34
Hard and unforgiving
Hands on his hips, his breathing labored from the hard run uphill, Rafferty stared at the house looming before him. All steel and stone and glass. And his implacable and relentlessly stubborn brother lived within those imposing walls. It suited Aidan. Hard and unforgiving.
You’re here to heal your relationship, not aggravate it.
He hadn’t set out to confront his brother, but the more he mulled over his session with Trent several days ago while his feet pounded into the ranch dirt beneath his feet, the angrier he got at Aidan’s continuous antagonism.
He wasn’t Trick anymore. He was Rafferty .
And he wanted that life of abundance.
With those words echoing in his mind, he stepped up to the imposing front door and rang the bell.
It took almost a minute before it pivoted open, revealing his brother. “What are you doing here?” the man boomed, keeping the door half-closed.
“To talk,” Rafferty returned in the same impatient voice.
“About the ranch?”
Rafferty folded his arm and lifted his brows. “No.”
“Then we have nothing to discuss.”
“Oh, for goodness’s sake, Aidan,” a woman said. “Stop acting like a petulant tween. One in our home is enough. And you’re letting in the cold air.” The door opened fully to reveal Cecelia. “Evening, Raff.”
“Cecelia,” he replied, tipping his chin in greeting.
“Aidan.” She prodded her husband’s side. “Move your cumbersome cowboy carcass out of the way and let your brother in. You can talk in the library.”
Aidan aimed an annoyed glance at his wife but duly stepped aside. “Follow me,” he growled, turning around.
Warmth rushed over Rafferty’s chilled body as he stepped across the threshold.
He caught a glimpse of flames flickering behind glass panels — part of the massive double-sided stone fireplace in the center of the vast room.
And the giant television was on, an animated movie paused.
But before he could take in more, an impatient growl from his big brother pulled his attention to the right.
The man stood in front of a set of doors, his arm extended in a clear “this way” gesture
Rafferty followed.
He looked around with interest. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined two walls, crammed with books, framed photographs, and eclectic ornaments.
Two plush sofas faced each other across a narrow coffee table, itself stacked with more books.
On one side of the room, a large worktop with high-backed roller chairs hinted at a space used for both school projects and conversation.
But it was the piano that caught his eye — tucked into the corner where the shelves met. With its lid open, the keys gleaming under the soft glow of recessed lighting, polished and waiting, like someone might sit down and play at any moment.
He moved toward the baby grand, brushing his fingers lightly over the keys. Smooth, cool, achingly familiar even after all these years. “Who plays?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “Valentino.”
He peeked at the sheet music open on the rack, the pages slightly curled at the edges.
Star Wars . It was a piece he’d played as a youngster.
A smile tugged at his lips, the reason for his visit momentarily forgotten as nostalgia wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
His fingers itched to move, to coax sound from the keys.
“What happened to our piano?” The old upright had given him many hours of joy.
“Ti used it when he and Vin first came here,” Aidan said. “But when we moved here and bought this one, Ma agreed to donate it to the senior center in town.” He shrugged. “There was no use for it anymore.”
The barb in Aidan’s tone hit its mark.
Rafferty turned away, putting his back to the memory.
“If you want to play …” his brother said, voice rough with restraint. An invitation, but also not.
Rafferty stood still for a beat, uncertain. But the itch to play — the pull of muscle memory, of something once loved — was stronger than pride.
He moved to the bench and sat, fingers hovering just above the keys, still hesitant. His gaze drifted to the sheet music, familiar notes staring back at him. Slowly, his fingers settled on the keys — tentative at first, like greeting an old friend after too long apart.
The keys were familiar, but his fingers felt stiff, awkward, and he stumbled through the first few bars, clumsy and slow.
Then something shifted.
Muscle memory stirred, nudging the notes into place. The music took hold, warming him from the inside out, and suddenly his fingers moved with purpose. The love of it rushed back in, sweeping hesitation away like a tide.
“Who’s playing?” The shout rang out, followed by the sharp slam of wood against wood.
Rafferty jolted. His hands crashed down on the keys, the sound bursting into a discordant jumble of notes. He yanked them back as if burned, the music severed mid-bar, leaving a jarring silence in its place.
Rafferty shot to his feet, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Guilt, absurd and immediate, flushed his face.
A boy stood in the center of the room, hands planted firmly on his hips, expression stern and unblinking.
