. “Remember how she sat by herself at the funeral?”
“Yeah.”
Cordy hadn’t arrived with the Saxons—she’d come alone. She’d sat by herself at the back of Huntington and Sons Funeral Home and disappeared after the service, not even staying for the wake. No one had known what to make of it. It was like she was mad at the entire town. Or she didn’t know how to act at a funeral.
Maybe there was already trouble brewing between her and the family by then.
“Guess she doesn’t want to ask Reed’s family,” Rye said.
“Nope.”
“Ruby is good friends with Hailey.”
Chance pressed the heel of his hand into his eyebrow. That was a damn good reason not to ask Ruby.
Back in second grade, Ms. Slade explained spiders didn’t get caught in their own webs—the spider remembered which strands were sticky and which weren’t. Chance always figured that would be helpful in a town like Star Crossed Springs, remembering who was connected to who and which strands were safe to pull on.
“What about Liberty?” Rye asked.
“Why the heck would she ask Liberty?”
Asking Liberty would be about as random as asking any other person in town—not quite as random as putting up an ad, but almost.
“Liberty likes Cordy,” Rye said.
Chance remembered Liberty’s suggestion about the strawberry donuts. And how she’d told the old-timers to knock off their rude comments.
Huh. Rye might be right. Still…
“Cordy put up an ad for a labor coach on the Donut Palace board,” Chance said heavily. “That’s how desperate she is.”
Rye whistled. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen that up there. Although that one guy was looking for someone to beat a level of Super Mario for him.”
“Isaac Martin,” Chance said. “I wonder if he ever found someone.”
“I heard Johnny Hansen’s ten-year-old did it for him. Isaac cried, he was so happy.”
Chance scratched his chin. “Well, Cordy isn’t asking for help with a video game. I offered, but she turned me down.”
“What?” Rye coughed in his hand, his coffee going down the wrong pipe. “You?”
“Yeah, me.” Chance set his mug down with a snap. “Why’s that so funny?”
“Pulling calves doesn’t make you a labor coach,” Rye said. “I hope you didn’t talk about being elbow-deep in a cow when you offered.”
He hadn’t, but now that Chance thought about it, maybe that did qualify him for the job.
“The ad said you wouldn’t have to be there for the birth itself,” Chance explained. He tried to imagine Cordy delivering her baby entirely on her own. Completely by herself, with no one to hold her hand?—
He had to stop because that was way too dark. There had to be someone who could help her. Like Ruby or Liberty. Or even Rye.
“Then who’s going to be with her? She’s going to be by herself when she delivers?” A knot of concern formed between Rye’s eyes. “When is this class? I could?—”
“No,” Chance said quickly. Thinking of Rye being with Cordy, helping her, touching her… it wasn’t jealousy rumbling through him. Only concern for her. “She knows me better. She’d be more comfortable with me.”
Rye gave him a skeptical look. “If you’re sure.”
Chance was pretty fucking far from sure. They drank their coffee while Chance tried to figure out what he could do for Cordy. She seemed to think he was some kind of heartbreaker, disappointing a new woman each morning, but he was genuinely friends with quite a few of his bed partners. He might not be interested in a long-term romantic relationship, but he was always happy to stay friendly.
Calling up one of them wouldn’t go over well, though. Cordy would be pissed if he did. She wasn’t jealous, but she did disapprove. If he was out as a potential coach because he slept around, any woman in his phone was probably out for the same reason. Cordy was never judgmental before, but she was now.
She was desperate, too.
That was probably why he’d reacted so badly when she’d turned down his offer. Here, he’d tried to help her, and Cordy had acted like he would corrupt her baby or something.
Steps sounded on the front porch, followed by the scrabble of dog claws.
“Dad’s here,” Rye said out of habit. There was no need to warn each other, not anymore, but old instincts were hard to erase.
Chance felt his body tense, his old habits rearing up too. Wasn’t like Holden was going to be drunk, not these days, but Chance still reacted the same way.
A few moments later, Quint and Holden came into the kitchen. Pard, Holden’s basset hound, was pulling up the rear.
