Chapter Four
Ransom
Aiden's truck came rolling up the drive just as I finished mucking out the last stall, dust rising behind the tires in the golden afternoon light.
I straightened, pitchfork in hand, watching my younger brother climb out of the cab. He looked better than he had in years—solid muscle on his frame, color in his face, that clarity in his eyes I'd thought might be gone forever. He wore a Carhartt jacket and that old Astros cap from high school.
"You gonna stand there gawking, or you gonna say hello?" He grinned, flashing that familiar Hollis charm.
"Thought you were working a rig shift." I set the pitchfork against the barn wall and pulled off my work gloves.
My shirt stuck to my back, but the air had real bite to it—first cold front of the season had pushed through overnight, bringing actual autumn weather after months of misery.
In the distance, oil derricks pumped their steady rhythm against a gray October sky.
"Got a few days off." His expression turned serious as he glanced toward the house. Through the window, I could see Mom moving around the kitchen, probably starting dinner. "Figured it was time."
The way he said it made my gut clench. "Time for what?"
He walked over to lean against the barn door, staring out at the pasture where our horses grazed in the lengthening shadows. "To come clean. With Mom and Dad. About everything."
My throat went tight. Nearly a week I'd been home, and in that time I'd cataloged every way the ranch was failing—peeling paint, rusted equipment, bills stacked high on Mom's desk.
But I'd also been carrying something heavier.
The secret I'd kept for years. The reason I'd left Midnight Springs in the first place.
The reason I'd lost Rainey.
"You sure about this?" I asked.
"I'm sure." He nodded slowly. "I went to rehab, Ransom. Got my head straight, got right with God. Found a good church in Houston, steady work with guys who hold me accountable. I'm not that scared kid anymore—the one who made stupid choices and nearly got himself killed."
Pride swelled in my chest. "That's real good, Aiden. Real good."
"I want my story to help others," he continued.
"People going down the wrong path, thinking it's too late to turn things around.
It's never too late to want better. But it starts with honesty.
" He turned to face me. "You don't need to keep my secrets anymore.
I'm telling Mom and Dad everything—the cartel connections, the witness protection, all of it. "
The weight I'd been carrying suddenly lifted. "You're sure they're ready?"
"They're stronger than we think. And I owe them the truth." He clapped my shoulder, squeezed hard. "I owe you more than I can ever repay. You saved my life, big brother. You gave up everything—Rainey, your future here—to get me out."
"That's what brothers are for."
"Maybe. But not many would've done what you did." His eyes were suspiciously bright. "Thank you. For everything."
He headed toward the house, shoulders squared like a man walking into battle. I watched him go, then glanced at my phone. Nearly six. Rehearsal started at seven.
Which meant I had just enough time to clean up and make it into town.
My stomach knotted at the thought of seeing Rainey again after Saturday night's mirror incident. After watching someone threaten her. After nearly losing my mind with the need to protect her and the frustration of not knowing who to protect her from.
But now—now I could tell her the truth. Finally explain why I'd left.
I just hoped to God it wasn't too late.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the shower, Aiden's voice drifting from the house as he began the hardest conversation of his life.
BY THE TIME I'D CLEANED up and driven into town, full dark had fallen and brought a bone-deep cold with it.
The damp air turned every breath visible, clinging to skin and making the Halloween decorations look genuinely sinister rather than festive.
Fog was already forming in the low places, drifting up from Caddo Lake to settle among the live oaks with their draping moss.
Driving down Main Street toward the square, I took in the transformation the festival committee had wrought.
Every storefront sported decorations—carved pumpkins, plastic skeletons, and images of cackling witches riding broomsticks, black cats perched on their shoulders.
The courthouse lawn had been turned into a makeshift graveyard with fog machines and theatrical tombstones.
Strings of orange lights crisscrossed between buildings.
In another week, this place would be packed with tourists. Tonight, it felt like a ghost town decorated for a party nobody had arrived at yet.
The theater loomed on the east side of the square, its 1899 facade weathered and leaning slightly left like an old drunk. Someone had strung the entrance with purple lights and positioned a massive wreath of black roses and dried wheat on the double doors. Very gothic. Very Vivian.
