One year later . . .
I DON’T WANT to move out to Gold Rush Ranch.
I hate it out here. And I’m not just saying that either. It’s that deep spark of revulsion in my sternum that lets me know I don’t belong here. That inner instinct that kept me alive overseas flares up every time I get near this place. But here I am, hurtling down the highway that will take me straight there anyway. If this were Iraq, I’d turn my truck around and get the hell out of here.
But this isn’t Iraq.
It’s Ruby fucking Creek, which honestly might be worse. I’m quite sure all they’ve got is a gas station and a corner store and a bunch of gossipy old biddies. I hate small towns. I hate how friendly they are, that you’re expected to stop and make small talk with people you don’t know and definitely don’t care about. And I hate that everyone knows your business.
Most days, I think I might just generally hate people—but even I don’t want to be that far gone. That dark.
I like my privacy. I like my space, quiet and tidy. And I don’t like being asked probing questions. All of which I know are going to be tested the minute I step foot onto the family ranch. Vaughn was bad enough, the perpetual little brother constantly nipping at my heels, but now he’s engaged to and living here with Billie Black. Also known as the most obnoxious woman in the world.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. As much as it makes me roll my eyes to admit it, they’re kind of sweet together. And Billie is good for my little brother. But the two of them are just so much fucking sunshine and rainbows that you almost need sunglasses to be in their presence. And ear plugs. The talking never stops.
I groan just thinking about how little peace I’m going to get at Gold Rush Ranch.
I think about riding along the trails with my dad. I think about the way we laughed together, the way he smiled at me me, and his passion for horse racing. How happy he always looked when he saw me up on a horse, how happy I always was to spend time with him. And then, as I make the turn onto the side road that takes me there, I think about her.
That’s going to be trickier to deal with than the rest. I should have kept my cards closer. I shouldn’t have lost control like that. I could have maintained my anonymity. But when I saw the face that’s haunted me every night for the past year, the one I’ll never forget, all beaming and pure and carefree, I did what I always do.
I ruined it.
Pristine white paper, and I purposely knocked ink all over it. Black liquid oozing out, marring the unmarked page.
I’ve spent an entire year since that race avoiding her at all costs. I dropped an atomic bomb on the girl and then walked away. Very on-brand for me. You’re such a fucking dick.
My fingers pulse on the steering wheel, and my molars grind against each other as anxiety builds in my chest. I see the Gold Rush Ranch sign swaying on its chains just in front of the manicured tree-lined driveway. I snort. This place isn’t a ranch anymore. It’s a world-class horse racing facility and a far cry from what my grandparents started out with.
So much history.
I shouldn’t be coming out here to this place filled with memories that haunt me and people who don’t understand me. And who never will because I don’t plan to let them.
But I promised the board of directors at Gold Rush Resources, the other family company, that I would take the new acquisition we picked up in the next town over and turn it around. I told them I wouldn’t come back until it was running a profit. And in this moment, I can’t fathom why I’d have made a promise like that.
I pull into the circular driveway and look around at the property. I have to give it to Vaughn; the place is immaculate. The horses, the fencing, the flowers even. He took over a year ago now, and the place has flourished. I hate to admit there’s a little part of me that wishes he’d come back to the offices in downtown Vancouver. I kind of like having him around.
Instead, he started a whole new life for himself out here, and I’m almost envious of his ability to just completely recreate himself while I keep living in the same rut, snuggled up in the mud that spinning my tires has created.
My eyes flutter shut, and I take a deep, centering breath, the heel of my hand digging into my right thigh as I try to find some inner calm. Deep breathing is something my therapist recommended. I told her it sounded like hippie, New Age garbage. She just gave me a blank look—she knows me too well. Which means she probably knows I’ve secretly been trying it, and it’s working, so we won’t have to talk about it as a coping mechanism again.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Hey, big bro! You taking a nap? I know you’re old, but this is a bit much.”
If I pretend that Billie Black isn’t here, will she disappear? Like an annoying figment of my imagination I can wish away on command?
I pry my eyes open and slowly turn my gaze on her. I give her my best withering look. One that sends most people running. She just smiles back at me even bigger. Certifiable.
Billie barks out a laugh and turns away, waving me along. “When you’re back on your feet, Vaughn’s in his office.”
