Chapter 2
HESTON
I’ve been wide awake for an hour and a half.
The sun is a lazy bastard during winter, so like most days this time of year, I stare a hole into the horizon until it decides to get its shit together and let the day begin.
Leaning back in my chair that faces the east window with a sleepy dog at my feet and a steaming cup of coffee in my hand is the only way to pass the time.
I’ve always been the first one up on the ranch. The only difference lately is that the lights don’t flick on above me at six thirty on the dot anymore. No one slams a cabinet in the kitchen. Blaring music doesn’t blend with the sound of the shower down the hall.
Going from three roommates to zero in the span of two years wasn’t something I anticipated.
I don’t hate being alone, though. The quiet is nice. It’s just . . . ominous.
The more things change, and the longer I fester in place, the more staying here feels like I’m approaching some sort of deadline. The hourglass will eventually empty, and all hell might break loose.
Sometimes I think about leaving. I’ve been cut loose or dragged by the collar of my shirt and kicked out the door plenty of times in my life.
But I’ve never flat-out quit before, and I suppose not wanting to end the streak now is why I’ve stuck around.
That, and the small bit of logic left in me that knows running isn’t the answer.
Even if it were, there’s still one thing keeping me here, and I’m stuck in place until it’s finished.
So, another morning sitting in the dark. I’ll wait here until it’s time to start chores, and ruminate over things a wiser man would’ve let go of by now. It’s a thrilling routine.
My mug clinks on the side table. I pick up my hat and pull the brim low to my brow. Lucky, my heeler, sits up and perks her ears. She leaves my side less often than a bee leaves flowers in the spring. My palm runs down her back as she anticipates the cue that it’s time to get at it.
“Good time as any,” I mumble.
Lucky shoots up from her spot, perches by the front door, and tilts her head at me, all before I’ve made it halfway across the living room. Each step echoes through the dim, empty space as my boots hit the hardwood floor.
In West Texas, winter creeps in slowly. Even less than two weeks from Christmas, the weather on the ranch is pretty mild. Today’s the exception. I feel every inch of last night’s frost in my knees when I step off the porch.
The barn isn’t a far trek from the bunkhouse, and no matter what I have going for the day, it’s always my first stop so I can get the horses fed.
We built it ourselves about five summers back, after a nasty storm took out the old one and the entire north fence.
Everything else on the ranch was put on hold to get the place fixed up.
That sort of thing would piss me off if it happened now.
But back then, I remember laughing so hard my stomach cramped up the night it happened.
Instead of bitching about the work ahead of us, we went out mudding with spotlights strapped to the hoods of our trucks while the rain was still falling in sheets.
When three in the morning rolled around, we sat on the bunkhouse porch with a case of cheap, watery beer and cussed the storm as it continued to plow through everything in its path.
Shoulder to shoulder and soaked to the bone, Gage, Warren, Tripp, and I swore that if another panel fell, we’d pack up and move east. Anywhere with more trees and a lot less wind.
Several more panels fell until the barn came down altogether.
Yet, we stayed in Westridge.
I shove the door open and switch on the lights. They buzz overhead, slow to catch, before casting a dim glow.
Four heads peek over the gates of their stalls as I trudge toward the feed room. Bob, my horse, shakes his mane and retreats to his bed of straw while the other three stay waiting for their breakfast. His disappointed reaction when seeing me each morning has been the same for the last two years.
He’s a whole lot sassier than his full government name, Bob From Accounting, suggests. With me, at least. He’d much rather be greeted by the sweet smile and bright blue eyes of the girl who named him.
Same, bud.
Seems like an insane amount of time for a horse to hold a grudge, but I think he’ll get over it eventually. As for me, time won’t fill the hole. It gets bigger, deeper, and more impossible to ignore every day.
I’m a put my head down and focus on what’s in front of me kind of guy, though. Work helps more than anything. After filling each feed pan, I pull a bale from the stack in the loft and flip open my pocketknife to slice through the twine.
The horses are chowing down on their grain when Gage finally walks in, his cowboy hat sitting slightly crooked on his head and his eyes the kind of tired that only comes from three hours of sleep. I’d know.
