Chapter 8 Billy
CHAPTER EIGHT
Billy
I wake long before the sun breaks. My phone screen glares at me when I tap it, numbers far too sharp in the dark. Three a.m. glares back.
I sit up fast, sheets twisted around my legs, heart thudding from whatever dream dragged me out of sleep. I drag a hand down my face and curse.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through the chaos inside my skull. The image of her at the podium returns so sharply that the room seems to sway.
Sedona Archer, standing up there with her shoulders drawn back, her hair pushed behind one ear, her fingers gripping the paper that shook so softly it made my chest clamp.
She read her father’s eulogy with a voice that cracked and steadied, cracked again and held firm. She moved through each memory like she was touching a wound that had never healed.
And every time her breath caught or her lips trembled, something deep in me twisted too.
Seeing her again after five years hit like a horse kick to the ribs.
The last time I saw her, she was mine.
My fiancée.
The woman I thought I would marry.
We had planned out our future with a kind of excitement I had never known before. We had a venue booked. We had mailed invitations with our names printed in looping silver letters.
We had even tasted cakes together, her laughing through the frosting she smeared on my cheek.
For a long time, I thought nothing could break what we built.
Then she vanished.
Left in the night. No calls. No explanation. Just a letter addressed to me and the engagement ring I had given her.
Jasper found the envelope on the porch at dawn, brought it to me with a face carved from stone. When he handed me the ring, I remember staring at him like I had lost my grip on reality.
My brain refused to believe what my eyes saw. The ring looked wrong in my palm.
When I climbed into my truck and drove straight to her clinic, it had been locked up tight, lights off, parking lot empty. I remember pounding on the door until my fists ached.
Then I drove to her house. Her father stood in the doorway with a confused, pale face. He said he had just woken up and asked if Sedona was with me. The shock in his voice punched through me like nothing else.
We searched. We called friends. We thought maybe she had left town for a night after an argument I could not remember having.
But she was gone. Gone in a way that left no trace. Gone in a way that carved a hole right through my chest.
I rub my palms against my eyes, annoyed at the sting behind them. My mind drags me back to the funeral yesterday. Back to the sight of her sitting between her friend and that blond man who stayed close to her the entire time.
His hand held hers, thumb brushing her knuckles, his body angled like he had every right to be there.
A Beta. She left me, left this town, left our life to build something new with a Beta. The thought sours my stomach with something ugly and hot.
I push off the bed. A cold shower might snap my mind out of this loop.
The water pours over me, freezing and unforgiving. I grit my teeth and take it until the tension inside me loosens enough that I can breathe again.
Droplets trail down my spine when I step out. I towel off fast and pull on jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and boots.
The house is silent except for Boone shifting in his sleep somewhere down the hall. I grab my hat, step outside, and breathe in the cool dawn air.
The ranch stretches out under the dim sky, acres of land blanketed in early fog. The world is still, but the stillness tonight feels like something holding its breath.
I head straight to the stables. Whiskey Jack greets me with a soft snort, ears flicking as I step inside. His coat gleams even in the poor light, a deep chestnut that always reminds me of autumn leaves caught in sunlight.
I stroke his neck, feeling the strong muscles beneath. He nudges my shoulder, impatient for breakfast.
“I know,” I murmur, grabbing a bucket of feed.
He eats while I brush him down, long strokes from shoulder to flank. His tail swishes, and he stomps once, eager to get moving.
I saddle him, adjusting the cinch with practiced hands. The familiar steps calm something inside me.
By the time I lead him out, the early air bites at my skin. I mount him and click my tongue. He starts forward, hooves kicking up dust as we head down the worn trail that leads toward the back acres.
Riding always helps. Moving. Breathing. Letting the land take whatever I can’t voice.
Whiskey Jack finds his rhythm fast, and soon the ranch falls away behind us, replaced by stretches of open grass, the faint outline of cattle in the distance, and the soft hush of wind moving through the trees.
I guide him toward the lake near the cattle dip. The water reflects the sky above it, dark and silver at the same time.
This place holds too many memories. Good ones. Memories of Sedona sitting on the shore with her pants rolled up, feet in the water, laughing at some stupid joke of mine.
