Chapter 13
Tad
I wake up to an empty bed.
The sheets are still warm on the side Breezy slept on, and a faint trace of her perfume lingers in the air, but she’s nowhere to be found.
And damn if it doesn’t make me grin.
Some men might be insulted, waking up to nothing but a dent in the pillow, but I’m downright entertained. Hell, I’m relieved. Serious is bad. Serious is heavy. Serious ends in a fucking sheep-farm-driven pointless existence and never-ending sibling resentment.
But a temporary little fling with the visitor next door? That’s safe. That’s easy. That doesn’t end in destruction.
I stretch, rub the sleep from my eyes, and I’m still grinning when my bedroom door bangs open.
“Tad!” Randy’s voice is sharp enough to cut steel. “We’re missing half the damn flock.”
I groan and sit up. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”
Randy stomps into the room like he’s auditioning for a cattle drive. “I mean it. Gate’s wide open. I counted, and we’re down by at least twenty. I think that bastard Crosby figured out the goddamn latch.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “See? We’re not bad with sheep, Randy. We’re bad with fences. The flock’s healthy. So healthy, in fact, that I think we should get Crosby’s IQ tested. That bastard is abnormally smart.”
His glare could curdle milk. He lets out a deep exhale and runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m going to choose to ignore every stupid thing you just said in the name of keeping myself out of prison.
” He sighs. “I swear, I’m throwing a fucking party when spring hits and we can take these fuckers to market.
And I’m hoping that’s that on the sheep shit. ”
Oh, here he goes again. The “we need to be done with sheep farming” conversation that comes up every two weeks or so like clockwork.
I swing my legs out of bed and tug on my jeans. “Sheep soothe me, you know that.”
“Fuck right off, Tad.”
I laugh, which only makes him glower harder. “Okay, okay. I’ll go find the flock this morning, princess. You can relax and have some breakfast.”
Randy crosses his arms, still fuming. “I’ve been going along with this for so long that I’m starting to wonder if I’m the crazy one, Tad.
When are you going to give up the sheep farce and use the damn insurance money to invest in something that might lead somewhere other than Betty Bagley’s front yard every other day? ”
The words hit like a sledgehammer to the ribs, and my grin dies swiftly. The air in the room thickens into a cold and heavy mist of lines crossed and unearthed demons. We may volley, but he’s crossed a line this time, and he knows it.
“Don’t.” My voice is cutting. Randy opens his mouth, but I interrupt him before he can say another word. I don’t want to hear it. Not even if it’s an apology. “Don’t even fucking go there.”
For once, he listens. His jaw works, muscles ticking, but he knows the cost of honesty on this subject.
I stand, yanking on my shirt. My movements are clipped and mechanical, and I grind my jaw so hard I feel it in my molars.
When I slip on my boots, my ears buzz with all the unsaid things between us, burning me alive from the inside out.
But I can’t give this tailspin legs, and I know the risks of breaking open the dam of guilt and shame, and the worst kind of grief could pull me under in ways I’m never sure I’ll come back from.
Randy didn’t mean to hit the nerve, I know that. But intent doesn’t matter when the nerve is always this raw.
“I’m going to get the fucking sheep,” I announce.
Randy mutters something under his breath as he stomps down the hall and toward my kitchen, but I barely hear it over the rush in my head. I grab my coat and head for the door, anger still boiling under my skin.
Ten minutes ago, I was in a decent mood, still riding the afterglow of hot sex with Breezy Bishop and a rare night that didn’t feel heavy. But it doesn’t take much to kill a spark.
Or light one, for that matter. One wrong word and I’m right back where I always end up—standing in the ruins, trying to pretend they aren’t still burning.
The cold hits my face as I step outside, but it brings none of the invigoration it usually does. The sky is gray and viscous, and the world smells like hay and frost and the faint ghosts of smoke that never really leave me.
I know the sheep don’t fix anything. I know the farm doesn’t fix anything. But they give me something to hold—something to do with my hands when my mind gets too loud. Something to playact for the world around me.
And most days, pretending is the only thing that keeps me standing.
…
By the time night rolls around, I’m fried.
My body aches from chasing down half a flock, my pride aches from handing Betty Bagley another wad of cash for her chewed-up flowerbeds, and the silence between Randy and me feels heavier than any argument we’ve ever had.
