Chapter 30
Breezy
My phone buzzes against the blanket I’m pretending to knit.
Tad: How’s the headache, Betsy?
I smile as I start to type out a response.
Me: A little better. Though, I might try to take a nap soon. The twins doing okay without me?
Technically, I was supposed to “help” on the farm this morning. But I woke up with a borderline migraine and decided cold wind slapping me in the face wasn’t going to improve my condition.
Tad: How about you just worry about feeling better. Take a nap. Rest up. Tom and Betsy will be good, but you let me know if you need anything.
I stare at the message for a second too long, warmth spreading through me despite the dull throb behind my eyes. That man. The same man who not so long ago vanished for a full twenty-four hours and made my stomach twist with worry is checking on me to make sure I’m feeling okay.
Whatever that dark day was for Tad, I guess it’s behind us. For now, anyway. We’ve spent the past five days falling back into the companionship that always seems to come so easy.
I know we started out as hot sex and a casual fling, but now I don’t really know what to call it. I don’t know what to call us. But then again, I don’t even know what in the hell I’m doing with my life, so uncertainty is pretty much at the foundation of everything.
I still have questions—a million of them, actually—about Tad’s past, about what made him disappear for twenty-four hours, about whatever he feels is so dark he doesn’t want it in my head.
Maybe a lot of women would be demanding answers.
Maybe I should be demanding answers. But I know what it feels like to be pushed before you’re ready, and I refuse to do that to him.
He’ll talk when he wants to. Until then, I’m content with the way he shows up for me.
I’m content with whatever this is between us.
And really, who doesn’t carry some darkness these days? At least Tad’s comes wrapped in kindness and quiet strength. He’s never been anything but a gentleman to me.
Well, except when we’re in bed.
But clearly, that’s an exception. A very hot, very manly, very much makes me melt faster than butter in a cast-iron pan exception.
I set my phone down beside me on the bed, glancing at the half-knit blanket in my lap. My latest attempt at domesticity. It’s soft and crooked and, like everything else in my life right now, unfinished.
Crosby still wears the yellow scarf I made, and Tad laughs every time he sees it.
But this new project is for Tom and Betsy. The twins are growing like weeds but still sleep curled together in the barn beside Mabel. Tad told me they don’t need the blanket, that sheep are supposed to be able to tolerate the cold, but I’m a you-can-never-have-enough-blankets kind of gal.
My phone buzzes again, and I see another email notification from headhunter David Smith pop up on the locked screen.
I still haven’t responded to any of his messages.
Haven’t even attempted to set up times to chat with all the museums and galleries he says want me.
I’ve tried—trust me, I’ve tried—but every time I’ve started an email draft to him, I… close right back out of it.
It just…doesn’t feel right. And I can’t decide if it’s because that world simply doesn’t feel like me anymore or if I’m pushing it all away because I’m scared.
Or maybe it’s because Red Bridge isn’t feeling like a detour anymore, but a place you’re putting down roots you didn’t even know you had.
I don’t know what I want yet. I just know that I’m not running toward anything—or away from it.
I’m just here. In Red Bridge.
I let out a long exhale and focus back on my knitting. I’m halfway through another crooked row when raised voices break the quiet.
“What the fuck!”
Sharp, escalating, very male voices break the sound barrier of my bedroom wall, jarring my attention away from the blanket and drawing a knot in my brows instead.
My heart thuds, a sudden sense of panic building as I try to make sense of the argument between Bennett and some unknown foe. My ears are perked, my attention set, but because the honest people of the early 1900s cared about quality construction, I can’t understand a damn thing.
It’s all just…muffled. Like the parents on Charlie Brown.
I don’t like not knowing who Bennett’s opponent is—not a surprise since the ambiguity of the unknown has always been one of my biggest fears—and with the way Red Bridge does small-town vibes, it truly could be anyone.
Norah isn’t home yet from getting her nails done—at least, I don’t think—and Autumn went down for a nap a little over an hour ago. As the only hen left in the house and fighting a migraine at that, I chose seclusion in a dark room.
But I would’ve never guessed a street fight would break out in the living room.
When I toss my needles to the side quickly, my knot comes undone and unfurls all the yarn I’ve been weaving for the last half hour, the tiny piece of blanket I’d conquered promptly no more.
“Shit.” Moisture stings my eyes with raging disappointment I don’t understand. I already know Tad is right and Tom and Betsy don’t really need a blanket to keep them warm at night, but I am emotionally distraught.