Memories of her leaning back on her hands, her smile shining, her eyes soft as she looked at me like she already saw our future. Memories of me fucking her, wanting her, loving her.
I dismount and let Whiskey Jack wander a bit. The cool air brushes over my neck. I inhale hard, my lungs filling until my chest aches.
I walk to the edge of the lake. The surface ripples faintly when a breeze glides over it. I stand there, toes at the very border, and feel everything slam into me at once.
The grief. The frustration. The confusion.
Five years gone in a blink. Five years since she left me with nothing but a letter I burned twelve months later after staring at it too many nights in a row.
I don’t even know why she left. I’ll never know what she wrote. She ripped my heart out and then erased whatever explanation she thought she owed me.
The anger hits hard. It rises fast.
I tilt my head back and scream into the lake, every ounce of pain ripping right out of me. The sound tears through my throat, raw and violent.
Birds jolt from the trees. The echo bursts across the water. I scream again, louder, until my voice breaks and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
My hands shake as I brace myself on my thighs. Sweat trails down my temples in the cold morning.
Sedona left me. My parents died. Dr. Archer is gone. Joey left Prairie Pine just to start over somewhere else. One by one, every piece of the life I thought I would have has slipped through my fingers.
And somehow I’m still here, holding what remains, trying to run a ranch, trying to be the man everyone expects me to be.
I breathe so hard my chest burns. I lift my head and stare across the land, watching the first thin stretch of sunrise break along the horizon.
Gold softens the edges of the valley. The fields glow in muted color.
Responsibility waits for me today. Reality always does.
I swing back onto Whiskey Jack and ride toward the house. The meeting with Grant Silver starts at eight sharp.
Silver sponsors half of the Prairie Pine Rodeo, and now that Joey is off competing in Austin, I’m the one handling our ranch’s entries and deals.
Tex is the superstar in bronc riding this year. Always has been. The kid has a body made for the arena and a mind that never loses its edge.
Seth and I hold our own in team roping. We placed well last season, and I plan to do better this year.
There’s even the thought of buying bulls from the Torres ranch down in San Marcos. Bull riding is becoming the main draw, and Prairie Pine needs fresh stock.
Rhett Dalton, Joey’s biggest rival, will be a shoo-in for champion this year, and if we don’t provide bulls that challenge him, the crowd will lose interest. The economics matter. The prestige matters.
The future of this ranch matters.
Focusing on all of that feels safer than thinking about Sedona and the blond Beta with his hand on hers. I shove the bitterness down and keep riding.
The ranch comes into view as the sun finally breaks over the hills.
Boone sprints toward us from the porch, barking once in greeting. I dismount, pat Whiskey Jack, lead him into his stall, and grab a brush to wipe him down. His skin twitches under the bristles, his breath warm and calm. Caring for him settles me.
By the time I head back toward the house, the sky has turned pale blue.
The day whispers its demands. Grants to negotiate. Inventory to check. Staff to pay. Land to manage. Cowboys to schedule. Rodeo rules to finalize.
Normal things. Safe things.
Things that don’t involve the sight of Sedona Archer looking heartbreakingly beautiful while she reads her father’s eulogy.
Things that don’t involve the memory of her hand being held by someone else. Things that don’t involve five years of silence and an absence that feels like a bruise pressed too long.
I stop on the porch, boots planted on the old planks, breath fogging faintly in the air.
I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself the ranch needs me far more than the past does. I tell myself Sedona belongs to another world now.
I tell myself every lie I need to get through the morning.
I step inside and move toward the kitchen, eyes fixed on the coffee pot I still need to fill. Routine is everything. Work is everything. Focus is everything.
Whatever else I’m feeling stays buried, right where it belongs.
For now.
Grant’s office sits on the second floor of the old grain building that got remodeled two summers ago. Morning sunlight comes in through those broad windows he’s so proud of, warming up the polished wooden floors and the dusty rodeo posters he framed like museum pieces.
Mayor Ruth Holloway is already here, planted right across from his desk in one of those leather chairs. She’s wearing a plum blazer and boots with turquoise stones, her hair draped over her shoulder.
Grant stands when I step in.
“Billy Carson,” he says with a grin, coming around the desk to shake my hand. His grip is firm, his smile bright, like he knows he’s delivering news he wants me to react to. “Glad you made it.”