Chapter 7 The Aftermath
The Aftermath
Jackson
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Riley's Bar hasn't changed since high school. Same sticky tables, same neon signs, same jukebox that only plays country from the nineties. I used to come here after football games, after rodeos, after anything that felt like it needed celebrating or drowning.
I checked on the east crew as I told Maren I would. On my way back, Shay called crying about her ex showing up at her cousin's place in Cheyenne, and she didn't want to be alone, and I told myself I could stop in before heading home. I didn't tell Maren about the change of plan.
I know I should be home. But old habits run deep, and Shay's been my friend since we were kids, and she sounded scared.
We're at a corner booth. Her beer sits beside a damp pile of napkins.
I've been drinking soda because I still have to drive home.
She's telling me he keeps finding her, that even moving to the ranch hasn't made her feel safe.
I haven't spoken to him or seen him myself. I'm taking her word for all of it.
I'm listening, but part of me is thinking about Maren. About the way she took my hand in the parking lot this afternoon. About the drive home with the windows down and her fingers threaded through mine.
I did something right at that committee meeting. For once in this whole mess, I did something right.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.
Maren.
My thumb hovers over the accept button. I told her I'd be back by ten. She was reading when I left, and I could still feel her hand in mine after the committee meeting. If she's calling now, it's probably because she's upset about something. Probably because she found out I'm here with Shay.
I let it ring.
The screen goes quiet. She hasn't left a message.
Shay is still talking about her ex, about the time he showed up at her work, about the time he followed her home from the grocery store. I nod in the right places and make sympathetic sounds and try to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.
Maren calls again.
I watch her name flash on my screen and I think about all the arguments we've had lately. The missed dinners. The anniversary. The weeks of tension that only started easing after I finally stood up for her in public.
She must have found out where I am. I picture another argument about Shay, and I don't want to have it here. As if not answering will make that argument less deserved.
I silence the call.
The guilt hits immediately, sharp and cold, but I push it down. We can talk when I get home. I'll explain that Shay needed a friend and nothing happened and Maren can be angry if she wants but at least we'll be face to face instead of fighting over the phone.
When my phone rings again, I nearly silence it without looking. Not Maren this time. The ranch landline.
I answer before I think. "Hello?"
The man on the other end speaks carefully. I hear that my wife is safe before I understand why a deputy is calling. "Mr. Wilder? This is Deputy Ellis with the sheriff's department. There's been a break-in at your residence. Your wife is safe. She's asking for you."
The world stops.
My chair catches against the table when I try to stand. "What?"
He repeats it slowly, as if he knows I haven't taken it in. "Break-in, sir. At least three intruders. Mrs. Wilder secured herself in your safe room and called 911. The perpetrators fled before we arrived. She's unharmed, but she's asking for you."
I'm already standing, already reaching for my keys, already pushing past Shay toward the door. "I'm on my way."
The deputy makes me acknowledge him before I hang up. "Drive safe, sir."
I end the call and run through the parking lot to my truck. Shay is calling after me, asking what's wrong, but I don't stop to explain. I can't. I can't do anything except get in my truck and drive.
Break-in. Safe room. Asking for you.
She called me. Twice. While someone was breaking into our house, while she was scared and alone, she called me.
And I let it ring because I assumed she wanted to fight.
I grip the wheel so hard my hands hurt. Every turn feels too far from home.
My wife was in danger while I sat in a bar deciding her call wasn't worth answering.
I want to press the accelerator to the floor.
I make myself slow for the bends instead.
Getting myself killed would leave her dealing with that, too.
The ranch gates are open when I arrive. Police cruisers in the driveway, lights still flashing. The front door is wide open and I can see people moving inside, deputies with flashlights, crime scene tape being strung across the porch.
I park crooked and kill the engine. A deputy steps across the doorway before I can get inside.
The deputy holds out a hand to stop me at the tape. "Sir, you need to wait."
I stop because I have to. I can see her house behind him, wrecked, and I cannot see her. "That's my wife. Where is she?"
Deputy Ellis appears from the living room. He looks at me the way people look at someone they've already judged. "She's in the kitchen with your mother, Mr. Wilder."
My mother. Of course. Mom would have heard the sirens, would have driven over from the east house, would have taken charge the way she always does when things fall apart.
I find them at the kitchen table. Maren is sitting with a cold cup of tea in front of her, still in her pajamas, her bare feet tucked under the chair. Mom is beside her with one arm wrapped around her shoulders, fierce and protective.
Maren looks up when I walk in. Her face is pale. Her hands are shaking. And her eyes, when they meet mine, hold something I've never seen before.
"Maren." I cross the room, reaching for her. "God. The police called. Are you okay?"
She stays seated and keeps her hands on the cup instead of reaching toward me. "Where were you?"
I had imagined holding her before I had to answer for where I was. She doesn't give me that escape. I open my mouth to answer, to explain, to make her understand, but nothing comes out.
Mom's arm tightens around Maren's shoulders.
She's looking at me too, and there's no warmth in her expression.
My mother stood beside me after Dad died when I was nineteen, ran this ranch through droughts and market crashes, never asked for help she didn't need.
She knows what it means to face something hard without backup.
"I was..." The words stick in my throat. "I got here as fast as I could."
She doesn't raise her voice. I wish she would. I know what to do with a fight; I don't know what to do with this. "That's not what I asked."
No. It isn't.
Maren's hands are wrapped around that cold cup of tea like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. I look at my wife, this woman I've loved for seven years, and I see exactly what I've done.
Her eyes stay on mine. I can't make myself look away. "Did you see my call?"
I think she expects the worst answer. Her voice is flat and careful, like she's bracing for impact. She called me twice while men were breaking into our home, and I silenced her calls because I thought she wanted to argue about Shay.
I could lie. I could say my phone was dead, say I was out of range, say I never saw it. I could give her an excuse that would hurt less than the truth.
But I looked her in the eye this afternoon and promised to stand beside her. I held her hand in the parking lot and told her I could do better. I don't get to lie my way out of this.
I force the word out without an excuse attached. "Yes."
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