35. Lyla
Lyla
I step out into the night air and wish I brought a jacket, crossing my arms over my chest to keep the chill away.
My heels serve me fine as I make my way through town, but once I hit the back road that heads out to my family home, my feet are aching and sore, so I opt to take them off and walk barefoot on the pavement instead.
I don’t know why I decided to make the trek all the way out to our old property. It’s not exactly on the way back to Wild Sage. The land backs onto the ranch, but in order to get there by car–or by foot–it’s nearly an hour walk.
But, I figure if I’m leaving town tomorrow, I should at least go and see it. I never got to say goodbye properly. Austin sold it to a retired couple who were willing to pay cash, sight unseen, closed within twenty four hours. Possession was only a week later.
I had cleaned out my room long before that, so there was nothing left of mine I needed to come back to get. And that was it.
The house I grew up in, the only place I truly felt like I belonged, was gone.
I got my share of the estate, but the money did nothing to ease the sting of knowing I never had a place to come back to in Sage Valley.
I left for the city years before that, yes, wanting a new life for myself, new opportunities and a fresh start.
But there was a certain comfort in knowing this place was here.
I’m hoping that seeing it again will give me the answers I need, that I’m making the right decision in leaving again. Tomorrow, I’m packing up the rest of my belongings, getting in my car, and heading back to the city. No looking back. No second guessing.
Who knows when I’ll come back to Sage Valley.
Tiny rocks on the shoulder of the road bite at the soles of my feet as I walk, and it occurs to me that I’ll have to make the trip back to Wild Sage, too. I’d had just enough to drink at Lucky’s that it didn’t cross my mind earlier.
I crest one of the many rolling hills, my lungs burning, heart pounding in my ears.
But then I see it, lit up by the light of the moon on the top of the hill. The old yellow farmhouse I used to call home. Despite needing more oxygen to settle my breathing, the air whooshes out of my lungs at the sight of it.
Memories flood my mind.
Running around the backyard while Mom collected eggs from the chicken coop.
Sitting next to Dad as he gave Austin and me a ride on the lawn mower, the smell of the fresh cut grass forming a trail behind us, earthy and sweet.
Sitting out on the roof with Beck, seconds away from kissing.
I walk over to the fence that lines the property, and lean my arms on it to take in the view of the house and the land from this vantage point.
There isn’t another soul out here, and the night is peaceful. I take a second to look up at the stars, millions of them twinkling bright against the black backdrop. They’re beautiful, and the longer I look, more appear from the depths of the inky sky.
They remind me of Beck, of the little glimmers I saw from him early on in those first few weeks of being back. The more time we spent together, the more I realized his true depth, the full breadth of that broody cowboy.
I scan the sky, my eyes landing on a familiar constellation. The one Beck has tattooed over his heart.
Cassiopeia.
The stars blur together as my eyes fill with tears, and when the first one falls and rolls down my cheek, a sob comes with it. For the second time this week, I let myself feel everything.
I let the hurt from years of feeling like I don’t belong wrack my body.
I let the heartbreak of opening up and letting myself be seen and vulnerable just to have it all fall apart blaze through me.
When it all becomes too much, I kneel on the side of the road, and hold my face in my hands while I cry.
A low growl catches my attention, my heart stopping when I look up and spot a pair of glowing eyes.
Those eyes belong to a coyote, stalking towards me, hackles on his neck raised. Another growl resonates from his throat. I stand, sniffing back my tears so I can focus on the animal hunting his prey.
I’m suddenly very, very sober as I lift my hands up and back away from it.
“Hey buddy…” I say softly. Maybe coyotes are just like other dogs? I did manage to tame Critter after all, and he was practically feral when I picked him up from the rescue centre. “Who’s a good boy?”
Nothing. No wag of the tail, no ears perking up. Just a menacing stare and… did he just lick his lips?
I lift my hand above my head and pretend I have a ball that I’m about to throw. Gets Critter every time. But when I throw the invisible thing, he doesn’t take the bait, just another step towards me.
A sudden blaring noise sounds behind me, and I jump out of my skin.
Lights illuminate the coyote from behind me, and then he turns and runs off, tail between his legs.
When I turn and look over my shoulder to see who saved me from impending death, relief washes over me at the sight of the tall, broad, familiar form of a broody cowboy walking toward me.