Chapter 10
I grip the Willys Jeep's steering wheel, feelin’ every bump and rattle through my palms as we head back to the Ashby mansion.
The gearbox whines when I shift, and the engine growls like something half-wild.
The wind rushes through the open sides, tearing at Savannah's hair, turning it into a golden flag.
The sun hangs low against the eastern horizon, casting long shadows across the badlands. The landscape stretches out, all jagged edges and cracked earth. Broken land. Forgotten land.
I think about Martinez, this guy from Boston I met inside. Used to bitch constantly about Montana. Called it "God's ashtray" and a "waste of fucking air." Said only people with nothing left to lose would choose to live in a place so ugly.
A lot of the Montana boys wanted to beat his ass for that. Not me. I got what he was saying. This place isn't pretty like forests or oceans. It's honest. Brutal. The badlands don't lie to you about what they are.
I've never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of California beaches or New York lights. I just want my own corner of this hellhole where I can breathe without someone's boot on my neck.
The sky above us swirls with thunderheads, purple and blue, almost black in places. Storm's coming. I can smell it—that metallic tang that hangs in the air before rain hits dry dirt. The wind picks up, carrying dust across the road in thin, dancing spirals.
I keep turning over what Savannah said earlier. About Mercy. About Cash.
The Jeep's engine roars as we climb a hill, drowning out any possibility of conversation. Which is fine by me because I need to think.
Is it Cash I hate? Or just the idea of anyone else raising Mercy? Both, probably.
Cash Ashby with his pressed shirts and his fucking Stetson. The way he looks at me like I'm somethin’ he found on the bottom of his boot. The beatings. The threats. The way he left me to die.
But it's more than that. It's Mercy calling someone else for help when she's scared. It's someone else teaching her to ride, to shoot, to stand up for herself. It's someone else being there when she has nightmares.
It's me failing. Again.
We turn onto the long drive leading to the Ashby mansion, and I see them right away. Mercy on a stocky brown pony, trotting around the main arena. Not the dirt round pen where the ranch hands work their horses. The fancy one, with the perfect sand footing and the black rails.
Cash stands at the fence, one boot propped on the bottom rail. He's calling out instructions, gesturing with one hand. Even from here, I can see Mercy bouncing in the saddle, her back stiff, her hands too high. She looks like she's riding a jackhammer, not a horse.
I wince. Kid's gonna be sore tomorrow.
"She's doing great," Savannah says, breaking into my thoughts. "Especially for a beginner. Look at how she keeps trying."
I grunt, not trusting myself to speak.
"She loves it," Savannah continues. "And that's what matters. Riding hurts at first—every muscle aches, and you fall. A lot. She's already come off twice since she started."
I snap my head toward her. "She fell off?"
Savannah smiles. "I can't even count how many times I've fallen. Most kids give up after the first time. The ones who get back on? Those are the horse girls. They'll give up everything—time, money, sleep—just to be around horses."
I hear what she's not saying. This is good for Mercy. Rimrock Academy would be good for her. A place where she could ride every day, learn from professionals. Not like the trailer. Not like the club.
"The best thing about having a horse-girl sister," Savannah says, "is they don't think about boys."
That pulls a laugh from me. "Bullshit. You were the biggest horse girl I ever met, and you were boy-crazy as hell."
She leans into me, her hands wrapping around my bicep, her body warm against mine. Her lips brush my cheek, soft and quick. "I've only ever been crazy about one boy," she whispers.
This makes me smile. A real one. Something genuine that starts in my chest and works its way up. She's always been able to do that. Pull something real from me when everything else feels like a performance.
I watch her settle back into her seat, hair whipping around her face in the wind, and my mind drifts to all the ways she's changed since we were kids. How she went from the shy girl who blushed when I held her hand to the woman who fucked me in front of an entire club of outlaws without blinking.
Savannah Ashby wasn't always like this. Not as a teenager. Back then, everything was slow and careful. Like we had all the time in the world to figure things out. To be in love. To make love.
Then she went away to college.
First time she came back on break, she met me at the silo like always. But something had shifted. She was desperate, hungry. Wouldn't even let me say hello before she was tearing at my belt, dropping to her knees on that dirty concrete floor.
I remember standing there, shocked stupid, as she took me in her mouth for the first time. Her hands trembling but determined, her eyes locked on mine like she was proving something.
And while I enjoyed it—fucking immensely—I was surprised at her intensity. Couldn't help picturing all the college boys she'd been practicing on. All those rich pricks with their clean hands and pressed shirts. The thought made me want to put my fist through the wall.
But it was like she was reading my mind, because she pulled back, lips swollen, and told me I was her first. That she'd never done this before.
I didn't want to believe her. Pride, maybe. Or just the need to protect myself from how much that would mean.
But she gagged a lot when she took me deeper. Kept having to stop and catch her breath. She wasn't good at it—not then. Not like now, when she knows exactly how to take me apart with her mouth. She knows exactly how far my cock can slide down her throat.
