Chapter 38
By the time the Broken Ridge sign appears through the heat shimmer, my nerves are shot. I’ve replayed every word Laurel and Richard said, every photograph, every letter, every ghost I touched in that barn until my head is pounding.
Dust trails behind me as I turn into the long drive. The truck rattling over the gravel. The sun is low enough to glare off the hood, sharp and punishing. The house comes into view, looking deceptively calm.
But the second I pull up, I know how screwed I am.
Pace is already on the porch, arms crossed, jaw set, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a whole storm’s worth of words. John stands stoically beside him, shoulders rolled back, chin tipped up.
Yep. I’m a dead duck.
When I scan the porch, Sutton is nowhere to be found. Smart woman.
I kill the engine, the sudden silence loud enough to make my ears ring. My hands tremble on the steering wheel. It’s the heat.
Spoiler alert. It’s not.
Pace is already barreling down the steps by the time I get the door open and step out.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps before I can shut the door behind me.
I lift my chin, even though my heart is thudding inside of my chest like a jackhammer. “Nice to see you, too.”
Pace stops a few feet short from me, staring me down like he wants to shake me. “We got a call. From the Mastersons.”
My stomach drops.
Fucking tattletales.
I swallow. “So?”
“So,” Pace fires back, “you knew damn well they didn’t want to see you. You knew that. Everyone knows that.”
“I wanted answers,” I shoot back, a little sharper than intended.
“Everyone acts like I am supposed to let my mother go. Everyone refuses to tell me what she did that was so bad. You all act like she is some kind of villain but refuse to tell me what she did that made you brand her that way. So yeah, I went to see them. I wanted answers about who she was.”
Pace throws his hands up. “You needed answers so badly you droved out to the ranch of the two people who made it abundantly clear they want nothing to do with you?”
I grit my teeth. “They’re my grandparents.”
“By blood,” he snaps. “Barely.”
John hasn’t raised his voice. Hasn’t moved more than a step. But his silence feels like a weight on my chest. Shouldn’t this be him raging at me? Not Pace?
“John,” I say, trying for calm. “I needed—”
“You had no business going out there,” he cuts in, voice quiet, but sharp as barbed wire. “Not alone. Not without telling anyone. Not after yesterday.”
Anger flares in my chest. “Yesterday? You mean when some stranger came up to be in broad daylight and started accusing me of horrible things he didn’t even name because he thought I was my mother?
Things you won’t tell me about. You say that you want me here but all you have shown me is that you only want me here if I don’t ask questions. ”
John’s jaw ticks.
“No one is telling my anything about what my mother did. Not you. Not Sutton or Colter. So I went to the only two people who might actually tell me. What was I supposed to do? Wait for the truth to magically appear?”
Pace steps closer, eyes blazing. “You need to respect that our father doesn’t want you to know for a reason. That we all want to protect you and keep you safe.”
“I am safe.”
“No,” John says, and this time his word comes out like a strike. “You’re not.”
A cold ripple snakes down my spine at the finality in his tone.
I fold my arms, trying to stay steady. “I needed to go.”
“No,” John says again. “You wanted to go. That’s different.”
We stand there, the gravel between us radiating heat, the air thick with everything none of us are saying. Pace blows out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down his face.
“The Mastersons called because they were pissed. They said you went snooping through their property.”
Confusion whirls in my mind.
“I didn’t snoop. They were home. We talked and they gave me permission to go through the barn.”
“That isn’t that what they are saying,” John says. “They are saying you decided to make yourself at home when they asked you not to. Said you refused to get back in the truck and leave.”
I open my mouth—then shut it. Those motherfucking liars.
John steps down from the porch, boards groaning under his boots. He doesn’t get close, but he doesn’t have to. He looks tired. Angry. Mostly, he looks scared and I can’t figure out why.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” I tell him quietly. “If you would listen to me and stop treating me like a kid.”
“Then stop acting like one,” he fires back, the first crack in his control.
The words hit harder than I want them to.
My throat tightens. I cross my arms against my chest, nails digging into my skin. “You’re mad because I left. I get that,” I say, voice thinner now. “But you haven’t asked me why.”
“Because,” John rebuts. “I already know why.”
Pace shakes his head. “You went looking for answers that will only land you in deeper shit,” he growls, taking John’s side. “You think those people are gonna tell you the truth? They don’t care about you, Peyton. They never did. They made that very clear.”
“They didn’t have to care about me,” I snap.
“They simply had to tell me who she was. Why she left. That is all I want to know and none of you will tell me. You act like it is some government secret. This is my life. She was my mother. No matter how shitty she was at times. She was still my mother. The woman who nursed me. Bathed me. Who sang me songs when I was sad. Her addiction may have stolen her from me, but she still loved me when there was no one else.”
“And did they?” John asks, his voice soft and lethal. “Did they actually tell you or did they give you the run around and you walked away with nothing but more questions?”
His words knock the breath out of me. Because no…they hadn’t given me anything at all. I stare at him, my hands shaking despite the heat. “You don’t get to be mad at me for wanting to know who my mother was.”
John finally meets my eyes. His eyes aren’t soft or angry. Instead, they are heavy and bleak. “I’m not mad you want to know,” he admits. “I’m mad that you keep running toward the things that burned her.”
There’s a long, brutal silence. Pace shoves his hands into his pockets and mutters, “Colter’s gonna lose his shit.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost choke on air.
Great. Just what I need.
John exhales, long and hard, then jerks his chin toward the house. “Inside. Now. We’re not doin’ this out here.”
I hesitate. He raises one brow, challenging me. I move. The gravel crunches under my boots as I follow them inside, every step heavy with the weight of everything I saw at Blue Skye. The letters, the photos, the jacket with J.D. stitched along the collar.
And the worse part.
I’m not done digging.
Not even close.
I may not have learned a lot from my mother but there is one thing I did learn early on thanks to her.
You can’t rely on anyone but yourself to get the answers you want.
Because everyone lies.