2. Archer
CHAPTER 2
Archer
April in Berry Falls is mild. The sun is high, the skies are clear, and the weather is progressively getting warmer. Humidity has yet to thicken the air, and everything smells fresh and new. The grass is lush and green again, trees are blooming from flowers to leaves, and the fields of strawberries the farmers plant each season are beginning to fruit and ripen as the days grow longer.
It’s a slow, gradual start to summer when everyone is a buzz with the harvest and tourists slowly begin to descend upon us for lake season. But out here on Emerald Lake Ranch, surrounded by the best of Berry Lake’s shore, there’s never a slow period or easy entry into any season.
Our 1,000 acre ranch has been in my family for over 225 years. Our ancestors settled this part of Tennessee when it was ceded to the federal government in 1790 and founded what eventually became Berry Falls. And in all that time, we’ve done one thing: breed and train horses. We started with work and military horses in the ranch’s earliest outfit, but as times changed and needs evolved, we got into the business of race horses.
My older brother, Ryder, handles breaking and training in all its capacity, from prepping horses to be racers to transitioning them into riding horses once their careers are over.
Hunter, my twin, handles everything to do with breeding and the care of foals and weanlings.
Our mom—who married into the Hayes name—has been working as a veterinarian here since finishing school, which is how she met our dad. She came for her dream job and found love at first sight. At least that’s how they always told the story.
In addition to floating wherever I’m needed on any given day, I handle everything to do with finance and accounting for the roughly two billion dollar net worth ranch. At least, it is when the market is having a favorable day.
Historically, April is one of our busiest months. Between the last of the foals being born from the previous breeding season, managing the current breeding season, Triple Crown and summer racing gearing up, training the new yearlings we’ve produced or acquired, the ranch is non-stop, sunup to sun down. And to top it all off, tax season has just wrapped up. No matter how much prep and organization I do throughout the year, April has a way of creeping up and steamrolling me. I could sleep for a week and not put a dent in what I owe my body.
But I love it. There’s never been anywhere else I’d rather be than out here surrounded by my family’s ever growing legacy.
Almost never.
For one brief summer ten years ago, the only place I loved more than my family’s ranch was wherever Tinsley Jacobs was.
I was home from Vanderbilt when she rolled into Berry Falls over the Memorial Day weekend for a summer's long vacation. From the moment I met her while waiting for our coffee orders at Berry Station, I was a goner. A certified fool in love, wrapped around her finger, and following her wherever her heart desired.
That brief flirtation led to me getting her number and taking her to dinner that night. And that turned into us spending every minute of every day we could together. Boating on the lake, driving through the endless back roads, dancing in the fields under star covered skies. She was the beginning and end of every one of my thoughts. The one I thought I couldn’t live without.
Going into it all, I knew better. Summer love was never designed to last. I had a year of school left, and she had just graduated high school with the world waiting to fall at her feet. Still, I wanted forever with her. Firmly believed that while her dreams and my obligations had us stretching in two entirely different directions, we could make it work. And I thought she had believed in it too. Had seen the same future I did. One where we were together. I had been so confident in it, I had been ready to propose to her.
All I had with her was that one perfect, beautiful summer. Ten weeks where I was hers and she belonged only to me. But she was always meant for more than this town—for more than me. Even then she belonged to the world. They just didn’t know it yet. But I did.
I never doubted for a moment that her dreams would not only come true but surpass her wildest imagination. I just thought I’d get to be with her when it happened.
They say time heals all wounds. But whoever said that is a bold-faced liar. That, or the person who broke their heart never went on to become a global pop sensation with household name recognition. Because Tinsley Jacobs is exactly that.
She’s not just a phantom of my memory I refuse to let go of, though she is that too. She’s every bit the star I knew she would become with her songs all over the radio world wide and her concerts selling out to tens of thousands every night. Even if I wanted to escape her, forget her existence, I couldn’t. Especially not now as her newest album, Summer Haze , is dominating damn near every radio station. An album she wrote at my side with my hand on her thigh ten years ago, singing and playing the songs on her guitar for me and me alone.
Over the years, with each one of her records, there’s been hints of our past shared. A chart topping single on each one that came from the journal she never left home without. The very one that had my name and hers linked together on the front in her messy, loopy script. Photos of me and of us tucked inside its pages. Our initials doodled in the margins from when her mind would be stuck on a line of lyrics and she would drift off to thinking of me until it sorted itself out.
Each of those songs is a reminder that slams into me when they play through the speakers of my truck. A reminder that we were once each other’s everything. That the things she sings about are memories I still remember as vividly as if they were yesterday. That I was wrong. That I can live without Tinsley Jacobs. I just do it with a broken heart.
