Chapter 4
Jett
Dust swirls in the air as I watch Wren’s taillights fade down the gravel drive. My chest still burns, like I swallowed a shot of whiskey too fast, and it scorched its way down. Anger pumps through my veins because it seems to be the only emotion I can tolerate when it comes to her.
But it’s not the anger that eats at me.
It’s the way her body flinched when I touched her.
I’ve seen plenty of people react to me like that.
In Afghanistan, in training, in bars where some asshole thought I was looking at his girl for too long.
But not Wren. Not the girl who used to reach for my hand in the middle of the night, slipping her fingers between mine like she was made to fit there.
Not the girl who used to kiss me like she could burn the whole world down if I let her.
There’s no way in hell my touch would make her recoil. No matter what happened between us. No matter how much we ruined each other.
Which means someone else hurt her.
My fists clench so tight I can feel the pulse beating in my palms. Fury, I don’t know where to put, surges, but before I can even form the thought, my grandma’s voice cuts across the driveway.
“Jett Samuel Riggsby. Inside.”
Still, at twenty-eight years old, she’s one of two women who make me want to shrink in my boots at my full name.
Grandpa chuckles from the tractor seat, shaking his head like he’s seen this show a thousand times before. “Boy, you’ve done it now.”
“Not helping,” I mutter, jaw tight.
“Don’t look at him for help.” Grandma’s voice carries from the porch, her back already to me as she disappears into the house. She doesn’t even turn around. I swear the women in my family have eyes in the backs of their heads.
With Storm at my heels, I stalk across the gravel, up the steps, and through the screen door.
The smell of warm, buttery cornbread hits me first. My stomach growls on instinct, though my head is still back in the driveway with Wren, with the way her eyes looked like broken glass under the April sun.
The farmhouse hasn’t changed since the day I was born. Hell, probably longer than that. Log walls stained an orangey brown, heavy furniture, and a cross hanging by the kitchen. A home that feels both like a sanctuary and a prison.
Grandma’s bent over the Crockpot, stirring.
“Chili?” I ask, trying to be neutral.
She doesn't look up. “Vegetable soup.”
Even better. My favorite. I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, heading for the sink to wash up.
“Oh, no. Don’t you butter me up, mister.”
A low chuckle escapes me, though there’s no humor in it. “I wouldn’t dare.”
She sets the spoon down, then turns, hand on her hip, every inch the matriarch of this house. “You need to have a conversation with that poor girl.”
I stop mid-motion, water dripping from my hands into the sink. The words cut deeper than she knows. My back stiffens. I grab the towel, drag it roughly across my palms, and finally meet her eyes.
“Not happening.”
Her gaze softens, and for a second, I think she might let it drop. But Lydia Riggsby has never let anything go in her life.
We fall into the routine anyway. She ladles the soup, and I carry bowls to the table, the silence between us heavy as a thundercloud.
She pulls a skillet of cornbread from the oven, sets it on a trivet, and slices it.
The smell fills the whole kitchen, and for a moment, it almost feels like I’m sixteen again, sweaty and sunburned after a day of moving cattle, Wren barefoot on the porch swing, laughing at something I said.
Almost.
Grandpa ambles in, washes his hands, and sits at the table. “Smells good, Lydia.”
“‘Course it does. Now sit down and eat.”
I slide into my seat, trying to ignore the way my bones ache like I’ve been carrying more than the weight of the farm all morning. Trying to ignore the phantom memory of the look on Wren’s face when she realized I was standing there.
The screen door creaks again, followed by the sound of boots scuffing across the foyer floor.
My mom steps into the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a leather binder tucked under her arm.
She smells faintly of hay and copier ink, a strange blend that clings to her because she spends her mornings checking pastures before burying herself in the books.
Riggsby Cattle doesn’t run on grit alone. Mom’s the one who makes sure every dollar balances, every invoice is paid, every ranch hand’s paycheck clears. She’s spent years handling the finances, many of those years balancing raising children glued to her hip.
“Something smells good,” she says, offering Grandma a hug before making her way around the table. She sets the binder down on the counter, squeezes Grandpa’s shoulder, and presses a kiss to my cheek like she always does.
One thing about the Riggsbys—we don’t skimp on affection. We’ve learned the hard way how quickly loved ones can be ripped away.
She slides into the chair across from me, reaches for the soup, and glances around like she’s taking stock of all of us. “What’s going on here?”
“Your mother-in-law thinks your son is an idiot,” Grandpa says around a mouthful of cornbread.
“I never said idiot.” Grandma swats at him with her napkin. “I said he was acting exactly like you did at his age.”
“Which was—?”
“Like an idiot.” She levels him with a look that has me biting back a grin.
Mom narrows her eyes at me, spoon poised in midair. “What did you do, Jett?”
