Chapter Twelve
The sun was just starting to rise over the ridge, the mist still clinging low and drifting between the trees.
From his porch, Nash drained the last of his coffee and let the mug hang heavy in his hand, staring out across his land—the drive cutting past his truck and the garage full of half-finished bikes, brand-new fencing lining the property, the tree-covered mountains rolling dark and endless beyond it all.
You don’t even know what you don’t know.
Cassie’s voice still hadn’t let up. Between that ridiculous goddamn riddle and hearing her on the phone with whoever the hell, it hit how far from Clifton—and from him—she really was.
So he’d done what he always did when his head got too damn noisy. He handled business. The club. The kid. His ride. That was the trick—stay busy enough, and nothing could catch you.
It had been his weekend with Junie anyway. They’d played a few dozen rounds of Mario Kart—she smoked his ass every time. They’d watched her favorite movie and tossed a baseball around in the yard until the light faded.
When she finally crashed—limbs tangled in her blankets, face softened by sleep—he’d come out here, light a smoke, crack a beer, and stare into the dark until all that remained was him and the hills.
And now it was Monday—the day of Connor’s service.
Nash scrubbed a hand over his mouth and shifted against the railing, eyes on the row of beer bottles lined along the edge. One of them—second from the end—had the cap jammed halfway down its neck.
He didn’t remember doing that. That had been…Con’s thing.
Reaching out, he brushed the rim of the glass.
“You here, brother?” he asked the quiet.
Only silence answered. Not the good kind—the kind that forced you to feel every empty inch of what was gone.
Hand falling away, he stepped back and retreated inside the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him. In the dim light of the foyer he grabbed his leather off the hook and headed for the stairs.
The house stretched two and a half stories high, wood and stone tucked into the hillside.
He’d grown up here, in the old family home passed down through his line for generations.
After Maverick died and his mama moved in with her sister, Nash came back and stripped it to the bones, building it up again with his own hands. Making it his.
Inside his bedroom, he grabbed a white shirt from the closet. Pulled it on. Adjusted the collar. Tugged the sleeves straight before rolling them. Black jeans. Black socks. Black boots.
His King’s ring came next—then Connor’s. He stared at his hand, the two bands glinting side by side. One he’d earned. The other he’d give anything to give back to its rightful owner.
With a hard sigh, he shrugged on his leather and rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of it falling into place.
His hair was last. He pulled it back, twisting it into a tight knot as he left his room and crossed the hall.
He knocked once on Junie’s door. “Junebug?”
No answer.
He knocked again, harder. “Junie, you in there?”
Silence.
Cracking the door, he found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, arms folded tight.
The blue dress Addison had sent with her was inside out and tossed aside, along with a pair of black dress shoes.
Instead, she wore a Johnny Cash T-shirt—black with bold white letters: Man in Black—and holey jeans.
The look she gave him was pure middle finger, no gesture required.
“Thought we agreed on the dress,” he said.
“No,” she replied hotly. “You and Mama agreed on the dress. I just didn’t punch you in the face about it.”
Nash exhaled slow. “It’s one day, Junebug. Dressin’ up ain’t gonna kill you.”
Junie just stared at him.
“Jesus Christ, kid—it’s one damn day.”
“Yeah, it’s one damn day that I don’t wanna look like Mamaw’s curtains.”
Nash dragged a hand down his face. “And what about that mess on your head—what’re we doin’ with that?”
“I already did my hair,” she bit out with a huff.
“Is that a joke?” he asked, eyeing the nest of half damp curls and loose pins. She’d tried; he’d give her that. One side was half-braided, but the rest was just…chaos.
“Bathroom,” he said, pointing down the hall. “Let’s go.”
Junie stomped ahead, planted herself in front of the mirror, and glared at him through the reflection. The room was a wreck—bobby pins everywhere, detangler puddled across the counter, a brush so full of hair it looked like it might growl and scurry off.
Cursing under his breath, Nash got to work—spraying, brushing—while she winced, shrugged, and swatted at his hands.
“You got a lotta goddamn hair,” he muttered, working a stubborn knot between his fingers.
“You got a lotta hands,” she shot back. “Ow, Daddy! Quit pullin’!”