And anyway, her word is good enough for me. Why would I want to call her a liar? Deep down, I've always wanted to be the only man she was ever with. Stupid as that sounds.
The Jeep bounces over a rut in the road, jarring me back to the present. We're approaching the ranch house now, that massive log monstrosity with its perfect symmetry and endless windows. I've never felt more out of place than I do on Ashby land.
I park near the side entrance, cut the engine, and swing out of the driver's seat. My chest still aches, but it's a lot better than it was just a couple days ago. And nothin’ near the constant fire it was the day I got here.
I walk around to Savannah's side and take her hand when she offers it. But instead of leading me inside like I expect, she pulls me toward the riding arena where Mercy's lesson is still going on.
My feet drag a little. I don't want a confrontation with Cash. Not with Mercy watching. Not when I'm still weak enough that he might actually win if things get physical.
But Savannah's grip is firm, her smile determined as she tugs me forward. "Come on," she says. "Let's show your sister how proud you are."
So I let her do it. Let her pull me toward the arena, my boots kicking gravel like it’s dread. The riding arena rises before us—all perfect black rails and manicured sand. Everything the Ashbys touch, turns expensive. Even dirt.
Mercy spots us and starts waving frantically, her little body bouncing in the saddle of a stocky pony with a wild mane. Her smile stretches ear to ear, the kind of genuine happiness I haven't seen on her face since long before I went inside.
"Eyes forward!" Cash barks from the edge of the ring. "Watch where you're going, not who's watching!"
The pony tosses its head, sensing Mercy's distraction. Her balance shifts. For a second, my heart seizes—she's going to fall. I take a half-step forward, useless at this distance, as the pony sidesteps sharply.
"Heels down, Mercy!" Savannah's voice cuts through the air, clear and commanding. "Look between his ears, not at us!"
Mercy's face snaps forward, her body correcting itself. The pony settles immediately.
Savannah slips between the rails like she was born doing it—which she was—and crosses to a tall woman in riding pants who must be the instructor. Madeline, I think her name is. They fall into easy conversation, laughing and gesturing as they both call out instructions to Mercy.
Which leaves me standing alone with Cash Ashby.
The man who beat me unconscious, left me to die tied to a support beam, and orchestrated my sister's kidnapping through the family court system. Not to mention, sanctioned the kidnapping of his own fuckin’ sister.
This is the man Savannah wants me to trust?
What a joke.
Neither of us says a word.
The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. My muscles tense, ready for whatever comes. Cash stands with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Stetson pulled low over his eyes.
"I like your sister," he says finally, his voice level. No emotion I can read.
I take him in properly for the first time since that night at the cabin.
Cash Ashby stands six-feet-four in his custom boots, shoulders broad from actual ranch work, not just gym time.
His face is all hard angles, tanned from days outside.
Blue eyes—Savannah's eyes—cold as winter under the shadow of his hat brim.
"She's a quick learner," he continues when I don't respond. "Natural seat. Good hands."
I watch Mercy trot a circle, her face set in concentration. "She's a Kane," I say, like that explains everything.
Cash makes a sound that might be a laugh or just air escaping. "I missed most of Savannah's childhood," he says, surprising me with the shift. "Her riding lessons. Her first shows." He nods toward the arena. "All this. I was away at school, then college, then working the northern properties."
His gaze stays fixed on the riders, but I can feel the weight of something unsaid.
"Eleanor's fault," he adds. "She kept us apart. Kept all of us apart from Savannah. Too busy turning her into content."
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard. I've spent years hating the Ashbys as a unit—one solid wall of privilege and disdain. Never considered they might have their own fractures, their own wounds.
"I never understood my mother," Cash says, eyes still on the arena. Then he turns, fixing me with a stare that feels hot. "But you did, didn't you?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous as a lit fuse.
I'm not afraid of Cash Ashby. Even injured, I figure I could take him if it came to it. But there's something in his tone that isn't confrontation. It's almost... resignation.
Maybe I do owe him some kind of explanation. Not for his sake, but for what lies between us. For Savannah. For Mercy, who's laughing now as she tries her best to post the pony's trot.
"Yeah," I say, lookin' down at my boots. "I did understand your mother. There was a time there… when I think… I was her best friend."
Cash's jaw tightens, then releases. "Did you fuck my mother?"
The question is so blunt, so unexpected, that a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Not amusement—more like disbelief that we're having this conversation while watching a nine-year-old's riding lesson.
"Even if I did," I tell him, meeting his gaze directly, "I'd answer that question with a lie."
Something flickers across his face—anger, confusion, maybe even respect. Hard to tell because I don’t really know him.
I've said all I'm going to say on the subject.
Eleanor Ashby's ghost doesn't get to haunt this moment too.
I turn away from Cash, slip between the arena rails, and cross the perfect sand to where Savannah stands with Madeline. My boots leave heavy prints in the carefully groomed surface.
Savannah's smile when she sees me approach feels like the only real thing in this artificial world they've built.
I stand beside her, close enough that our arms touch, and watch my little sister ride circles around all the things we're not saying.