Before I can open my mouth, Grandma answers for me. Of course, she does. “Wren Drummond stopped by.”
The spoon in Mom’s hand halts halfway to her mouth. Her eyebrows lift, and I brace myself. “She’s home? I thought that was a rumor.”
“She’s back,” I say flatly, dragging a chunk of cornbread through the soup to keep my hands busy.
Mom studies me for a long second, then her lips press into a thin line. “Jett Samuel, do you have a black eye?”
Grandpa snorts, damn near choking on his soup.
My jaw tics. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Mom pushes back her chair, gripping my chin and coming closer, like she needs a better look. It’s a black eye, one I’ve sported too many times to count. “Are we back to this?” she snaps. “The fights. The recklessness. You promised when you came home, you’d leave all that behind.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I shove away from the table, pacing toward the sink, because sitting still feels impossible. “I wasn’t looking for a fight.”
“But you found one.” Her voice sharpens, disappointment dripping from every word. “You always do, don’t you?”
“It’s been years since I’ve been in a fight. You act like I came home three years ago and have found myself in weekly brawls down on Main Street.”
She sighs, shoulders dropping. “I can’t go back to how things used to be.”
“I get it, Mom. I do, but I’m not that same stupid boy, and it sucks you still think so little of me.”
The air in the kitchen grows heavy. Grandpa clears his throat, but Grandma sends him a look to silence him.
Grandma folds her arms, watching me like she’s waiting for me to admit something. Maybe she already knows. She's seen this all before. A wild son with more fists than sense. The only difference is—her wild son didn’t live past fifty.
I drag a hand through my hair, the weight of her stare pressing harder than any war zone ever did.
Mom’s shoulders lower slightly, voice quieter now. “Don’t fall back into your old ways, Jett.” Her voice works around the words. “You don’t get to raise hell anymore. Not when we all need you steady.”
I was always a wild child, ornery and unpredictable. Throughout high school, that turned into rebellion. I was popular in school, a jock, but I lived on the edge. Partying, pranks, pushing boundaries…and the law.
Riggsby Cattle doesn’t survive if I keep screwing up. We run nearly five thousand acres that stretch farther than the horizon. Every grazing plan, every calf born, every fence line repaired—my shoulders carry it.
I lean against the sink, arms crossed, my jaw aching from how tightly I’ve clenched it. My fingers twitch, needing a cigarette. I tried to quit when I came home, but the bad habit stuck. My black eye throbs with each heartbeat, a pulsing reminder of last night. Of Wren. Of the past I can’t outrun.
The silence stretches until Grandma finally interjects, her tone deceptively light. “Well, I, for one, am glad Wren’s back. That girl always brought a little sense to you.”
The spoon in Mom’s hand clinks against her bowl. “Maybe she still will.”
My chest tightens, ribs feeling too small to breathe.
I rinse my bowl, place it in the dishwasher, and press a kiss to both their cheeks on my way out, ignoring Grandma’s sigh and Mom’s watery eyes.
Mom’s voice follows me out. “Fix things, Jett. Before it’s too late.”
Fix things? She’s half the reason I’m in the situation I’m in. Well, her and Dad, but he’s not here. The weariness in her voice tells me she’s hiding something, but I can’t put my finger on what.
The screen door slams behind me. Outside, the April air is cool, but the sun beats down against my skin. The smell of fresh-turned soil and cattle are heavy in the breeze. Birds trill in the hedgerows as a tractor hums in the distance.
Our farm pulses around me, alive and endless. And still, I feel like I’m standing in quicksand, sinking deeper with every breath.
The day clings to me like mud on my boots.
April on a cattle farm in Ohio is no joke.
Calving season is winding down, but with a few thousand head, there’s no such thing as quiet.
Mud sucking at the tractors, fence lines mangled from winter storms, calves to be tagged and vaccinated, hay deliveries stacked against the calendar.
A farm this size doesn’t sleep—and neither do I, not really.
The weight of responsibilities doesn’t come off your shoulders because the sun sets.
By the time I finally drag myself home, my body’s humming with that bone-deep fatigue that no shower or beer really touches.
My house sits a few blocks off Main Street, close enough to hear Friday night traffic around the bars, but far enough to pretend I don’t.
Two bedrooms, one creaky porch, siding that could use a good power-wash. It isn’t the farmhouse, but it’s mine.
I ditch my boots inside the door, mud flaking on the mat, and peel out of my t-shirt. My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s the group chat. Always the damn group chat.
Baker
So…we going out tonight?
Heath
Bar Fight 2.0!
Davis
A bar fight? Really, Riggsby?
Baker
Dude, you should have seen our boy.
There was nothing to see.
Baker
You went all MMA on the guy.
Heath
How are you just hearing about it?
Baker
He lives under a rock in his wooded fortress.