Chapter 3
Cole lifted another fifty-pound bag of feed onto his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight settle as he carried it toward the truck bed.
The feed store smelled just like it always did—of grain dust, leather, and a faint sweetness of molasses.
Usually, the scent was comforting, a reminder of routine and the steady rhythm of ranch work.
But today, it just made him want to get back home and check on everyone.
He loaded the last bag, then moved to grab the supplements he’d ordered. Through the store’s front window, he could see the street. It was quiet for a weekday afternoon, just a few cars passing and a handful of pedestrians. Everything looked normal. Safe. Boring.
Exactly what he needed after the morning he’d had.
He’d been up before dawn, and when Conrad entered the barn, he’d been busy working with the kind of efficient precision that had once made them such a strong team before everything fell apart.
Before he had chosen his mother over their partnership, driving a wedge between them that might never be repaired.
“You’re still using the same feed ratio?” Conrad didn’t bother with any of the usual pleasantries like “good morning” or “how’d you sleep.”
“It works.”
“Work isn’t the same as optimal. You could achieve better weight gain if you adjusted the protein content.”
He fought against the desire to roll his eyes. “The horses are healthy. They’re doing fine.”
“Fine.” Conrad said the word as if it tasted bad. “That’s always been your problem, Cole. You settle for fine when you could have excellent.”
And that set the tone for the following three hours.
Conrad questioned his methods, offering “suggestions” that were actually criticisms, pointing out everything that could be improved—more efficiently, more profitably—as if he hadn’t been successfully running this operation for the past four years without his brother’s input.
The worst part was that Conrad was mostly right. The feed ratios could be improved. The training schedule could be more organized. The trail rides could be better coordinated for maximum efficiency.
But he didn’t run Blackwell Creek Lodge the same way Conrad ran his Texas businesses.
This wasn’t about maximizing profit or achieving peak efficiency.
It was about providing guests with a memorable experience, preserving his mother’s legacy, and creating a home for his son.
All the things Conrad would never understand because he saw everything through the lens of profit.
By ten o’clock, he knew he needed to leave before he said something he’d regret. So, even though he could’ve waited another week to restock, the feed store run had been a convenient excuse.
As he paid for his order, he exchanged a few pleasantries with Tom behind the counter, then headed back to his truck. The physical work of loading had helped burn off some of his frustration, but his shoulders were still tight with a tension that had nothing to do with the weight of feed bags.
As he got into the cab, his phone buzzed with a text from his mother. How’s town? Take your time. Everyone’s fine here.
Translation: Conrad is still driving everyone crazy, but we’re managing.
He started the engine, then pulled out onto Main Street, and that’s when he saw Jewel’s little Audi. She had taken Sylvie with her for a grocery run shortly before he left. They were four cars ahead, heading in the same direction.
His first instinct was to catch up, maybe flash his lights to let her know he was behind her. But something made him hold back and maintain the distance.
She doesn’t want to see you right now anyway.
The thought hurt, but it was probably right.
They had barely spoken this morning beyond the essential logistics of feeding Beckett and figuring out who needed which vehicle.
She’d been polite, professional, and when they both reached for the coffee pot at the same time, she made sure not to touch him, even accidentally.
It was like they were strangers who happened to be sharing a house.
She had been different four days ago. Before he admitted to knowing Trevor.
There had even been moments when he caught her looking at him, her dark green eyes holding something that made his chest tighten with hope.
But now she looked at him like he was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out.
Or worse, like he was a suspect she was still questioning.
Do you believe me?
He’d wanted to ask her that a dozen times over the past four days.
He’d wanted so badly to grab her shoulders, make her look at him, and ask whether she believed he was telling the truth.
Whether she believed he hadn’t hurt Vivian.
Whether there was any chance she could forgive him for lying to her.
But he hadn’t. He was afraid of her answer.
The truth was complicated, messy, and full of contradictions that he didn’t fully understand. Yes, he had known about Trevor. He had found out just a few days before Vivian disappeared. Not through any detective work, but because Beck had let it slip during bath time.
