Legacy & Lace (Ashford Ridge #1)

Prologue

Iwake up before dawn and know immediately that I need to leave.

The house is too quiet.

The wrong kind of quiet.

The kind that makes your chest tight and your thoughts too loud.

He's still asleep beside me. I can tell from the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of him taking up space in a bed that's supposed to be just mine.

Has always been just mine.

Until last night.

I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about it.

About the way he'd looked at me when he finally said it. When he finally put words to the thing we'd been dancing around since we were teenagers.

I love you, Haze. I've always loved you.

Three months after my father's funeral.

Three months of me barely holding it together, and he chose last night to crack us both wide open.

My body still remembers his hands. The weight of him. The way I'd pulled him closer even though some part of me—some quiet, reasonable part—knew it was the wrong time.

Wrong timing.

Wrong everything.

But grief makes you reckless. Makes you reach for anything that feels like relief, even when you know you'll pay for it later.

I'm paying for it now.

I turn my head just enough to look at him.

His face is unguarded in sleep. Peaceful in a way it never is when he's awake. One arm thrown out across the pillow, relaxed. His hat's on the bedside table, brim curved the way he likes it.

I used to steal that hat when we were kids.

Used to wear it while we trained horses together, while we competed, while we pretended the thing between us didn't exist.

If I stay, I'll have to talk about this.

Explain something I don't even understand myself.

Pretend I'm okay when every part of me is screaming that I'm not.

I can't do that.

Won't do that to him.

I slip out of bed as carefully as I can. The floor's cold under my bare feet. The boards creak—they always creak in this old house—but he doesn't stir.

I grab my clothes from the chair. Jeans. Sweater. Boots I can pull on fast.

My hands shake while I'm getting dressed.

I press them flat against my thighs until they stop.

My phone's on the dresser, screen dark. The email notification is still there when I wake it up. The one I've been staring at for three days, trying to decide if I'm brave enough.

Job offer. Junior analyst position. Denver. Start date: two weeks.

I'd applied last month.

Back when the ranch felt like it was suffocating me. When every corner reminded me that Dad was gone and wasn't coming back. When Mae kept looking at me like I might break, and Eli kept hovering like he could fix me if he just stayed close enough.

Denver is roughly 10 hours away.

Far enough that maybe I can breathe again.

Far enough that I won't have to see the look on everyone’s faces when they realize what I've done.

I pull my duffel from the closet and start packing. Not everything. Just enough. Clothes. Laptop. Toothbrush. The essentials.

I move quickly. Hands busy. Brain quiet.

Don't think. Just pack.

There's a photo on the dresser.

Dad at last year's Fourth of July. Mid-laugh. Sunburned and happy and alive.

Looking at it makes my throat close up.

Three months.

He's been gone three months, and I still expect to hear his voice in the kitchen. Still expect to see his truck in the drive when I come home from town.

Still expect him to walk through the door and tell me I'm worrying about nothing.

But he's not coming back.

And I can't stay here drowning in his absence.

I zip the bag. Sling it over my shoulder.

The hallway's dim. Morning light just starting to show through the windows at the far end of the house. I move quietly through the kitchen—it still smells like yesterday's coffee, like Mae's biscuits, like home.

The front door is right there.

Ten steps.

Maybe less.

All I have to do is open it.

I stop with my hand on the knob.

Behind me, down the hall, the bedroom door is still closed. He's still asleep. Still trusting that when he wakes up, I'll be there.

If I go back now—if I wake him up and try to explain—he'll ask me to stay.

And the problem is I might say yes.

I can't afford that.

Can't afford to let him see how broken I actually am. Can't afford to let him think he can fix this. Fix me.

Some things can't be fixed.

I turn the knob.

Step outside.

The air hits me like a slap—cold and sharp after the warmth of the house. The sky's just starting to lighten. That pale gray before sunrise. The barn's a dark shape against the horizon. Everything smells like dirt and hay and five generations of Clarks who knew exactly who they were.

I'm not one of them anymore.

I don't know what I am.

I make myself keep walking.

My truck's where I left it yesterday. I throw the bag in back and climb into the driver's seat. The steering wheel is freezing under my hands. I grip it tight, waiting for my heart to slow down.

It doesn't slow down.

I start the engine anyway.

It's too loud in the quiet morning. Too final.

Like the sound of something ending.

I put the truck in drive, and pull away slowly.

In the rearview mirror, I watch the house get smaller. Watch the porch light. Watch the bedroom window where he's still asleep, still believing I'll be there when he wakes up.

I watch until the curve of the driveway swallows it all.

Then there's just road.

Empty road stretching out ahead of me.

The sky's lighter now. Pink creeping in at the edges. It's going to be a clear day. A good day for ranch work. For riding. For all the things I'm walking away from.

My phone buzzes.

I don't look at it.

Can't look at it.

I turn the radio up instead and keep driving.