Quint looked grim as hell. Chance slapped his brother on the shoulder, trying to snap Quint out of his mood. “Coffee’s ready.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m dragging ass.” Quint rubbed a hand over his face. “Need to put some jet fuel in that coffee to get me going.”
“I don’t want to think about what that would do to your stomach.” Chance handed over a mug of regular coffee, no jet fuel added. “I’ll do the grain mixing this afternoon. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“Appreciate it. You want me to sort those heifers for you instead?”
Chance nodded. This was how he and Quint had always been, pulling together, trading tasks, keeping everything going on the ranch. After Mom died, they’d had to learn how to do everything and learn fast.
Chance bent down and scratched Pard behind the ears. The basset hound stared up at him from the saddest eyes Chance had ever seen. Even when the dog was happy, he looked miserable.
“What did you get into?” he asked Pard. “You looked like you got dragged backward through a pile of foxtails.” Chance brushed a bunch of them off Pard’s long, floppy ears.
Pard gave Chance a grateful lick before he disappeared under the table.
Once the dog was gone, Chance had no more excuses. He steeled himself and got ready to greet Holden.
Holden Kessal, father to the five Kessal boys, husband to Laura, and the reason the Kessal brothers were as messed up as they were. One man, ten years of drinking, and five sons screwed up in totally different ways. It was like Holden was a cue ball slammed right into them, sending them spinning off in wildly opposite directions.
Chance wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly why he did what he did each night at the bars. Thanks to Holden, he was a billiard ball flying out of control.
His father had loved his mother so much that Holden had tried to drink himself to death when she died. Never mind that he had five boys to raise. It was only the bottle and his grief for him after that.
Chance knew that if he fell for a woman, he’d fall so hard he’d never find the bottom, the same as his father had. That’s what Kessal men did. And if anything happened to her…
He shuddered at the thought. He wasn’t even in love, and the notion made him sick. Best to avoid it all together. Holden was a harsh example of what could happen if Chance risked his heart.
Finally ready, Chance looked at Holden.
The old man was pouring his coffee, his stark white hair falling over his brow. His skin looked… greenish. Not good.
“You all right?” he asked Holden gruffly.
“Fine,” Holden grunted as he set the pot back. “Tired.”
Chance’s mouth tightened. Tired at nine in the morning. At least Holden was awake. Back when he’d been drinking, there would have only been a fifty-fifty chance he’d be up and about in the mornings.
Chance remembered too many days with him and Quint bickering as they raced to get Rye and Lane, their youngest brother, out the door and to the bus stop on time. The oldest Kessal brother, Bowie, was in grad school back East, so he couldn’t help. Not that Chance and Quint had admitted to him how bad things were. They were trying to keep the ranch going and their brothers in school so the state wouldn’t take them, all the while barely being adults themselves.
So yeah, Chance liked things easy. Why wouldn’t he, when they’d been hard for so long?
Holden, at least, had stopped drinking. It had only taken Lane moving away at eighteen. The day after Lane took off, Holden tossed out all the liquor and never touched it again.
That hadn’t been enough to bring Lane back—he didn’t trust Holden had changed, and Chance didn’t blame him—but Holden kept to his sobriety.
Still, Chance felt like he was holding his breath around Holden, waiting for the old man to slip up again. Yeah, Holden had been holding steady for four years now, but it only took one drink. Holden wasn’t strong—it was bound to happen.
“Maybe you should lie down,” Rye said.
Quint gave Chance a look Chance recognized all too well. The one that said, Something’s up, and we’ve got to fix it.
Chance glanced at Holden and then back to Quint. It’s about him?
Quint gave a quick nod.
Great. That was just what Chance needed.
“I’ll be all right once I get some coffee in me.” Holden sat down heavily, his legs almost giving out. His color looked even worse under the kitchen lamp.
Chance immediately began estimating how quickly he could get to the ER in Fordsville. Leaving now would be faster than calling an ambulance.
Quint cleared his throat. “You, uh… You’re not having any chest pains or anything? Are you?”