“Mr. Trevor came to visit again today. He brought his horse. Mommy said it’s our special secret.”
Those words had felt like a punch to the gut. His son, his innocent three-year-old boy, was being taught to keep secrets from him, being made complicit in his mother’s affair.
That night, after Beck was asleep, he’d confronted her. The fight was brutal and ugly, full of accusations, tears, and things that couldn’t be taken back.
And he’d confronted her with much more than just Beckett’s slip-up.
He’d known something was wrong, felt it in the way one senses things they don’t want to be true, and had been quietly digging for answers for a while.
He hadn’t wanted to find anything, hoped he wouldn’t, but the bank statement he found hidden in her desk drawer stopped him cold.
It was a personal loan application, filled out in both their names, for an amount that had no clear purpose.
She hadn’t told him about it and hadn’t asked him to sign anything.
Which meant she’d either forged his signature or counted on him never discovering it.
At the time, he quietly called the bank and closed the loan, not yet ready to confront her about why she needed the money and why she didn’t feel she could ask him.
After learning about Trevor, he understood.
The loan revealed everything he needed to know about how thoroughly she’d been planning her escape.
After he had confronted her about everything, she yelled at him. “I never wanted this life! I never wanted to be stuck here, playing house, pretending to be happy in this prison you’ve built.”
“I’m not keeping you prisoner. If you want to leave, leave. But you’re not taking my son.”
And there it was. The thing that would make him appear guilty to anyone who heard about it. The possessive claim, the threat, the line drawn in the sand.
I won’t let you take my son.
But he’d meant it. He still meant it. Beckett was his son, his responsibility, the only good thing that had come from his relationship with Vivian. The thought of losing him, of having him taken away the way he and Conrad had been taken from their mother, was unbearable.
But he hadn’t hurt Vivian to prevent her from taking Beckett. He had just told her the truth. If she wanted to leave, he wouldn’t stop her. But if she tried to take his son away from his home, his family, or his stability, then yes, he would fight her with everything he had.
That night, she’d stormed out of the house. He thought she had gone to Trevor’s, that she’d spend the night there and come back in the morning to discuss things more calmly. But after that, she avoided him completely, and they never talked about it again.
Three days later, she’d taken Phantom out for a ride and never came back.
For months, he’d tortured himself with the possibilities. Why had she taken Phantom? Had she been running away, and the gelding had thrown her? Had she been so upset about their fight that she’d been careless, inattentive, and Phantom had sensed her distraction and spooked?
Or worse, did something in her demeanor, like a hint of fear or anxiety, trigger the horse’s aggressive response? Had his horse, his loyal companion, killed the mother of his child?
The thought kept him awake at night, filling him with guilt. Because if Phantom had killed her, it would be his fault. After all, it was his horse, his failure to keep his family together, and his inability to see how unhappy she was until it was too late.
After Jewel had told him that she’d likely left on her own, he should’ve been angry. It should’ve filled him with rage at her selfishness, her cruelty, and her willingness to let everyone think she was dead rather than face the judgment of abandoning her child.
Instead, he’d felt relief.
Vivian was alive, probably living her life somewhere with Trevor, free from the responsibilities and expectations she never wanted.
And Phantom hadn’t killed her. But even relief was accompanied by guilt.
Because he knew that if Vivian had never run away, if she had been happy, and if they had somehow managed to make it work, he would’ve never met Jewel.
And that thought was almost too much to bear.
He would’ve never experienced what it felt like to have someone look at his son with genuine affection rather than resentful obligation.
He would’ve never felt that spark of connection when their hands brushed accidentally, or the way his whole body came alive when she smiled at him.
More than that, he would’ve never kissed her in the kitchen and felt, for the first time in years, that maybe he deserved something good.
And being grateful that the mother of his child had abandoned them because it meant he’d found someone better wasn’t something good men felt. That made him a terrible person, didn’t it?
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.