Chapter 5 Beau
Beau
The whiskey scorches going down, but it cannot burn away the memory of Lucy Reid's arms circling me in that clinic parking lot.
I pour another measure of Macallan into the cut crystal tumbler that belonged to my great-grandfather, and settle deeper into the leather chair that has anchored this study for three generations.
The fire snaps in the stone hearth, casting restless shadows across walls lined with leather-bound ledgers and family portraits of Blackwell generations.
Outside, Montana dusk bleeds crimson and gold across the snowcapped peaks, beautiful and unforgiving as everything else in this harsh country. My phone vibrates against the mahogany desk. An intrusion I'm not inclined to welcome.
The screen displays a message from my ranch foreman.
Lost three head to the creek break near section twelve. Fence is down. Want me to call Morrison about repairs?
I type back without hesitation.
Hire Sullivan's crew from Whitefish. They cost twice Morrison's rate, but their work endures twenty years rather than two.
Morrison has been angling for Blackwell Ranch contracts for two years, ever since his cut-rate prices began undercutting established contractors by thirty percent. But he uses inferior materials and his crew lacks knowledge of this land.
I would rather pay premium prices for work that endures. My grandfather built this ranch to last centuries, not decades.
Everything here was constructed for permanence. The stone foundation, the hand-hewn beams, the traditions forged in blood and perseverance.
Legacy. Endurance. Principles that matter more than temporary convenience.
I have endeavored to live by the same code.
Control over chaos.
Stability over sentiment.
Duty before desire.
Which makes it profoundly disturbing that I allowed a slip of a woman with whiskey-brown eyes and reckless courage to embrace me as though she possessed every right to offer comfort.
I finish the whiskey and consider pouring another, but that path leads toward the sort of thinking that created this predicament.
The kind that allows a man to believe he might claim things that were never intended for him.
The house settles around me with the familiar sounds of seasoned timber and accumulated memories. This study served as my father's sanctuary before becoming mine, and his father's before that.
Three generations of Blackwell men have occupied this chair, rendering the difficult decisions that maintain eight thousand acres and two hundred head of prime cattle.
Three generations of men who comprehended that duty must always supersede desire. Without exception.
I reach for Dusty's collar where it rests on the corner of my desk. Rich brown leather worn supple from years of faithful service, bearing a brass nameplate engraved simply "Dusty Blackwell."
I had removed it before his bath last week, intending to restore it once he dried. Now it remains all I possess of him while he recovers in Colt Mercer's clinic.
The irony proves more bitter than aged whiskey.
Of all the veterinarians in Montana, fate decreed that my injured companion should land upon Colt's doorstep.
The one man whose presence I cannot endure.
My phone vibrates again. This time the number unfamiliar, but the message causes my chest to constrict with unexpected force.
This is Lucy from the clinic. Dusty ate all his dinner tonight and his incision site looks good. Dr. Mercer says he should be able to go home in 2-3 days if he keeps improving. Thought you'd want to know. - L
I study the message longer than is prudent.
Professional, concise, precisely what I requested.
Yet there exists something in that simple dash-L signature, something intimate that transforms it from mere medical correspondence into something more personal.
Perhaps I am merely projecting desires I have no business entertaining.
She embraced me today.
This woman I scarcely know, this young lady employed by the man I have permitted to despise me for two years, had perceived something in my expression that compelled her to step forward and offer solace.
When did someone last extend such comfort? When did anyone last see beyond the Blackwell name, the wealth, the carefully maintained composure to glimpse the man beneath?
I delete the message and place the phone face-down upon the desk with deliberate finality.
Because preserving it suggests hope, and hope remains a luxury I relinquished two years past.
Lucy Reid is everything I should stay away from. She's young. She's the kind of woman who acts on instinct rather than logic. And she's loyal to Colt, which makes her dangerous territory for a dozen different reasons.
But when she'd stepped between me and Colt this morning, eyes blazing with righteous fury as she defended his medical competence, something had shifted in my chest. Not just because she was brave enough to challenge me, which not many are. But because she was right.
And because for the first time in two years, it appears that Colt Mercer has a woman willing to stand in his corner.
Guilt carves through my stomach like a dulled blade. Colt remains ignorant of the true reason I walked away from our friendship.
He doesn't know I stood outside our bedroom door and heard every word.
Sophia's laughter as she told her friend how simple it was to make two grown men dance to her tune.
How she'd already decided I was the better mark.
All that Blackwell money wrapped up in a man desperate to be loved, while Colt was just a distraction.
He loved Sophia with complete devotion. He wouldn’t be able to bear the heartbreak.
