We Redeemed the Rain (Meadowbrook Ranch #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

I stepped up to the olive green door and dropped the bronze knocker against hot metal. Tap, tap, tap.

I shifted on my feet, a bit nervous. The weight of my body ground the soles of my boots into the cement stair. My heart had never felt so heavy. And that was saying something because life had been nothing but heavy. I attempted a deep breath as the Texas sun baked my back through navy blue fabric. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. Every damn thing hurt.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

I closed my eyes as pain shuddered through my chest, and I remembered Miss Simone, walking the hallways of Burton Falls Middle School. Website said she left her school counselor role behind almost fifteen years ago in favor of getting her doctorate and starting a private practice. A shame, honestly, because she was good at drawing kids out of their hiding places.

I never got the chance to tell her my story, not the full version anyway.

When I huddled in a bean bag chair in her office all those years ago, she filled in the blanks—pieced together big conclusions from small clues. And I let her. Didn’t try to set her straight, defend my case, or put on a brave face. Even though I never disclosed the details of my story, she never pressured me to talk. She advocated for me despite my inhibitions. I owed her.

Scuffling sounds on the other side of the door made me blink hard and jerk my shoulders back. The door swung open and there she stood, a gentle white smile pulling dimples into dark cheeks.

She had to be in her fifties now.

One glance into her eyes reminded me why I’d loved her. The light still glowed within. Streaming out, sparkling—a fleck of compact sunshine in her smile.

“Samuel Taggart.”

“Miss Simone.”

She reached up her arms. “Come here, doll.”

The squeeze pulled the waiting tears from my eyes. As painful as my journey had been, I was able to look back and see the safe places. The heartbeats. The buoys that kept me amid the flood. Miss Simone was one of the more prominent among them.

She said over my shoulder, giving me a hearty clap on the back. “I don’t ever see old friends from Burton Falls these days.”

Friends —a flash of hope in my soul.

She pushed me back and looked me over, gaze snagging on my hat. “You’re a cowboy now?”

I nodded, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face even as I lifted a shoulder to swipe a tear off my cheek.

“Are you still at your grandparents’ ranch?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Moisture pooled beneath her own eyes, and she blinked it away. Flustered, she raised both hands in the air. “Where are my manners? I’m standing here gaping at how grown you are while you’re melting into a puddle on my stoop. Come in, darling. Come in!”

She held the door open for me. The AC cooled the sheen of sweat on my neck. The smell of burnt coffee and old books filled my senses. When she led me through her foyer and into her client room, I found out why. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered two walls, making the room feel cramped. An unblinking orange light indicated a hot burner. Coffee was probably hours old. A mahogany desk and mismatched coffee table crowded the tiny space. And a grandfather clock kept time in the corner.

I removed my hat and gripped the rim like a life preserver.

I was out of my element in every way.

“Make yourself comfortable.” She waved to the array of eclectic furniture. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got water, Coke, lemonade?”

Hell no. I will never drink a Coke again.

“Uh, water. Please.”

Absent-mindedly, I plopped onto a straw yellow couch, set my hat on the coffee table, and ran my hands through my hair. How was I going to get through this without falling apart? Where would I even start?

Honesty was my mountain.

A towering, crushing mountain with a high fatality rate. I had no tools to climb it, no way to scale its sides, no experience to fall back on.

She thunked a water bottle down on a coaster and settled herself in an upright armchair across from me. I felt her dark eyes studying me before I met them. They bore into my soul. Miss Simone loved to talk, but more than that, she loved to listen. And she was waiting on me.

I glanced down at my bottle of water, focusing on the ripples in the plastic. I took a deep breath to speak, but no words came. The familiar trembling sensation behind my ribcage started up, paralyzing my voice.

When the silence stretched on, she gently prodded me. Her voice was a tender hum, as grounding as the sound of a fan or refrigerator. “How are you, Sam?”

“I’ve seen better days. But, I actually go by Tag now.”

Her brows knit as she nodded. “Tag. How did that name come to be?”

“There were four Sams in my freshman class.”

She chuckled softly. “So your last name got shortened?”

“It stuck.” I lifted a shoulder. “And it felt right to leave my old name behind. ”

“Tag” She tried the name out once more. “I like it.” She smiled. “How are you, Tag? I know you’re not here on a social call.”

“Yeah,” I rasped.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

I picked up my hat again, needing the familiar felt to catch along the ridges of my calloused fingers. It was my fading grip on reality. The thing holding me from sliding into unreachable despair. A comforting reminder of the one thing I had left—my horses.

“There’s somethin’ wrong with me, Miss Simone. I—I’m broken, I think.”

She waited. The clock ticked loud.

“I don’t know how to live without fear.”

Miss Simone nodded in understanding.

“My whole life—it’s all gone to hell. Most days it feels like my ranch is crumblin’ down around me. And”—my voice broke—“I pushed away the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

The hat twirled around and around.

“I hate myself for being such a coward. But I don’t know what to do.”

She squinted, like she was trying to see straight to my insides. The frightened child that still existed within me had no doubt she could. “People don’t live in fear for no reason. Fears start somewhere.”

I nodded, studying the glossy wooden grooves on the coffee table, unwilling to look her in the face while I admitted my first truth. My voice cracked. “I know where.”

After a beat of silence, she said, “I’m assuming you want to talk about that. Or else you wouldn’t be sitting in my home office right now.”

I drew a deep breath. “I need to ask you something first.”

“Okay.”

“Remember that box of journals and pens you gave me?”

A smile pulled into her cheeks even though she tried to quell it. “Yes.”

“You told me it was old stuff from your desk you were cleanin’ out. But it wasn’t. You bought those things for me, didn’t you?” The box was stuffed to the brim with college ruled paper, composition books, smudge free lefty pens, and journals—a couple beautiful, leather bound journals.

She hesitated then admitted, slowly. “It wasn’t just me. Greta Turner slipped the writing craft books in for you. She believed in your ability. Do you remember her?”

Ms. Greta. My middle school Language Arts teacher. I could never forget.

“I remember.”

“She adored having you in her class.”

“She was a good teacher.” I sat forward. “You should know, I filled every single one of those journals. And a lot more.”

“With what?”

“Thoughts, memories.” I shrugged. “Letters, stories, some shit poetry.”

She laughed. “I’d bet my right arm not a single word on those pages is shit.”

“Doesn’t matter. They weren’t for anyone else anyway.” I dropped my hat back on the table and swiped my sweaty palms down my jeans. “Those pages…they’re the only place I’ve ever been real.”

Like an all-seeing eye, she filled in the blank again. Her super power. “You’ve never told anyone your story.” Not a question—a statement.

“No ma’am.”

“Are you here to tell me?”

I hesitated. “I—I don’t know if I can.”

She sat forward, interlacing her fingers over her knees. “Tag.”

I caught her gaze.

“We go your speed. You’re safe right here.”

I couldn’t curb the desperation in my voice, hating the way it shook. “I need help. I don’t want to be alone.”

“We all need help sometimes. And I promise I’ll do my best to be there for you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to pinpoint a starting spot amid all the muck and mire of my childhood.

Miss Simone was in no hurry to make me talk.

Panic swept up my throat, clawing at my esophagus. I knew what was ahead. I knew what I needed to discuss, but damn it all, I was terrified. My body already clenched in anticipation of the coming topics, a chord of tension drawing my shoulders tight.

After a minute, she prodded me, her question chiseling a crack into my apprehension. “If you sat down to write in your journal at this very moment, what would you write?”

I didn’t have to think. “I’d write about the thing that ruined my life.”

“And what is that?”

“The rain.”