Chapter 3-Benji
I know something’s off the second I see Sawyer’s pickup coming down the lane toward the fence I’m still working on, even though the light’s nearly gone from the sky.
Summer nights stretch long out here, the heat still clinging to the ground after sunset, thick and sticky against my skin.
The air smells like cut grass, warm dirt, and cattle, and the cicadas are loud enough to make the whole damn ranch feel like it’s humming.
Sawyer pulls up hard in front of the porch and kills the engine.
Then he calls my name.
It’s not loud.
Not urgent.
Hell, he doesn’t even say it twice.
But there’s weight in it.
A drag in his voice that settles low in my gut and tells me, plain as a bullet wound, to brace for impact.
My place is down by the lower pasture, which suits me just fine.
There’s enough room between my house and Sawyer’s that we’re not on top of each other anymore.
After months of bunking together while we got Jersey Iron off the ground, a little distance is a blessing.
Lord knows, I was about one week away from strangling Micah in that bunkhouse.
Him, and that all night fucking gaming shit.
I set down the nail gun and straighten, rolling the ache out of my shoulders.
I’ve been splitting my time between the paddocks, the fencing, and this house for weeks now, trying to get the last of it done before the real push starts.
The younger bulls have been testing the lines like they’ve got something to prove, and one in particular has been riding a section of fence so hard I had to redo half the damn thing before I could call it a night.
The post driver’s still ringing in my ears.
My shirt’s plastered to my back with sweat, and I’ve got dirt under my nails, sawdust in my hair, and enough grime on me to plant crops.
A man can stay busy on a ranch like this.
That’s half the point.
Work keeps your hands occupied.
Occupied hands keep a man from thinking too much.
And too much thinking? That’s where trouble starts.
Work keeps your hands occupied.
Occupied hands don’t punch walls.
Occupied minds don’t replay old memories until they rot.
“Benji.”
There it is again.
I straighten slow, one hand still wrapped around the fencing pliers, and glance up from the line I’ve been working.
From down here at the lower pasture, the main house sits a good stretch away—far enough that people look like shapes more than faces.
But I see enough.
Sawyer’s truck.
Parked crooked near the end of the lane.
And another vehicle.
That van I noticed earlier.
That alone is enough to set something off in my gut.
We don’t get random visitors out here.
Not without a call first or a reason.
I narrow my eyes, trying to make out more, but the light’s gone soft with the coming night, shadows stretching long across the property.
I can see movement—figures near the porch—but nothing clear enough to put names to faces.
Then Sawyer breaks away from the house and starts heading straight for me.
Fast.
Purpose in every step.
That’s when I know.
Something’s wrong.
I drop the pliers onto the ATV seat without thinking and meet him halfway, wiping my hands on my jeans as he closes the distance.
Up close, it’s worse.
His face is locked down tight. Too controlled. Too still.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just jerks his head back toward the house.
“C’mon.”
That’s it.
No explanation. No warning.
Just that.
Behind him, Bit hurries to catch up, falling into step a few paces back.
I glance at her, but she won’t meet my eyes—just presses her lips together like she’s holding something in.
Yeah.
This is definitely not good.
We start walking.
The house gets bigger with every step, details sharpening the closer we get.
The porch.
The railing.
The front door is hanging open.
I can see Angie now, standing near the top of the steps, dish towel still in her hands like she forgot what she was doing.
And there’s someone else.
A figure just off to the side.
Backlit by the porch light.
Still too far to make out clearly.
But something about the shape of her—because yeah, it’s a her—hits wrong.
Familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten before my brain can catch up.
I slow without meaning to.
Sawyer doesn’t.
He keeps moving, forcing me forward with him.
“Who is that?” I ask, my voice lower now.
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
We hit the bottom of the steps.
Angie’s eyes flick to mine, something like sympathy flashing there before she looks away.
Bit hangs back.
And the woman—she shifts.
Steps forward into the light.
And the second I see her face?
Everything in me just stops.
Like someone reached inside my chest and crushed my lungs in one fist.
“No,” I breathe.
My heart stutters.
My brain short-circuits.
“W-what?”
She’s standing there like she never left.
Like three years didn’t pass.
Like three years didn’t carve me hollow and leave me to fill in the gaps with work and whiskey and rage.
Like she didn’t disappear and take half my goddamn soul with her.
Esme.