“Morning,” he says, groggy and half-yawning. With a flake of hay in each hand, I give him an upward nod. He leans against the open door frame and crosses his arms while I stuff the hay nets in all four stalls. When I bend to pick up an empty feed bag, he speaks up again.
“You gonna be around next weekend?” he asks.
I shrug, stuffing the bag into an empty barrel. “Why?”
“Putting Christmas decorations up in the bunkhouse.”
“Hard pass,” I grumble.
He follows me as I pass him on my way out of the barn. Tripp pulls up, music bumping from inside the cab of his Bronco, while I test one of the back tires on the feed truck with the toe of my boot. His engine cuts off just as I stuff my hands in my pockets and lean against the tailgate.
“Had to go over and fix Mesa’s water heater last night,” he says with a sigh as he approaches us.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Good job?”
“Why do you keep saying you had to go over to Mesa’s when you literally live with her?” Gage asks with an amused chuckle.
“What?” Tripp twists his face and shakes his head. “Nah, I still live here.”
His eyes flick to mine for a second, and I know he’s looking for a sign that I’m mad at him for ditching me to shack up with his girlfriend.
He’s a firm believer in best friends living together forever.
When he told me that, he was fried off a blazy susan, so I just agreed and gave him a pat on the back.
“Whatever,” Gage says, shaking his head. “Either way, Warren and Savvy are moving out right after the holidays.”
Lucky whines, and I reach up to rub my forehead, letting out a long exhale. “They moved out months ago.”
Gage rubs the back of his neck. “Not officially.”
Tripp’s doing that sympathetic half-smile with his lips pressed together thing.
Jesus Christ.
I’d like to point out that no one is dying or relocating a thousand miles away.
We’re still friends. What difference does it make where they’re sleeping at night?
It’s like getting into serious relationships has made them all soft.
They’re all walking on eggshells around me, scared to bring up the fact that I live alone now.
Scared it’ll make me sad. Lonely, maybe.
While Warren is emotional about it, and Tripp is in denial, I’m indifferent. I’m not tearing up around the campfire, telling stories that start with “back in the day” and end with “good times,” or acting desperate to keep the gang together.
“Isn’t Warren’s new house three miles from here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Gage confirms.
I nod, switching my focus to Tripp. “And are you quitting anytime soon?”
He scoffs. “No. That’s not going to happen.”
“Okay. Then, what’s the big deal?”
Gage shifts his weight from one foot to the other while making quick eye contact with Tripp.
The sun is fully over the horizon, casting low streams of light through the trees.
It’s not doing much in the way of warming the day up, though.
The breeze cuts sharply across my face. It doesn’t bother me much, but it does remind me that not only do I hate conversations like this, but I also have a paycheck sitting in my glove box and the bank closes at noon on Saturdays.
“I gotta get going,” I say, not feeling the need to stick around and wait for their speech about being there for each other or not wanting to leave me here by myself every night.
“Don’t bitch out on helping with Christmas decorations next weekend,” Gage says.
“I’m pretty busy.”
“With what?” Tripp asks. “Solana Bluffs?”
My eyes flick up just as he tilts his head and finishes unwrapping a stick of gum to pop in his mouth. Best friend or not, he’s not the type to know a secret without at least reminding you he’s keeping it. Nosy motherfucker.
Gage looks thoroughly confused. “What the hell would you be busy with at Solana Bluffs? That’s like thirty minutes away.”
Twenty-six minutes, actually. But I ignore him.
Tripp tacks on a smirk, and that’s my cue to go. The moment I push off the tailgate and round the truck, Lucky speeds ahead of me. I open the driver’s side door and let her jump in before looking at Tripp. “Put some hay out for the cows. I only fed the horses before y’all got here.”
“I only take orders from the boss man,” he quips.
Gage rolls his eyes and turns back toward the barn.
“Just do it,” I say.
“All cash,” the bank teller says, sliding the withdrawal envelope across the counter to me.
“Appreciate it.”