“Hey, Arch?” Boone, one of the ranch hands we’ve recently hired, calls out down the line from where we’re gathered at the track as Ryder is working with Dolley, a beautiful and equally stubborn Appaloosa who's trying to buck him off. When I look up from the iPad in my hand where I’m going over my projections for the next quarter, he asks, “Is it true you used to date her?” turning his phone around to show me a paused video of Tinsley.
In it, she’s wearing a long sleeved white t-shirt with a deep v and jean short cutoffs that barely come past the outer curve of her thighs, little bits of lace added to the fraying hem to make them appear longer. Mirrored aviators cover her whiskey colored eyes, and her dark chocolate hair is split into two braids with a faded black baseball cap on her head. In the still shot, I can’t see what she’s wearing on her feet, but since everything else about her appears as if time has stood still, I’d bet my last dollar she’s wearing pink cowboy boots. Though I doubt these days they see even a speck of dirt on their leather let alone the mess from a stall that needs to be mucked or the dust from a race track.
In sum, she’s even more beautiful now than she was back then.
I rub at the outer corners of my eyes, my contacts irritating me more than usual after having spent my lunch break—a time I normally reserve to be screen free—going down the rabbit hole of listening to “Destined To Fall” and the rest of Summer Haze while locked in my office. Ever since that album dropped, I’ve been obsessed all over again, wishing that I hadn’t let her go when she ran.
“Yeah, why?” I confirm, closing the iPad when I note it’s almost time for me to head into town and pick up my niece, Ellie, from school.
“Man, you dodged a bullet. Look at this.” He guides his horse over to meet mine in the middle, swiping his finger to the left to restart the video he was watching as he explains, “She came home from her tour yesterday. Apparently she found that boyfriend of hers—you know the one, that shitty cornerback for L.A.—in bed with two women and her house completely trashed.” With the video queued up, he says, “You know what? It’s better if you just watch. She’s insane—though I bet it was worth it, huh?”
“What was?”
“Putting up with her crazy ass in order to pop that cherry,” he smirks, nudging me.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I snap, giving the idiot a chance to rethink what he said as I stare down at him until he mumbles an apology and hits play.
I’ve never been the kind of man to divulge details about my sex life, but especially not anything about Tinsley. She was never some summer conquest to me, and what she gave me is a memory I’ll take to my grave, not some badge of honor to brag about and share with the world. And now that any detail about her life, regardless how old it is, could end up splashed on the cover of magazines the world over, I keep my lips permanently shut about everything I once knew about her and anything we ever did no matter how wholesome or salacious.
Like a glutton for punishment, I watch as the two guys who run that famous celebrity gossip site talk about Tinsley and the NFL player, Corey Withers, she’s been dating recently. After a quick summary of their relationship and recount of his absence at her side these last months she’s been on tour and he’s been in the off season, the video Boone was talking about starts up.
It starts right in the middle of things, with Tinsley smiling unlike anything I remember her ever giving anyone as she picks up her keys. It’s actually a little terrifying. Something this douchebag would see if he wasn’t too busy walking around buck ass naked, spewing apologies she’s clearly not paying a lick of attention to.
Keys in hand, she walks outside and turns around beside the ugliest car I’ve ever seen and says, “Don’t worry, baby. No hard feelings,” before digging those keys into its paint job, the sound of metal scratching over metal screeching through the phone.
It’s the cold mocking in her voice that reminds me we’re virtually strangers to each other now. That while for a moment I looked at her and saw my Tinsley again, she’s anything but mine now.
As soon as the slack jawed shock wipes off Corey Withers’s face, he's charging at her, screaming that she’s a “backwoods bitch,” making my fists curl with the urge to punch him and lay his ass out. Some security guy steps in, though, and body slams the pretty boy who can’t keep possession of a ball to save his life into the gravel ground. Behind them, a blonde woman Tinsley’s always with, calls out, “Ooo that’s gonna leave a mark,” as she pushes Tinsley into the car, sealing her away from whoever was recording them which is where the video ends, bringing us back to the two guys from the start.
“See?” Boone says through a laugh. “Crazy. Fucking insane. That was like a 150,000 dollar car she fucked up. Just Carrie Underwooded that thing like it was nothing.”
I shrug. “He trashed her house and brought two other women into her bed; I think he got off easy,” I recall from the two guys talking at the start.
The salt that gets rubbed in the wound isn’t the release of Summer Haze for the world to experience. I had always assumed that day would eventually come. It’s not even that I loved her with everything I had and she left. It’s that this is what she left me for. Not the fame and the constant tabloid coverage, but assholes like Corey Withers.