“Who said you could play on my piano?” he demanded.
Rafferty’s “I’m sorry” overlapped with Aidan’s firm “I did.”
Valentino’s eyes flicked between his dad and Rafferty, suspicion furrowing his brow. “Why?”
“I apologize,” Rafferty said softly. “It was rude not to ask your permission first. It’s just … I haven’t played in a long time. And when your dad said I could, I guess I couldn’t help myself.” He offered a small, hopeful smile. “Your piano’s beautiful.”
Ti tilted his head thoughtfully. “You played that very well.”
“Thank you. I’m a bit rusty, though.”
A solemn nod. “It helps to practice.”
“That it does,” Rafferty agreed with a small smile.
Aidan cleared his throat. “Time to go, Valentino. I have business to discuss with my brother.”
At that, the wariness crept back into the boy’s eyes. Without a word, he turned and hurried from the room.
Rafferty watched the boy disappear, a flicker of regret tightening his chest. For a moment, he and his nephew had made a connection of sorts.
But now it was gone.
He exhaled slowly, the anger from earlier beginning to stir again, Cooler now, dulled around the edges by the brief, unexpected joy of playing.
He turned back to Aidan and opened his mouth — only to snap it shut as Cecelia entered, balancing a tray in her hands with two steaming mugs resting on top. He sniffed. “Is that what I think it is?”
She grinned. “Gina’s chamomile and lavender blend.”
He gratefully closed his hand around the mug and inhaled the richly scented vapor curling into the air. It had been Charlie’s favorite tea. The lump in his throat rose fast, and he forced himself to meet Cecelia’s gaze. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, voice low. “You have every right to hate me.”
Her expression didn’t waver. “I did. For a while.”
Aidan let out a sharp grunt. “Of course. I keep forgetting you two have a history,” he snapped. “More lies.”
“Aidan—” Cecelia began, but he cut her off with a raised hand.
“No. Let me speak.” Aidan drew in a shaky breath, voice tight with fury.
“I can get past the undercover work. I can even make peace with the years of bullshit that came with it. But I can’t” — his voice broke, then hardened — “I can’t get past the fact that you left our father on the side of the road to die . ”
Rafferty’s hand trembled, sloshing hot tea over the rim and onto his fingers. He didn’t flinch.
Cecelia stepped forward, gently prying the mug from his grip. “Tell him,” she murmured. “Everything.”
Aidan exploded. “More secrets? Seriously?” His glare bounced between them, sharp and disbelieving.
Cecelia reached out and laid a hand on Aidan’s arm, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “You’ve forgiven me for worse. He’s your brother, Aidan. Hear him out, my darling.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked out, leaving the silence ringing in her wake.
“I had no choice,” Rafferty whispered.
“No ch—” Aidan began, then stopped himself. He lifted his chin, eyes blazing. “Fine,” he snapped. “Then tell me. Everything.”
Five years ago …
The Escalade loomed behind them — jet black, chrome grille flashing mean under the morning sun. He didn’t need a second glance to know who it was. He recognized the SUV — had driven one for a while himself. How had they found him? He’d covered his tracks so well. Not well enough, it seemed.
“Son?” Pa interrupted the string of curses blowing through his mind. Or maybe he’d spoken them aloud.
“Pa”— he gritted his teeth — “there’s someone behind us.
” The SUV was a powerful vehicle, outrunning them was almost impossible.
But he needed his dad to buy them some time.
“You need to try and pull away from them.” Rafferty glanced behind him out the rear cab window, no longer surreptitiously using the side mirror to look at them.
Without questioning him — his father likely heard the quiet desperation in his voice — the man who’d taught him to drive accelerated.
The engine screeched in protest but gamely lurched once, then steadily gained speed.
But Rafferty knew his father’s ranch Chevy, although fairly new, was no match to the powerful engine steadily closing the distance.
“Keep her steady, Pa, and keep your eyes on the road.” His hand slid under the bench seat and came up with the Winchester .308. He pulled it close and laid it across his lap, barrel pointing toward the floorboard.
“Son?”
Rafferty took a precious moment to meet the concerned brown gaze. “I’m sorry, Pa, but I think trouble has followed me.”
“Then you’d better do what you need to.”
He popped the bolt up with a firm flick of his wrist and drew it back. The bolt slid like glass, a whisper of steel on steel. The chamber was empty.