Chapter 3
Zane
I sleep like shit, finally admitting at dawn that I’m not going to get more rest. Dragging myself out of bed, I pull on yesterday's jeans and head upstairs.
It’s only after I get coffee started that I realize I didn’t wake up with a throbbing hard-on, and I didn’t have my confusingly murky, annoyingly horny dreams, either.
I don’t know if I like the trade-off. And apparently I’m just as irritated if I wake up with an nonresponsive dick.
Nobody else is around, although I see a light on in the barn, so Ridge is doing chores. I pull out my phone to let him know I’m putting breakfast on if he wants some, and I’m surprised to see that it’s not him out with the horses.
Cash
Morning all, woke up early so I came to help with the morning feed and give Mom a hand with the kale harvest
I called him twice yesterday, but he didn’t call me back. And now he’s here?
Zane
Putting coffee on
Cash
Bacon too, please, these kale picking fingers aren’t cheap
Zane
Thought you were too busy?
Cash
Nah, it was dead yesterday, so I got ahead and made some time, as requested
Zane
No new customers?
Cash
Don’t worry about it, business is still good
Zane
Not worried
Not about him, anyway. I guess she took my money and made it out of town.
Good for her, as long as that car keeps running.
Fuck.
The back door opens, bringing a gust of cool spring air into the kitchen. Ridge strides in, a heavy canvas jacket on top of a couple of flannel layers, a Thermos in his hand. “Morning.”
“You want breakfast?” I yank two pounds of bacon out of the fridge.
“Just coffee.”
I don’t know why he doesn’t make that himself, since he insists on living alone.
He has his own house set back from the main lodge.
Before he built that, he lived in a camper van.
It’s an unspoken rule in our family that we accept our oldest brother as he is, on his own terms. Better not to spook the beast.
And at six and a half feet and two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, the man is clearly not starving.
My phone vibrates again.
Mom
In my studio
So we’re all awake after all.
After Ridge fills his Thermos, I get my own mug, and while the bacon cooks in the oven, I take a cup upstairs to our mother, too.
Her studio is in a loft space at one end of the lodge. In a house filled with men, it’s a decidedly clean, feminine space filled with plants and crystals. It smells like lavender and a special paper and paint scent that I’ll always associate with my mom’s happiness.
“I’m coming,” she says as she gets up from her yoga mat, adjusting her Hex the Patriarchy t-shirt.
I grin and push the mug at her. It’s a day that ends in -y if Luna Kincaid is wearing a rebellious graphic tee. “You don’t need to come down. Ridge has already headed out.”
Her brow pinches briefly, anxious worry rippling across her face. “He didn’t want to eat?”
I give her a patient smile. “He’s thirty-five.”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry about all of you. Especially in my retirement.”
I snort.
When we first moved to Dragonfly Creek, my mom needed to work three jobs to support us. For a long time—too long—she operated on survival mode.
But after we all graduated high school, she blossomed into a whole different person, getting involved in the small but vibrant arts community. By the time we returned five years ago, she was making postcards and prints to sell through the artist co-op on Main Street.
One of the greatest days of my life was telling her she could quit her other jobs and just do that for the rest of her life if she wanted—and she could do it from the safety of our ranch.
Dragonfly Creek was the safest place we’ve ever lived, but it still wasn’t safe enough. It didn’t ease her anxiety fully or chase away the nightmares.
Growing up, we moved around so much that nowhere felt permanent.
Army barracks sure as hell never felt like home, either.
But moving deeper into the valley, right up against the base of the mountains, finally found us a home.
This house, and the five hundred acres of foothill ranch land around it with the mountains rising to the west and the valley rolling out to the east, felt so right, we literally named it Kincaid’s Refuge.
The house needed so much fucking work, but I enjoyed restoring the massive logs. We put in a gleaming new kitchen, where now I get to make breakfast and stare out the window at the pink glow of the mountaintops reflecting the sunrise behind us.
Which is where I should be right now.
Cash is in the kitchen when I get back. "Morning.”
“What happened to having zero time to help?” I prep another tray of bacon to go in when the first one is finished.
“I woke up early.”
I don’t know if that means he couldn’t sleep, or he had a desire to do something disruptive—like firing up his motorcycle at dawn and pissing off the good folks of Dragonfly Creek.
But we have to share a community with these people, and some of them are still talking about the cloud of scandal we arrived under two decades ago.
Twelve years later, Cash getting convicted of aggravated assault, no matter how justified he thought it was, only reinforced the rumour mill’s belief that the Matthews boys were no good.
Us all changing our names to Kincaid hasn’t shifted that perspective at all.
Rebuilding my family’s reputation is the most important thing in the world to me.
That priority is not shared by my brothers, the dumb shits. But at least whatever demons drove Cash out of bed at an ugly hour brought him here, instead of into the arms of trouble.
The timer goes off and I pull out the first tray. Cash reaches for the sizzling bacon immediately. I snap my tongs at him, warning him that he’s going to burn himself.
Like he cares.
Spending two years in jail changed my brother forever, and caution? He doesn’t know what that means now. Fuck everyone, that’s his mantra.
Including himself.
He works his jaw back and forth, impatient at being told to wait.
The back door opens and in walks Dax—at the same moment Mom comes down the stairs.
She gasps and runs across the room, giving her giant baby boy a tight hug. “I wasn’t expecting you back this week.”
“I’m not really here.” He drops a kiss on her head. “We’re just driving through, coming back from Montana. Heading up to Edmonton next. Just here to do some laundry and—oh, bacon!”
Cash gives me the finger when I don’t threaten our youngest brother with the tongs.
I return the gesture. “Make yourself useful and put on some toast.”