I’m not comfortable dressing up in more than a sports coat and a good pair of jeans. I have no place at any of the tables inside the fancy restaurants she goes to. And I definitely can’t hack the life she lives with cameras constantly in her face and people thinking they’re entitled to knowing every detail of her life, treating her as if she’s a commodity to be consumed and not an actual person. As much as I wanted to love her until the day I died, and as ready as I was to follow her out there despite all that, I know I could never have been a part of this life she has. In the end, my issues would have only held her back and kept her from reaching her full potential.
Boone opens his mouth to counter my assessment of the situation but Ryder cuts him off yelling, “Son of a bitch!”
The iPad is thrown to the ground as we spur our horses into gear.
A cloud of dust is quicked up as Gatsby—my former racing gray Thoroughbred—gallops up alongside Dolley.
On her other side, Boone’s grabbing the reins to help keep her steady as Ryder jumps from her onto Gatsby. He pats my shoulder as he gets steady before jumping off and jogging after where Boone, his horse Lucky, and Dolley are trotting up and down the lane.
Guiding Gatsby back around, I shout, “That horse ain’t meant for racin’, Ryder. It’s been weeks and you can barely mount her.”
Calm as can be, Dolley has come to a complete stop and is letting my brother stroke his hand down her muzzle, all memory of the incident from not five seconds ago forgotten.
“Nah, she’s a sweet girl. She just wants to be the one in charge is all. We’ll get there.”
“Before or after she orphans Ellie?”
With Dolley’s reins in hand, he walks alongside me back to the starting stall. “We’re getting there, Archer; I can feel it. She just needs the right touch, and once we find it, she’s gonna be running laps around this place and chomping for a chance at a Crown title.”
“This is the fifth time she’s tried to buck you off. Today ,” I emphasize. “She’s taking more of your time than every other horse combined.”
“And I’m tellin’ ya, Arch, she’s gonna be worth it. You just watch.”
As he loads her back into the stall, I mutter, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. You’re going again?” I shake my head knowing I can’t stop him. As stubborn as Dolley is, Ryder’s worse. When his mind is set, there’s no changing it.
I check my watch and, now that I’m out of time, dismount from Gatsby. I pet his flank and give him a few pats before handing him off to Lucy-Mae who's just pulled up in the side by side, thanking her for taking care of Gatsby for me.
“Of course, Mr. Hayes.”
“Miss Lucy, you’ve been in the stables as long as I’ve been alive; you don’t need?—”
“With all due respect, Mr. Hayes, you’re the bossman who signs my check, so yes I do.” Clicking her tongue, she coos to Gatsby, “Come on pretty boy, let’s go for a bit of a walk and then how does a nice long brushing sound to you?” When he nudges her as she guides him away, she chuckles, “Yeah, I thought so.”
Pointing to Boone before I bend down to pick up the now cracked iPad, I inform, “If he’s dead when I get back, you’re fired.” Then looking up at Ryder who's back in the stall—Dolley already antsy and wanting to buck—I order, “Don’t orphan my niece while I’m gone!”
“Thanks, Archer!”
I wave over my head as I step over the rail and get into the side by side.
It’s a short drive over to the paddock Hunter’s working in today, and before I even stop, he’s hopping in and slapping his palm on the roof, urging me to keep going.
He reaches under himself and pulls free the iPad.
“I take it Dolley’s still giving Ryder issues,” he guesses correctly, chuckling at the spider cracks all across the screen.
“Third one in the last month,” I grumble, taking it and tossing it into the basket in the back. “At least I can still use this one.”
When we reach the stables, I turn off the side by side and hook the keys in their spot above the desk where Lucy-Mae works keeping the logs on the ranch’s horses. My brother and I cut through, nodding and exchanging words to those we pass without stopping, most everyone just guessing at which one of us is addressing them.
Before I started wearing contacts, it was easier for everyone to tell us a part. Out on the ranch, though, they were a problem with me breaking pairs as frequently as I do tablets. Still, Hunter and I may be identical, but there are differences that anyone who took half a second to notice could identify. I’m about two inches taller than him, and while we’re both permanently tanned from life on the ranch, mine is more faded than his given the amount of time I spend in my office instead of on a horse. There’s also our eyes—though Lucy-Mae and Tinsley are the only two outside of the family who have ever noticed the variation in our iris pattern. Mine are a more pronounced dark green like our dad’s were, while Hunter has streaks of blue through his that he gets from our mom.
It’s one of those things we think is obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight. However, at thirty-one, we’ve long since stopped bothering to correct people.
We get into my truck, and the moment it turns on, my phone is connecting via Bluetooth. Coming through the speakers is Tinsley’s sweet as honey voice as she sings about clothes on the floor, lips on her body, fingers in her hair, tangled sheets, and the heaven of feeling forever.
My brother punches the screen with his knuckle, breaking the connection, as he scowls.
“ Don’t say it,” I warn, shifting into drive and making our way up to the gates to head into town.