Chapter 33
The past repeating itself
Cole
I hate working in the rain. I mean yeah, sometimes it’s great, you get to cool off in this blistering July heat, but it just makes everything else harder and more difficult around the ranch.
The ground turns to slick mud that sucks at my boots with every step, water drips off the brim of my hat in cold, steady streams, soaking through my shirt collar and tracing icy paths down my back.
Every nail I drive feels like pushing through wet leather, every board heavier, every post slipping in the softened dirt.
Not to mention the humidity that comes after. The air smells sharp, wet wood, burnt hay from last night’s fire, mud, and that faint metallic tang of ozone still hanging after the storm. Smoke lingers too, stubborn, clinging to everything like regret.
Especially now, after this fire. Cleaning up this damn mess is going to be a bitch. Charred beams black and splintered, ash floating up every time I kick a pile, the skeleton of the back wall still smoldering in places despite the rain.
We were up till 3 a.m. hosing it down, coughing through smoke, hearts pounding every time a horse screamed. Doesn’t matter. I still have to be working at 7. The ranch never stops. It never cares if you’re broken.
“Sorry I slept in,” Maggie says, coming over to help me move the burnt wood, her gloves already filthy, hair plastered to her forehead under her hat.
“Luke’s still out, I guess?” I ask, voice rough from smoke and lack of sleep.
“Yeah, well, you know Luke,” Maggie huffs and rolls her eyes, grabbing the other end of a scorched beam. The wood groans, wet and heavy, ash smearing across her palms.
“Have you seen Layla today?” she asks me, casual, like it’s nothing. “That was pretty wild of her last night. She really cares for this ranch, for the horses. You need to make it right with her.” She adds, softer.
“You need to mind your business, Maggie,” I say coldly, sharper than I mean to, the words cutting through the rain like a blade.
“It is my business, Cole. You’re my brother, so shut up. Stop being a fucking weirdo and tell the girl you love her,” she snaps back, dropping the beam with a wet thud.
And she’s really starting to irritate me. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The rain drums louder on my hat, cold drops sliding down my neck, mixing with sweat and soot.
“I don’t know if I love her,” I lie, voice flat, hollow even to my own ears.
“Right,” she scoffs, eyes rolling hard. Then she steps closer, voice dropping.
“Not every girl is Abby, Cole. Layla is definitely not Abby. Far from it. Abby ran the second things got hard. Layla ran into a burning barn for horses that aren’t even hers.
She stayed up with us for hours making sure every animal was safe.
She’s brave. She’s kind. She’s nothing like Abby and you know it. ”
Her words hit like a slap, sharp, true, stinging because I’ve been trying not to think about them. Abby left when Mom died. Left when I needed her most. Left a ring on the nightstand and never looked back. Layla… She ran toward danger. For Shadow. For this place. For us.
I drop the wood, wet thud in the mud, wipe my hands on my jeans, the denim already soaked and heavy. Rolling the toothpick around between my lips—bitter wood taste grounding me, keeping my hands from shaking.
“I don’t know what to say to her.”
Maggie exhales—long, tired. “Just don’t let the past repeat itself.”
I don’t answer. Just turn toward the guest house, boots sucking in the mud, rain dripping off my hat brim in steady plinks.
I go to knock and the door opens slowly, like it was left cracked or not fully shut. My stomach drops.
I walk in. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Her stuff is gone. Cleaned out. No laptop on the desk. No books scattered. No vanilla candle burning. No trace of her except the faint ghost of her perfume hanging in the air—sweet, floral, like she just left.
“Layla?” I say, voice cracking, louder than I mean. Walking down the hall to her room, boots loud on the hardwood, heart slamming against my ribs.
“Layla? Hello?” I say again.
This place is empty. What the fuck?
I can feel my blood boiling but at the same time my stomach sinking, cold, sick dread spreading like ice water through my veins.
Did she leave? I walk over to the desk she sits at every day.
A stack of papers sits neatly in the center.
Manuscript pages. Her book. On top, a sticky note in her neat handwriting: “Thank you for being an inspiration.”
Is this her book? Did she leave without saying goodbye?
I sit down in the computer chair, still warm from her, leather creaking under me, completely speechless.
She left. She left me. She left us. No goodbye.
She said she loved me. She said she loved it here.
I should’ve made it right. I should’ve said it back.
I should’ve grabbed her and kissed her until she understood she was never temporary.
Maggie knocks on the front door that’s open, sharp raps that make me flinch.
“Hey, is she okay?” Maggie asks, stepping inside, rain dripping from her hat.
“She’s gone,” I say, voice flat, dead.
“Gone? What do you mean—” She looks around, realizing what I’m saying is true. Her face falls, eyes wide, mouth open.
“She left her book. Told me thanks for being an inspiration,” I say, throat tight, fingers brushing the top page like it might still hold her warmth.
“She wants you to read it,” Maggie says, softly, certain.
“Why would she leave? Did something happen between the two of you?” Maggie asks.
“She told me she loved me,” I say, looking down through the printed papers, ink still fresh, words she wrote while sitting here, thinking of me, of us.
“And you said?” Maggie asks, voice quiet, dangerous.
“Nothing. I said nothing.”
Maggie scoffs, sharp, disappointed. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you!”
She yells now—voice echoing off the empty walls.
“You’re such an idiot sometimes. Read the fucking book, Cole.
Hell, read the damn room. She didn’t just walk away.
She left you something. Maybe answers. Maybe a goodbye.
Maybe a chance to fix it. But you won’t know if you keep sitting here pretending you don’t care.
” She slams the door, hard, leaving me in the guest house alone without Layla.
It feels empty. I feel empty. I can still smell her, vanilla, faint shampoo, the ghost of her perfume clinging to the chair, the air. The room is too quiet, no tapping keyboard, no soft humming while she writes, no rustle of pages. Just rain on the roof, steady and sad.
I flip the page. Chapter 1. The title hits like a punch and I fall back onto the couch.