I already hate working at Gold Rush Ranch.
“YOU LOOK like you’re going to kill someone.”
I scowl back at Vaughn across his desk as I flop into a chair. “I feel like I might.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You know I don’t like it up here.”
“I do. But the new mine is in Hope . . . Why didn’t you look for a place there?”
I scrub my hand across my face. Vaughn has always been so full of questions. I remember him trailing after me asking them incessantly, and with five years between us, I wasn’t much into explaining things like why the letter c so often makes a k sound.
It seems unnecessarily cruel to tell him I tried every option available to me, only to find there’s not much in the way of long-term rentals in the small town. Seems like you either live there, or you don’t. And I wasn’t about to buy a house in a shitty town or stay with the cockroaches at the Motor Inn just to satisfy my promise to the board.
“This commute is pretty short. You’ve got an empty office here. Seemed like the obvious choice.” That should appease him.
Vaughn smirks. “Just admit it.”
I cross my arms over my chest, the only armor I have these days. “Admit what?”
“You missed me.” His cocky grin makes me want to lay him out and remind him who’s stronger. Instead, I just glare at him—my default expression.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You missed Billie.”
This time, I groan and look up at the ceiling. I love my job, I love my job, I love my job. Working in the spare office down the hall will be fine.
“You’re right. That’s not it . . . Oh! I know . . . ” From the corner of my eye I can see him lean forward on his elbows and steeple his hands in front of his mouth. “You missed Violet.”
Suddenly, the sound of my heart beats loud, like an overbearing drum pounding in my ears. It thumps through my entire body. Why the fuck would he guess that?
Years of military training mean I can look like I’m not reacting when I am. Which is why I stare back at him and deadpan, “Who?”
His intelligent gaze scans my face, amusement dancing in those eyes that remind me so much of our dad. He got the dark ones, and I got our mother’s light ones, and we both somehow lucked into our height—maybe that’s from Grandpa Dermot.
“Well,” he stands abruptly, and my shoulders drop incrementally when he completely changes the subject and says, “let’s get you settled in then.”
Vaughn leads me out to the parking lot and steps into his flashy Porsche. He may have given up on wearing suits every day, but he hasn’t gotten rid of this yet. “Why do you still drive this thing? You live in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere on a bunch of gravel roads.”
He hits me with his signature boyish grin. “Because it pisses Billie off.” And then he slams the door, and I’m left to keep up with him on the back roads. He drives like a maniac. It’s always seemed to me that everything is all fun and games for Vaughn. He’s thirty-one now and still gets a kick out of spraying gravel around the turns.
When we pull up to the blue farmhouse, I have to say I’m surprised. I expected to be relegated to the guest house, not the main house. The house our grandpa Dermot built. The house my dad grew up in.
My flight instincts kick in again. I should get out of here while I still can.
Stepping out of my black truck, I ask Vaughn, “Why aren’t you and Billie living in the main house?”
He fumbles through an overfull key chain. The disorganization of it makes my eye twitch.
“Billie likes the guesthouse. We started out there and just never left, I guess. You’ll have more room to storm around in here anyway.” He means the jab to be funny, but the blow lands with some weight. I hate that I come off this way.
When he slides his hand along the door and swings it open, I’m surprised to find the space updated from when I last stepped foot in the house. Light and airy, like it belongs in a Country Living magazine. All white and blue and exposed wood. And it smells clean. Like properly clean. Clean in a way that I don’t think my little brother can achieve.
I lean across the threshold and take a sniff of the lemony scent. Maybe even a little bleach. “Did you hire a cleaner?”
Vaughn just snorts. “No. Billie insisted on cleaning it for you.”
I quirk a brow at him as if to say, “Crazy Billie did this for me?” But really, my chest pinches at the thought that someone whom I haven’t tried very hard to endear myself to made the space this nice for me.
My brother just waves me off and walks into the house. With his shoes on. My teeth grind.
“Apparently, her house was a mess when she moved out here, and she’s never let me live it down. Plus, she’s been slowly updating this house as a side project. Said it needed a fresh start . . .”
I know he’s referring to the fact our grandparents lived here until each of their respective dying days. I loved them too, but Vaughn and our grandfather, Dermot, had a connection I couldn’t hold a candle to. One he almost blew his relationship with Billie over.
