Jase didn’t have a fucking clue how he’d ended up here.

Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. He knew exactly how he’d ended up here, he just wasn’t too clear on the why of it.

Or how much time had passed since he’d left the clubhouse, or even what day it was, for that matter.

Just that he was here in Wyoming, in his hometown, parked in front of his childhood home, trying to recall the last time he’d been here. Then it dawned on him… He hadn’t been back home since Chrissy had gone to trial, and he’d been too much of a mess to take care of the girls. After that they’d bounced between Chrissy’s parents and his own for a while, until eventually he got his shit together, at least for the most part.

But by then it was too late, and he’d failed them all.

Ashamed of himself, of the gossip that the shooting had brought down upon his parents in their own town, and not wanting to make it worse for them, he hadn’t been home since.

And now for some reason he was home, and completely at a loss for what to do next.

Did he go to the door? Announce himself? Yeah, that would go over really well.

Hi, Mom and Dad, how was your Christmas? Bet you’re glad to see the son who disappointed the fuck out of you, and ruined your grandchildren’s lives. Hope you don’t mind the stench of vomit and booze all over me.

Or did he drive away? Go back to Montana and leave well enough alone?

Go back to what exactly? The club that pitied him? The woman who had officially said her good-byes?

And goddamn, did that still hurt like a bitch.

Whatever. He needed a drink, a little something to clear his head, and then he’d sort out what the fuck he was going to do. Leaning down, he reached for the bottle of liquor that had fallen off the passenger seat and onto the floor, when a knock on the driver’s side window brought him flying back into an upright position.

Shit.

Walter Brady had aged about as well as everyone had expected. A cowboy through and through, his heavily muscled stature could be attributed to the prolific rodeo rider he once was, but the rotund belly he’d developed over the years was the result of blue-collar factory work after retiring from the rodeo, and his wife’s excellent cooking. The thinning gray hair on his head, the many lines on his face, and his drooping features gave the impression he hadn’t had an easy life, but anyone who knew him would know that while it might have been a struggle at times, it had been a fulfilling one. In his early twenties, at the peak of his career, Walter had married Doreen Davies—a young buckle bunny, a rodeo groupie who’d been smitten with him—and not because of an unplanned pregnancy, but because he’d loved her. After a back injury that ended his rodeo career, together they’d worked hard to make a new life for themselves, and a home they could be proud of.

They’d filled that home with three sons and two daughters, the scent of home-cooked meals, and the sound of laughter. And for the most part, their children had made them proud—they had all eked out an honest living, were all married and filling nearby homes with children of their own.

All but one. Him. Smack dab in the middle of the brood, Jase had failed his parents’ every expectation, and then made up a few of his own just so he could cross a couple more failures off his epic list.

Taking a deep breath, he rolled down the window. “Dad,” he said, nodding at the man.

His father’s frown stayed in place as he looked him over. “You make a habit of parking on people’s lawns?”

Surprised, Jase glanced out the windshield, then to the passenger side window, noticing for the first time that he had in fact missed the driveway entirely. Thankfully, in his hometown, your closest neighbor was at least a couple of miles down the road, and no one but his parents had seen him making a fool of himself. Not that anyone would be surprised by it.

Feeling like teenager caught with his pants down, he sheepishly turned back to face his father. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I, uh, I’m sorry. The snow kinda hid it. I didn’t . . . uh—”

“Scoot on over,” Walter said, interrupting him. “Don’t need you making a worse job of this.”

“Maybe I should go,” he mumbled.

“Go where,” Walter demanded. “You’re drunker then a damn skunk. You ain’t going anywhere until you get some food in you and sleep it off.”

“I don’t want to upset Mama,” he whispered, once again feeling like an errant child.

“Too damn late for that. Who ya think woke me up to come bring you on in?” Reaching through the open window, his father popped the lock, then wrenched the door open and climbed inside, forcing Jase to either move over or get sat upon.

“Jesus, Jason, something die in here?” His father, his facial expression pinched with disgust, glanced around the cab of the truck, coming to a stop on Jase’s lap and the vomit covering his pants.

Jase momentarily thought of covering the stain before his father could see, but what the fuck for? The damage was already done. Not only had he parked on his parents’ front lawn, but his dad had his number. The old man always had. Walter Brady was infamous for calling people out on their bullshit and rubbing it in their faces.

And since Jase knew that better than most, again . . . why the fuck was he here?

Cursing and shaking his head, his father put the truck in gear and began to back up into the street. Once the truck was parked in the driveway, tucked neatly behind his mother’s four-door sedan and beside his father’s truck, he glanced over at his father, unsure of what to do next.