He didn’t bitch after this morning. Not once.
He worked beside me all day—quiet, efficient, and steady—but I could see the unspoken regret in his shoulders.
The whole damn reason my older brother came to Red Bridge in the first place was to keep me from falling apart, and the thought of being the reason I might cuts deeper than any amount of broken barbwire and electric fence for him.
By the time I roll into The Country Club, I’m bone-tired.
The place is boisterous with music from a bluegrass band playing live on stage.
The sounds of fiddles sawing and banjos clicking spill across the whole bar and even outside into the parking lot, and the bar is packed like a tin of sardines.
Couples line dance in the center, regulars loiter over by the pool tables engaging in their competitive games, and the sounds of the usual small-town gossip bounce off the walls.
I slip into the rhythm effortlessly, because that’s what I do.
I put on the easy grin, that mask I’ve gotten too good at. Laugh at the right moments, buy rounds, slap a few backs, and make Clay Harris and the rest of Red Bridge believe I’m fine.
Clay has insight—more than a few occasions of me blitzed to oblivion while I weave my sad tale and confront my demons head-on directly across from him—that no one else does, but he doesn’t press. He never does.
I’m on my second rocks glass of whiskey when the door opens, and in walks Bennett Bishop with Norah on his arm, and the one woman I gladly let linger in my head these days trailing behind them.
The arch of her back, the sound of her moans, the perfect pink of her pert nipples—yeah, they hang around rent-free.
At the sight of her, my pulse does something stupid. Even in this little bar, under too-dim lights, Breezy shines.
Clay slides me a fresh pour. “Another?”
I stare at the glass, the amber catching the light like temptation itself.
For a second, habit almost wins. That familiar itch to blur the edges, to let the world fade into background noise, has my fingers tapping toward the glass.
But then Breezy laughs, carrying over the noise of the bar and the music and straight into my ears, and another agent for changing the way I feel tips the scales. I won’t be numb, certainly. But I won’t feel any pain either.
Enough brooding. Enough drinking. I don’t want to forget tonight.
I shove the glass back toward Clay and shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”
And before I can second-guess it, I’m on my feet, crossing the room.
The crowd fades and the music buzzes as the Molene bluegrass band picks something fast and twangy. But all I can see is her, standing there in the middle of it all, magnetic as hell.
“Well, hello, Breezy Bishop,” I greet when I reach where she stands at a high-top table with Bennett and Norah. “Happy to see you’re still in Red Bridge.”
“Hi, Tad,” she replies, a secret smile on her lips like us pretending to be mere acquaintances in front of everyone else is her new favorite game. My new favorite is seeing her in my bed and making her come.
“Bennett. Norah.” I tip my head toward them, but my eyes never leave Breezy’s face. “Good seeing you all here tonight.”
I don’t know what Bennett says, but that’s probably because I’m one hundred percent focused on his sister.
“Band’s pretty lively, huh?” I say, nodding toward the stage where the bluegrass players are tearing through a fiddle run that could wake the dead.
Breezy shrugs. “They sound pretty good.”
“How about a dance?”
She blinks quickly, first at me and then at her brother and sister-in-law. “A dance?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a smile curling my lips up. “A dance.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Are you good at dancing?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping we’re about to find out.” I smirk and hold out my hand toward her. “C’mon, Breezy. I won’t bite, I promise.”
“It’s not the biting I’m worried about. It’s the stepping on my feet.”
I wink. “I won’t do that either.”
She hesitates just long enough to make me sweat, but when she slips her hand into mine, I celebrate the victory.
Her palm is warm, her fingers small but sure, and instantly, something in my chest unclenches. I lead us onto the dance floor, where boots shuffle and skirts sway, and the air smells like beer, wood, and dust.
I’m sure there are a dozen busybodies watching us, including Fiona Blue with an expression like she’s swallowed a bug, but I don’t give a damn. Because right now, with Breezy’s hand in mine and her laughter brushing my throat, I feel good.
That’s a dangerous thing for a man like me. Good isn’t something I trust. Good never lasts.
But with her body close and her perfume cutting through the smell of booze and sweat, I decide to stop thinking.
Just for a song.
Just for a dance.
Just long enough to let the noise in my head fade away and remember what it feels like to be alive.