My gosh, Breeze. It’ll be fine. You can literally buy them a blanket if you’re so inclined.
“Crying over a blanket for baby lambs. A blanket that wasn’t even looking good, at that,” I mutter to myself, annoyed. “Who am I, and what have I done with the tough-as-nails bitch from New York?”
I move toward the door and pull it open in one smooth motion, quickening my pace to a jog as the voices get louder.
I can’t make out what they’re saying yet, but the tone is not friendly. And to think, I left all my pepper spray in my place when I left New York over two months ago because I was certain the crime statistics in Red Bridge were rock-bottom low.
By the time I reach the hallway, my chest is tight and my morning headache flares into something heavier. But I squint against it and move on quick feet into the kitchen just as Bennett reaches out and pushes Logan, sending him back into the counter and bending his back over it like Gumby.
Logan is here? What the hell?
Logan’s face stutters, slipping into his old mask of trouble, and I know if I don’t get this situation in hand soon, poor Norah is going to come home to a bloody kitchen.
I can’t believe my two freaking brothers are at each other’s throats.
It’s been years since I’ve witnessed this, but then again, it’s been years since they’ve been in the same room.
“Hey!” I yell, pulling Logan up short from retaliation. His eyes flit to mine with the benefit of my surprise appearance, but Bennett uses the opportunity to land a sucker shove to his chest, banging him into the counter once again.
I jump forward, putting myself between them like I’ve done a million times in our youth and far too many times in my twenties and early thirties. Being the only sister to two rowdy brothers is a freaking job and a half, let me tell you.
“Hey! Stop it right now!” But even as the words leave my mouth, a dizzy wave rolls through me. I press a hand to my forehead, fighting the sudden spin of the room.
“Yell at him! I didn’t do anything!” Logan rebuts, a typical sibling declaration.
“You showed up!” Bennett spits back. “That’s enough, considering I told you I don’t want you at my fucking house.”
“I came to see Breezy, not you, asshole!” Logan shouts back, and his eyes move to me. “Breeze, come on. We need to talk.”
“No offense, Lo, but I don’t want you here either.” I shake my head on a sigh. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“See!” Bennett booms. “You are not fucking welcome here!”
Instantly, I regret my honesty as another rage-fueled screaming match starts up around me again.
“This isn’t your fucking business, Ben!” Logan shouts back.
“Not my business?” Bennett retorts on a sharp laugh. “You’re in my fucking home, so it is my business. And you’re not—”
“Ben, please. Stop it,” I implore when I see the bulging vein in the center of Bennett’s forehead appear. The damn thing is already pulsating. He’s beyond angry, and my patience is waning significantly as another wave of dizziness washes over me.
“Ben, please? Are you serious, Breeze?” Bennett retorts. “I’m not the one who showed up here to start shit! I’m not the one who destroyed your life!”
“I’m not here to start shit!” Logan roars. “I’m here to try to talk things out!”
“But she doesn’t want to talk to you. When are you going to get that through your thick fucking skull? What you did was unthinkable. It was pure betrayal.”
“It wasn’t my choice!” Logan argues. “I—”
“Shut up. Just shut up! Both of you!” A sheen of sweat coats my forehead and neck, and I use my T-shirt to swipe it off my skin as I try to talk both of my brothers off the ledge.
“Seriously. I need the two of you to find some way to calm down. If not for me, for the sake of your daughter, Ben. She’s in there taking a nap, and if you wake her up—”
My stomach bubbles, and my anxiety ratchets up.
Ugh. I think…I think I might get sick.
Is it the migraine?
Is it the stress of seeing Logan again after months have passed and having to be reminded of everything I’ve lost while still basically being a squatter in Bennett’s house who doesn’t seem to have the motivation or gumption or desire to leave?
Or is it the fact that our father died unexpectedly a few months ago and completely betrayed me from the grave, and my brothers can’t seem to act their fucking age whenever they’re placed in the same goddamn room together?
Or maybe, and this might be a terrifying thought, it’s all those things combined, plus a million other things that include the reality you won’t face—you’re secretly falling for the sheep farmer you swore was just a distraction—and it’s all hitting you in one big wave?
Holy fuck. My stomach gurgles and nausea climbs my throat, and I am most definitely going to puke.