Icy panic slammed into Chance’s chest. Aw fuck. If Dad was having those, they needed to be on the road already.
“No, no.” Holden waved his hand like their concern was such a pain in the ass. “Told you, I’m just tired.”
Just tired ? He looked like hell.
Chance’s lip curled as a possibility occurred to him—had the old man finally fallen off the wagon? Was he hung over?
There weren’t the usual signs. The smell was the first one. Holden leaked alcohol out of his pores when he was drunk, so bad you could start a fire off the fumes. But Chance didn’t smell anything.
The slurring was the next. Holden had gotten real good over the years at talking past his drunk tongue, choosing the words easiest to pronounce, saying as little as possible. That wasn’t happening now.
Finally, the bottles and cans were the big tell. Holden was a slob when he drank, leaving the evidence everywhere. The Kessal boys had tons of practice cleaning up after him, not wanting anyone to see.
The place was clean, though. If Holden was drinking again, he’d gotten better at hiding it.
Chance studied his father closely. The man was in his sixties, with a decade of hard, hard living behind him. Old age was catching up to him. Might just be that.
“You should take a break,” Rye said. “Pard looks tuckered out.”
The basset hound perked up and thumped his tail, clearly happy to help.
Dad got Pard when he’d sobered up. Growing up, dogs had never been allowed in the house—houses were for people, Holden had insisted. But when Pard arrived, the dog got to do whatever he wanted. Come inside, sleep on the beds, fart by the fire, you name it. If Chance didn’t like the dog so much, he might have been pissed.
Pard was like Cordy’s noodle dog. Not in looks—they were total opposites there—but because both were lazy goofballs.
That reminded Chance he still hadn’t figured out what to do about Cordy. Yet another problem staring him in the face.
Holden cleared his throat. Chance braced himself for more arguing.
“Might be a good idea,” Holden said to Rye. “Pard and I can watch that judge show. He likes that.”
Chance let himself breathe. Good. At least that was handled. “Yeah, you stay in with Pard. Keep him out of the foxtails—he’ll get them stuck in his ears again. We don’t want that.”
Holden patted the dog’s head with a gnarled hand. “Gotta do it for Pard.”
Quint set down his mug. “Break’s over. Dad, you got your cell in case you need us?”
Holden nodded. Quint left without a backward glance. Chance gave Rye a look— Help him into the living room —then followed Quint.
His older brother was waiting on the front porch, his jaw set. Chance knew what would happen next. He and Quint would have one of their talks about how everything was going to shit, but they were already doing everything they could to stop it. When Holden had been drinking, they’d done this about every day.
When they’d been desperately trying to figure out what to do about Rye’s wreck or Lane’s disappearance, it had felt like they’d never stopped talking. Never stopped worrying. It was all on them to keep their family from falling apart.
Seeing that look on Quint’s face always sent Chance’s stomach to his knees.
Chance thought of everything he could say to his brother. We should get him to the doctor. Except Holden wouldn’t go, and they couldn’t force him. Maybe we should take him to the ER to be safe. Again, Holden wouldn’t go. They’d tried that before when the alcohol withdrawals had gotten real bad. Turned out you couldn’t check someone into an ER against their will.
Chance worked his jaw. “He been drinking?”
Quint shrugged, then shook his head. “Don’t think so, but something’s up. Says his chest is fine, stomach’s fine, just tired, leave him the hell alone. The usual.”
“Maybe he’s got that liver thing.” Chance couldn’t remember the name.
“Probably. He drank long and hard enough that his liver’s likely fucked.” Quint’s mouth turned down. “I’ve got to get back out there. It never stops.”
Quint sounded worn down. Worse than worn down.
Chance wanted to ask what was really wrong because it wasn’t the damn grain mixer. But the answer to that was the one Quint never wanted to talk about—his wife.
Yeah, the Kessal boys were messed up good. But at least Chance had the small comfort of knowing he’d never brought a woman into this mess.
Cordy was right. Chance was the last man who ought to be helping her.