“Quit movin’ and I won’t be pullin’!”
When he leaned back to survey his handiwork, her hair hung in a thick braid down her back. Not perfect, but tamed. Good enough.
“You gonna put that dress on now?”
“No,” she snapped. “This is what I’m wearin’. Take it or leave it.”
“You know, sometimes you sound just like your mama—”
Nash stopped himself before he finished—and that ain’t ever a compliment.
Junie crossed her arms, chin up. “Well, Mama ain’t always wrong. And Connor wouldn’t care what I’m wearin’.”
Regarding Addison—Nash disagreed. That goddamn woman was wrong more often than she was right, and louder every damn time. But Connor—
And just like that, he could see his friend: beer in hand, Junie on his shoulders, both of them singing off-key along with the radio. That was Connor before the drugs—full of noise, full of life. Never asking anyone to be anything more than what they were.
With a hard sigh, Nash pushed off the wall and nodded once.
“All right, Junebug. Let’s go say goodbye.”
Cassie leaned toward the mirror, running liquid liner along the curve of her lash line before flicking the pen into a sharp cat eye. Doing the same to the other, she stepped back and studied her reflection.
The guest room was warm and still, sunlight streaking the air. Dust motes drifted lazily through the golden light, and for a moment she just stood there, feeling unsettled—like something wasn’t quite right. Like she wasn’t ready.
She wore the black dress she’d spent the other morning pressing with Margie’s kettle, second-guessing it even now.
The sheer cap sleeves, the low back—it all felt too polished, too formal for a Ridge funeral.
Her hair didn’t help. Maybe she should’ve left it natural instead of smoothing it into soft waves.
Her jewelry suddenly felt like another mistake—a small stack of gold bangles at her wrist, small hoop earrings to match. The makeup, too. Too dark. Too deliberate. Like she was dressing for a stage instead of a graveside.
A soft ding broke her spiral. She reached for her phone, finding a picture from Jordan and Marta and a few others from the Ensemble—all of them squished together on a hotel bed, hands shaped into hearts.
We love you. We’re with you.
Cassie stared at it a moment longer than she meant to, then locked the screen and tossed the phone aside. She appreciated the sentiment—but it was already too much. The first wave in what she knew would be an endless tide of sympathy today.
Moving across the room, she slipped into a pair of black heels, only to kick them off again.
She was in the hills, not at the pier at San Sebastián.
The only thing four-inch heels were good for here was sinking into soggy grass.
Digging through her luggage, she pulled out a pair of black suede boots—calf-high with a chunky heel—and tugged them on, tucking her phone inside one.
Then her gaze drifted to the desk, to her black violin case, scuffed and sticker-laden. And for a long moment, she just stared.
Most of the weekend had been split between her phone and the floor of Margie’s living room—late-night calls with Jordan, hours with Luanne scouring the internet for sheet music and lyrics, trying to decide what, if anything, they might perform at Connor’s service.
She hadn’t practiced the song they’d settled on; hell, she wasn’t even sure she could walk out of this room, let alone perform.
With a slow breath, she reached for the case—half expecting the reluctance in her fingers to win. But when her hand curled around the handle, warm and familiar in her grip, somehow that was enough to carry her toward the door.
The quiet murmur of voices filtered through the house, along with the smell of fresh coffee. Floorboards creaked beneath her as she made her way into the living room.
Luanne was curled into one end of the couch, legs crossed, a deep green wrap dress skimming just past her knees.
Her mother sat beside her, their faces drawn with the same quiet grief.
Margie stood near the window, hands clasped in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them.
Charlie lingered behind her, his denim button-down tucked into his jeans.
And there was someone new—an older woman with white hair, a pale polyester dress clinging to her pantyhose, a tattered clutch pressed tightly to her lap.
Luanne noticed her first. “Hey, Cas. You look real nice.”
“Very pretty,” her mother echoed.
Margie and Charlie turned—Margie offering a small nod of approval; Charlie, a sad smile.
“My lord in heaven,” the older woman blurted, rising to her feet. She gave Cassie a long, startled look over her wide-rimmed glasses. “Well now…you really do favor your mama.”
Margie stepped forward. “Now I done told you she did, didn’t I?”