My gaze drags over her before I can stop it, and that’s its own kind of punishment.
Same soft curves.
Same stubborn little chin.
Same thick dark hair, though it’s even longer now, looser, wilder around her shoulders and back.
Same face that used to turn toward me in bed like I was something sacred.
Only now?
There’s steel in her.
A hard edge where softness used to live.
And something else, too.
Weariness, maybe.
Or hurt.
Or maybe I’m just seeing things I want to see.
Fuck.
“What the hell is this?” I snap, my voice rough and low and way more affected than I want anyone here to hear.
Sawyer doesn’t answer right away. He just jerks his chin toward her.
“She says she’s here for you. That she’s your wife.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Ex-wife,” I growl.
I take another step toward the porch, my whole body going rigid, my jaw so tight I can feel my molars grind.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Not hello.
Not how have you been.
Not why the fuck do you still look like so goddamn good.
Just the question that matters.
Her lips part, and for one split second I see it.
That flicker of hurt.
That moment of doubt.
That old softness.
That old wound.
Then it’s gone, and her face shuts down.
“I need you to sign something,” she says, lifting a manila folder like that’s all this is.
Business. Paperwork.
Clean and simple, and not the reason I can’t get a full breath into my lungs.
My jaw locks harder.
“Send it through a lawyer.”
“I tried,” she shoots back. “You don’t take my letters. My emails get sent to spam. You won’t take any of my damn calls. Remember?”
That one lands.
Small hit. Sharp sting.
I flinch, just a little.
Probably no one sees it but me.
But I feel it all the same.
“Not my problem,” I mutter.
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.
Everything about her standing here—on my land, in front of my house, looking at me like she still expects something—is my problem.
But I say it anyway.
Because it’s easier than admitting anything else.
Her eyes flash, bright and hot, and there—there she is.
The woman I married.
The one who never backed down.
The one who met me head-on every damn time I pushed too far.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she shoots back, her voice sharp enough to cut.
“Because according to this—” she lifts the folder between us, giving it a little shake “—it is very much your problem.”
I huff out a breath, dragging a hand over my jaw like I’m bored, like I’m not standing here trying to hold myself together with duct tape and spite.
“What is it?” I ask, feigning annoyance when what I’m really feeling is a volatile mix of anger, confusion, and something a hell of a lot more dangerous.
“Well, Benji,” she says, and there’s a sweetness to her tone that’s so fake it grates over my nerves, “when you sent me those divorce papers, you forgot one tiny, itsy-bitsy little detail.”
My temper flares, fast and mean.
“You’re not getting any damn alimony,” I snap.
Her mouth falls open for half a second, genuine disbelief flashing across her face.
“I didn’t ask for any!”
“Then what the hell are you talking about?” I fire back, taking a step closer, crowding her space without even thinking about it.
She doesn’t back up.
Of course she doesn’t.
She just glares right up at me, chin tipped, eyes blazing.
“You forgot to sign it, you jerk!”
I blink.
The words don’t land right at first.
“Wh—what?” I frown, the anger stuttering for just a second. “What does that mean?”
Her expression shifts—not softer, not really—but heavier somehow.
Like the weight of everything between us just dropped right there at our feet.
“It means,” she says, slower now, like she’s making sure I hear every word, “you’re still my husband. And I-I’m still your wife.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Everything in me goes tight.
Because that? That changes everything.
And I don’t know if I want it to.
“Still married?”
The words hit me like a shovel to the sternum.
Everything in me slams to a stop.
Silence drops over the porch, heavy as wet wool.
Behind me, Bit makes a tiny, startled sound.
I hear Sawyer shift his weight, but I don’t look at either of them.
I can’t.
If I break eye contact now, I might lose my footing entirely.
“Bullshit,” I bite out.
“I thought so too,” she says, voice sharp now, all defense and old fury. “Until I signed up for a dating service and they refused me after running a background check.”
A harsh laugh rips out of me before I can stop it.
“A dating service,” I repeat, shaking my head like maybe I heard that wrong. “Jesus fucking Christ, Esme.”
“What?” she fires back. “You thought I’d just sit around and die of old age waiting on you to realize you made a mistake?”
“Fat fucking chance there, Sweetheart. But why bother with this now? When has being married ever stopped you?” I spit out cruelly.
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I hit something deep.
Her face goes still.
Not blank.
Still.