Putting a hand over my mouth, I make a dash for the trash can, flipping up the lid and throwing up the coffee and eggs Norah made a few hours ago. The taste is putrid, and my whole body shakes with the unexpected upheaval.
“You okay?” Logan asks as Bennett moves to put a hand to my back. I wave them both off, trying to get my bearings and decide whether I’m done. I feel awful all of a sudden, and I swear if I don’t use all my strength to fight it, I might pass out right here on the floor.
“Dammit, Logan. You’ve got Breezy so fucking stressed with all this, she’s getting sick. When is your selfishness going to be done? When is it going to be enough?”
“Me?” Logan tosses back, his voice rising once again.
“I’m trying to make things right. I’m here, hanging out in fucking Mary Poppins Land, fighting a damn flock of sheep to get to your house, trying to rebuild a bridge.
You’re the one who fucking yells and takes out his fists every time you see me.
Maybe you’re the one stressing Breezy out? Ever think of that?”
“Oh, screw you! I didn’t steal her fucking galleries. The ones she’s been working at since she graduated high school!”
“I didn’t steal them. Dad left them to me. And I’m trying—”
“You’re trying to ruin everything! You’re always trying to ruin everything!” Bennett yells. His voice is loud and raw with thirty-plus years of aggression. This isn’t a normal sibling rivalry—this is trauma bonding and perfidy and a powder keg load of testosterone.
Autumn’s cry is soft, but aside from Bennett’s heavy breathing and Logan’s wide eyes, it’s the only thing left in the accusation’s wake.
“Great,” Bennett growls. “You woke the baby.”
“Me?” Logan protests. “I’m not the one huffing and puffing the whole damn house down.”
“I’ll get Autumn,” I offer, willing my stomach to settle and then stepping back to the trash can when it turns again.
I lose the rest of the contents of my stomach in a violent swoop that burns my throat and makes my eyes tear.
Embarrassment rests on my lips atop the aftermath of throwing up.
I reach for a paper towel from the roll next to the sink, falling into the counter when my legs unexpectedly go out from under me.
“Okay, fuck. Sit down, Breeze,” Bennett orders, and Logan pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and puts it behind me.
I barely manage to sit before the front door slams open with a crack that rattles the hinges. Cold air knifes through the kitchen, and Tad fills the doorway in three long strides.
His jaw is clenched, and his eyes scan the room wildly until they lock on me.
“Breezy?” His voice hits like a thunderclap—rough, panicked, protective. “Are you okay?”
Both Bennett and Logan whirl toward him, startled, but Tad’s already crossing the room. His chest heaves like he sprinted the whole way here.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” Tad demands, voice booming enough to cut through the lingering echo of the slammed door.
But before I can say something, before I can intervene, nausea grips my throat, and I have to shut my eyes as the world spins on its axis.
Which is a fucking shame because I’m basically in the middle of an old Western film and a street-style shootout appears imminent now that a third gun-wielder has arrived. And without sight, all I can do is listen.
“What the fuck?” Bennett shouts at Tad. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Logan bellows at the same time.
My eyes are still closed firmly shut as another wave of nausea clutches me, and the edges of everything blur.
The sound of them—three men, all muscle and ego and tension—feels far too loud for the pounding inside my skull and the nausea wreaking havoc on my insides.
My stomach rolls again, and I grip the table in hopes it will anchor me.
“I expect a fucking answer,” Tad spits, ignoring their questions entirely. “What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with Breezy?”
“Excuse me?” Bennett’s voice booms, and I try to calm him before he can fly off the handle. “You demand an answer in my fucking house? Are you—?”
“Bennett,” I plead, my voice dull, even to my own ears.
It has nothing of the take-charge woman I’m used to, and her absence is worrisome, given the circumstances.
I have a feeling things are about to get a heck of a lot more volatile, and, perhaps more horrifying, the sting in my eyes foretells a soon-arriving wave of more tears.
“Yeah, I do demand answers!” Tad shouts, not catching my let’s-calm-shit-down vibe. “What the hell is going on?”
“What’s it to you, Farmer fucking Ted?” Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip, and more tears flood behind my lids.
I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It’s never really been in my DNA—something about being a Bishop and dealing with all the family-induced trauma hardens your soul or something.
But I don’t open my eyes because I can’t. I don’t say anything else because the world is spinning, my pulse is hammering somewhere between my ears and my ribs, and the tears start up again before I can swallow them back.
What on earth is going on with me?