So, while this house reminds him of Dermot, it almost painfully floods me with memories of my dad. My idol, who I watched fall from a horse mid-race and never get back up. Vaughn was too when our father died to tie memories of him to this place, whereas every damn thing at the ranch reminds me of him.
I clear my throat, forcing myself off that train of thought. “She’s done a nice job.”
Vaughn’s eyes bug out a bit, like I’ve shocked him by complimenting his fiancée. Am I really so bad?
“I’ll let her know,” he replies with a funny look on his face. “And Cole, if you ever want to . . . I don’t know, get a beer or something, let me know. I’d be game for that. You don’t have to hole up alone out here.”
I stare back at him, seeing the forlorn kid I left behind when I boarded the plane and took off to basic training. I’ve never known how to apologize to him for leaving, and maybe I don’t need to, but feeling like I should has always left me uncomfortable around Vaughn. I’d like to be close with him, but that probably means hashing out things I prefer to avoid. Pretty sure my therapist’s ears are ringing right now.
Speaking of which, I lift my wrist to check my watch. “I have a call I need to take right away, but maybe some other time.” I don’t miss the way my brother’s shoulders drop as I turn to grab my bags from the truck. Would it have killed you to say yes to a beer?
He waltzes out behind me, that easy smile gracing his face again, and I’m momentarily jealous of his ability to recover quickly, the way shit just rolls off him while it seems to stick all over me.
“Catch you later!” he calls out as he slips his shades on and folds himself into his silly little car.
I grunt back and offer a terse wave, feeling acutely aware of how growly I am. How different we are.
With the door closed, I walk upstairs to the master bedroom to unpack, and I won’t lie, I’m relieved to find it just as meticulous as downstairs. They painted the room in soft grays and warm whites. It’s a little feminine, but it feels fresh. I even crack a small smile when I see the way Billie has turned down the covers and left a chocolate on my pillow. She is truly ridiculous.
I fold my clothes into the dresser carefully and lay everything out in the ensuite specifically how I like it. Straight. Organized. And a bit OCD about placement. Some habits you pick up in the military never leave you.
When my phone rings, I sink onto the oak rocking chair in the corner and swipe to accept the video call. My therapist’s small, heavily-lined face fills the screen like she’s peering through a pair of binoculars or something. The lenses of her bifocals are so thick they look like magnifying glasses over her eyes as she furrows her brow at the phone as though it’s performing some sort of sorcery. A stack of silver bracelets jangle on her wrist as she tries to hold it out in different positions.
“Cole, I’m not so sure about this. I don’t look good from any angle on this thing,” she muses distractedly, poofing her hair with a small, wrinkled hand.
“Hello, Beatrice,” I reply, not caring about my seventy-something-year-old therapist’s angles.
She tuts me as she settles back in her chair. “I’ve been talking to you for two years. I’m tired of telling you to call me Trixie.”
I stifle the shudder that runs down my spine. There’s just something about calling a grown woman Trixie that feels wrong to me, and I kind of enjoy ribbing her, to be honest.
One side of my cheek quirks up as I stare back at the screen. Her office differs from every other therapist’s I’ve seen over the years. She sees patients in the comfort of her early 1900s-character home. Persian rugs blanket the old oak floors, plants thrive on stands in every corner, crystals dangle in the big windows, and art from her decades of international travel cover the walls. I swear I can smell the patchouli oil she diffuses through the screen of my phone.
Yes, Trixie Bentham is a funny old hippie. She couldn’t be more opposite from me or my family. But she’s also the only therapist I’ve ever had that has gotten through to me. So, I keep coming back, because as detached as I might be, I also know I need this therapy. Which is why she agreed to do video appointments with me while I’m out being a country bumpkin.
“Want me to tell you how I’m doing? About how all I see out here are memories of my dead dad?”
She quirks her head and smiles. “I don’t know, dear. Is that what you’d like to tell me about?”
Ah, the rhetorical question game. One of my favorites. I just stare back at her, which never works, but I do it anyway.
Except today she cackles, all raspy and amused, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and whispers conspiratorially, “Have you run into the girl yet?”
“What girl?” I’m intentionally playing stupid.
She laughs again. “The one you can’t stop talking about.”