Inside smelled like it always had—that particular mustiness of a building remembering better days. The stage lights were already on, casting long shadows across the rows of creaking seats. I could hear voices, movement, the organized chaos of a production coming together.
I scanned for Rainey, found her near the prop table talking to Clay about something in her script. Even in jeans and a simple cream-colored sweater, she stole my breath. The way she moved, that concentration on her face, the elegant line of her slender neck as she bent over the pages—
"Ransom."
I turned to find Brooke Whitfield blocking my path, positioned between me and the stage like a very determined roadblock. Her blonde hair was shellacked into place, and she wore a dress cut low enough to be noticeably inappropriate. She smiled.
"Can we talk?" She didn't wait for an answer, just grabbed my arm with her pointy nails and steered me toward the saloon set in the far corner. "Privately."
Every instinct said this was a bad idea, but I followed her into the shadowy area where the old wooden bar and antique furniture sat waiting. The mirror, the settee, the props that would serve as backdrop for the Ghost Cowboy scenes.
The second we were out of direct sightlines, Brooke pressed herself against me. Her hands on my chest, her body crowding mine, perfume so cloying it made my eyes water.
"Rainey's had her chance," she purred, fingers walking up my shirt buttons. "But some women actually know how to keep a man interested. Some of us have experience. Sophistication." Her voice dropped. "Some of us know what men really want."
I caught her wrists, firmly removing her hands from my body. "Brooke. Stop."
"Oh, come on." She tried to lean in again, going for coy and landing somewhere near desperate.
"We were good together in high school, remember?
Before you got all noble and broke things off for Little Miss Perfect.
But she couldn't keep you, could she? You left.
Which means deep down, you know the truth—she's not enough. "
Heat flared in my gut—anger, pure and simple. "You need to back off. Right now."
"Why? Because you're still hung up on her?
" Brooke's laugh came bitter and sharp. "She's been moping around this pathetic town for years, Ransom.
Playing dress-up in her grandmother's dusty shop, pretending community theater is a career.
Meanwhile, I went to LA, I made something of myself, I have connections—"
"You've got a teaching job in the town you ran from," I cut in, my voice flat. "And I'm not interested. Will never be interested. Find someone else."
Her expression went ugly—that mask of perfection cracking to show something mean underneath. "You're making a mistake. She doesn't deserve you. All she does is—"
"Enough." The word came out hard enough to make her flinch. "Stay away from me. Stay away from Rainey. We clear?"
I pushed past her, done with this conversation, and that's when I caught movement in the lighting booth. Darcy Coleman had her phone out, pointed our direction.
Had she just filmed that whole exchange?
Before I could process it, Vivian's voice cut through the theater. "Places, everyone! Let's run the haunting sequence before we lose our light!"
The rehearsal crawled by. We worked through blocking for the finale, practiced transitions, ran the intricate choreography of actors moving in and out of scenes. Brooke kept shooting me venomous looks from across the stage. I kept my distance and tried to focus.
But mostly, I watched Rainey.
How she disappeared into Evangeline, the grieving saloon girl who couldn't let go. How she delivered lines with such raw emotion it made my chest ache. The way candlelight caught in her chestnut hair, making it shine.
She was incredible. She'd always been incredible.
And I'd thrown it all away because I'd been too afraid to tell her the truth.
When Vivian finally called it for the night, most of the cast dispersed quickly—escaping into the October evening while they could. But Rainey stayed, sitting alone in the front row with her script, lips moving silently as she memorized lines.
I made my way down the aisle, my boots echoing on old wood. "Need a partner?"
She glanced up, startled. "What?"
"For rehearsing." I gestured to her script. "I know I don't have much dialogue, but I can help with your memorization. Run through blocking, give you cues when you need them."
She studied me for a long moment, wariness and something else flickering across her face. Want, maybe. Or fear. Probably both.
"I don't need—"
"Please," I said quietly. "Let me help."
Her defenses wavered. I watched the moment she gave in. "Fine. Just for a few minutes."