I open one side of my coat to slip the money into the inside pocket. Depositing one paycheck per month and cashing the rest probably isn’t necessary. But I like my stash of savings where I can see it.
“Don’t forget your receipt,” she adds with a smile. “Have a wonderful rest of your weekend, Mr. Landry.”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am. You too.”
Two other bank employees wave to me on my way out the door, and another wishes me well just before it closes behind me.
They’re good people. In Westridge, most everyone is.
But they’re also chatty as hell. In my eleven years living here, I’ve learned to keep my trips into town few and far between.
Once a week, at the very most, to cash my paycheck or grab a quick bite.
I’m already looking forward to getting back to the ranch when I spot Lucky causing a damn ruckus outside the hardware store down the street.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.
I always roll the windows down if she’s not riding in the bed of the truck, but she knows to stay put while I quickly take care of whatever errand I have to run.
My lips roll into my mouth on a piercing whistle. Lucky never ignores it. Never . . . except now. I take a few steps toward the hardware store.
“Lucky,” I call out sternly. “Let’s go.”
She continues barking and wiggling her body from side to side in front of the door, paying me no mind. I blow out a breath and make my way toward her.
I’m no less than five feet away when a customer opens the door to walk outside. Lucky instantly bolts into the store.
“Shit,” I whisper.
Most business owners in Westridge are accustomed to cow dogs coming in and out of their establishments. But Miss Lemon, who owns the hardware store, isn’t a fan of high-energy animals knocking over her displays and leaving a trail of prairie dust in their wake. Found that out the hard way.
I hold the door for a family exiting the store. While they take their time, I lean back and peer through the window.
My dog isn’t the only thing I spot. Without thinking, I let go of the door and take two quick steps backward to face the window head-on.
I don’t believe she’s real at first. Instead of the awful numbing feeling I get when Hattie pops up in my memories, my stomach flips, proving I’m not hallucinating. I hold my breath for long enough that I start to feel dizzy just to be sure.
The wall between us muffles her voice, but I can still read her lips clearly as she greets Lucky. “My girl!”
Light blonde hair falls over her cheeks as she crouches down with open arms. Lucky leaps into them, almost knocking her on her back. Her eyes look watery even from here.
I stare, unmoving. I’m finding it hard to swallow as I take in her face.
My chest aches at how perfect she looks.
Round eyes and lips so full they almost overtake her button nose.
Freckles so light you could miss them if you didn’t look close enough.
Skin so soft you could bury your face in her neck and swear it was silk.
Her denim jacket hangs at her elbows, covering only her forearms. I breathe a small huff out of my nose. She always liked letting it fall off her shoulders like that.
The more Lucky licks her face, the closer she gets to laughing, but the edge of nervousness in her expression won’t allow it. Despite hugging and then scratching behind the dog’s ears, her eyes dart around the room anxiously. She’s looking for me.
A handful of beats pass as Lucky finally exhausts her energy and excitement. She scoots closer and rolls to her back, paws in the air.
I silently wish for her to pop up and run back through the door before. . .
Staying outside and using the window between us as a defense line does nothing to soften the blow when Hattie’s eyes finally land on me.
Leaving Lucky to roll around on the floor, Hattie slowly rights herself to stand.
She sways on her feet a bit and accidentally bumps into another patron.
The man spins around and apologizes with a hand on her arm, but she doesn’t acknowledge him, keeping her eyes trained on me.
I clench my jaw when she shrugs her denim jacket back into its rightful place on her shoulders, then hugs her arms around her middle.
She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, her eyes crinkling at the edges like she’s holding back tears.
I don’t move a muscle. In a split second, she spins away and disappears down the nearest aisle.
I could go in after her. I could also drive home and take a long fucking drag off a smoke. The last time I rushed into a conversation with Hattie, I ruined the best thing I ever had.
I don’t have to whistle for Lucky to get her ass back in the truck. One look from me through the window, and she sprints for the door. She happily wiggles along next to me as I stalk toward my truck.
I thought I knew what I’d do when I saw her again. Standing at a distance, frozen and silent, wasn’t how it was supposed to go.