So when I put an end to Sophia’s ambition and she decided to leave, Colt blamed me. He got angry with me. And that anger led to hate.
It was better that way. Anger and hate are better emotions to have other than heartbreak. They lead to act. To react.
He doesn't know I ended things to protect him, to save him from the kind of humiliation that would have destroyed him.
And I've made damn sure he never will.
The fire pops and settles, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney.
Outside, coyotes call in the distance. A lonesome sound that carries through the valley like ghosts reaching across the darkness.
This is my reality now. This house, this land, this deliberately chosen isolation. It's what I accepted when I walked away from the best friendship I'd ever known.
The cost of preserving Colt's illusions, of allowing him to hate me rather than discover the truth about the woman we both loved.
Some days I believe it was worth the sacrifice.
Other days, I pour whiskey and wonder if I'm simply a coward who chose the path of least resistance. Tonight feels like the latter.
My phone buzzes again, and against my better judgment, I pick it up.
P.S. - He's been asking for you. Dogs know when their people are worried. You could visit tomorrow if you want. I promise Dr. Mercer won't bite. Much. - L
The smile that pulls at my mouth is entirely involuntary. There's humor in that message, warmth, the kind of gentle teasing that suggests she sees through my carefully constructed barriers to something worth her attention.
She's dangerous, this Lucy Reid.
Dangerous in the way she makes me crave things I forfeited the right to desire. I should delete this message as well. Should block her number and establish clear boundaries.
Professional updates only. No personal observations. No attempts at humor or connection.
Instead, I find myself reading it again.
He's been asking for you.
Dusty has always been attuned to my moods, has always sensed when the weight of this ranch and the Blackwell legacy becomes too much to bear alone.
When I'd return home exhausted from calving season or repairing irrigation lines in brutal weather, or from board meetings where accountants questioned every expense, he'd follow me to this study and settle at my feet while I worked through the numbers.
A steady, faithful companion who demanded nothing but provided everything.
Like everything else I've sacrificed along the way.
The snap of the fire fills the silence between heartbeats, between thoughts, between all the words I should have spoken and never will. The whiskey burns warm in my stomach, the leather chair cradles my shoulders, but none of it reaches the cold that's settled in my chest these past two years.
The problem with playing the villain in someone else's story is that eventually you start believing the role. Start thinking maybe you deserve the isolation, the deliberate distance you keep from anything that could matter.
Until a woman with fierce brown eyes and reckless courage shows you there might be other ways to exist.
I pick up my phone again, thumb poised over the keyboard. What could I possibly say?
Thank you for the update?
Thank you for standing your ground when I was acting like a complete bastard?
Thank you for seeing through the wall I've built to whatever remains underneath?
Thank you for reminding me what it feels like to be human?
The cursor blinks, expectant.
Outside, wind gusts against the windows, sending pine branches scraping against the house like claws seeking entry.
I type three words. Delete them. Type them again.
Thank you. - B
My thumb hovers over the send button longer than wise. It's too much, too personal. It opens doors I've spent two years sealing shut.
It suggests Lucy Reid's opinion carries weight with me, which is a complication I can't afford.
But she embraced me today. Looked past the anger and rigid control to whatever damaged thing exists underneath, and offered comfort without demanding explanations.
When was the last time anyone had done that?
I hit send before I lose my nerve.
The phone goes dark in my hands, leaving only firelight reflected on the black screen.
In the surface, I can see my own face. Older than my thirty-six years, harder around the edges than I once was.
The face of a man who chose duty over desire so often he'd forgotten the difference.
Until today.
Until Lucy Reid looked at me like I might be worth saving.
The whiskey is gone, the fire burning low, and somewhere in the darkness beyond these windows, my injured dog sleeps in the clinic of the man I once called brother.
Tomorrow I'll drive back into town, back to the careful dance of avoidance and hostility that keeps everyone at a safe distance.
But tonight, for the first time in two years, I find myself wondering what might happen if I stopped playing the villain in my own story.
What might happen if I let someone see who I actually am.
The phone buzzes once more.
You're welcome. See you tomorrow. - L
Simple words. Professional courtesy. But something in that message makes my chest tighten with possibilities I'm not prepared to acknowledge.
I set the phone down and stare into the dying fire, watching the last flames lick at charred logs.
Outside, the coyotes have gone silent, leaving only wind and the settling house... and the weight of choices that can't be undone.
Tomorrow I'll return to the clinic. I'll check on Dusty, maybe catch another glimpse of the woman who's somehow managed to slip past my defenses.
Maybe I'm not ready to stop playing the villain. But for the first time in two years, I want something worth fighting for.
And Lucy Reid might just be exactly that.