“Best git on inside the damn house before that food she’s cooking you gets cold.” His father gestured impatiently toward the house before pocketing the keys and exiting the truck. When Jase still had yet to do so, wondering again if coming here had been a mistake, his father began banging needlessly on the passenger side window.

“Don’t make me tell you twice, son!”

With a heavy sigh, Jase pushed open the door. Vertigo hit him hard as he tried to step down, and he would have fallen on his ass had his father not caught him around the waist and dragged him back upright. Embarrassed, he cursed and spun out of his father’s grip, sending his fist into the door of the truck. The metal dented under the impact, and too late he realized that this wasn’t his truck, but Cage’s.

“Fuck,” he shouted, clutching his throbbing fist.

“Hey now!” Grabbing his arms, his father yanked him backward, quickly tucking him into his side before he could stumble again. Keeping one arm looped around Jase’s waist, he started them for the door.

“It could be worse, son,” Walter muttered as he guided him up the porch steps. “You just remember that, it could always be worse.”

“It couldn’t,” Jase slurred, suddenly feeling a whole lot drunker than he had only moments ago. “I fucked it all up, everything, everyone. I made a holy fuckin’ mess.”

“Don’t be blasphemous in front of your mama, now.”

The door opened just as they reached it and standing behind the screen was Jase’s mother. Unlike Walter, Doreen had aged gracefully. Her long gray and white hair was still thick with curls, her delicate features remained intact despite the many wrinkles that had taken up residence over the years. And her eyes, his favorite feature on her kind face, were still as big and as blue as ever.

“The prodigal son returns,” Walter announced flatly.

Her expression was a mixture of happiness and sadness, her eyes filling even as she tried to smile. “Jason,” she said tearfully, pushing open the screen door and holding out her arms.

“He’s covered in his own mess,” Walter grumbled.

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “He’s my son.”

His father had to help him up the remaining step, and then he was in the house, the smells of home enveloping him as his mother’s arms wrapped tightly around him.

Jase couldn’t help it, he broke down, because apparently that was what he did now, he cried. All the damn time.

“Shhh,” she said, hushing him while rubbing his back. “There ain’t nothing wrong that we can’t fix, you hear me? Nothing wrong that we can’t fix.”

He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t mind the comfort either.

Guiding him to the bench in the hall, she helped him sit before sinking to her knees and starting on his boots.

“No, Mama,” he said, bending down only to get swatted away.

“Gimme that vest of yours,” Walter said, already pulling it from his shoulders. “Coat too.”

About to hang both up on the coat rack, his father turned back to him, his brow raised. “Deuce know you’re here?”

Jase shook his head. In fact, no one knew because he had no idea where his cell phone was. Probably in his room at the club where’d he’d last seen it. Lot of good it did him there. He could only imagine Deuce’s face when he tried to call him and found his phone in his room.

“All right then. I’ll be givin’ him a call while your mama does whatever it is she’s doin’.”

“Don’t tell him everything,” Jase called after him.

“I won’t,” he yelled back. “But Deuce is a smart man, pretty sure he’ll be able to fill in the blanks.”

Jase sank back against the bench, feeling another wave of worthlessness slide through him.

“Jason?”

“Hmm?”

“Jason, look at me.”

His energy quickly waning, Jase used every last bit of it to straighten his neck and look at his mother.

“You’re a Brady, aren’t you?”

Oh, fuck him in the ass with a goddamned fork, it was the Brady family speech.

“Yeah, Mama,” he muttered. “I’m a Brady.”

“And what do Bradys do?”

“Beer, barbeque, and rodeo?”

“Jason . . .” His mother’s tone was that of a warning, and Jase fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Bradys love each other,” she snapped. “Bradys show respect for one another. Bradys work hard, Bradys are honest, and Bradys do their best.”

“Mama,” he said. “I’ve fucked up every single one of those at one point or another, some more than once.”

“Last one,” she continued, ignoring him. “What is it, Jason?”

Swallowing back the quickly forming lump in his throat, he looked off down the hallway to where he could see his father talking on the old rotary phone. He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could only imagine what Deuce was telling him. The thought of them swapping stories made him cringe.

He turned back to his mother. “Bradys forgive each other.”

Smiling, she gave him a quick pat on the knee, finished pulling his boot off, and then went to work on the other.

“The girls won’t forgive me,” he whispered.

His mother didn’t even bother looking up. “They will,” she said. “They’re Bradys. And Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you dare curse in my house again.”