Three days later, I stand at the kitchen sink and soak in the guitar chords drifting through the open window.
The view of the ranch from here gets me every time. The rolling green meadows, grazing cattle, sparkling ponds—the rawness of the landscape imprints itself on the soul.
But it pales in comparison to the mesmerizing girl on the back porch.
Conor sits sideways on the steps, red hair swaying around her angelic face as she evokes powerful emotion with strings and wood. Eyes closed, she strums rhythmically, quietly singing Mile On The Moon by Sarah Jarosz.
Since that night, she’s been zoned out on songs with thematic threads of sorrow and feeling lost. I don’t pretend to understand the depth of hurt that’s been done to her or what she needs to heal. If it had been me in that ravine enduring what she did, I’m not sure I’d ever leave my bed.
That’s the difference between her and me. She’s stronger, more resilient, and she’ll overcome the physical trauma without complaining about the pain. Maybe she doesn’t need me hovering over her like a mother hen. But I need it. I need her to know she’s not alone.
So when she’s in her room, I pace outside her door. I sit in the hall. I knock and demand to fetch things for her. Then I pace some more. When she emerges, I follow her, hold her, listen to her, and feed her. She won’t eat, but I make the food. And I’ll keep making it. I don’t know what else to do.
I grab the orange juice with my bandaged hand and a plate of scrambled eggs with the other. Halfway to the door, I remember the toast. Circling back, I pull the slice from the toaster with my teeth and head to the porch.
I know Conor hasn’t mentally dealt with what happened to her. Hell, I’m still struggling with the feelings that haunt me day and night. With Wyatt dead and Lorne in jail, she and everyone else is too wrapped up in the impending trial to address her emotional wellbeing.
Has her dad even said two words to her? He has plenty to say to my dad. Dalton and John spent most of the last three days behind closed doors. When they emerge, bitter tension chokes the house. Whatever’s going on between them isn’t friendly.
With my hands full and the toast between my teeth, I work the back door with elbows and boots and step onto the porch.
The guitar falls quiet, and she peers at me from beneath her lashes. “Where did Dad find that attorney, anyway? He isn’t from around here.”
Evidently, I walked in on a conversation she’s been having in her head. I sit on the step above her.
“Shouldn’t Lorne be out on bail?” She grabs the toast from my mouth and waves it around. “I haven’t heard shit about a plea deal, and my dad won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me about the trial. Swear to God, Jake, every minute Lorne spends behind bars breaks me a little more.”
Conor Cassidy doesn’t break, but I feel her frustration and worry. All this has been eating at me, too.
I set her breakfast at her feet and position her to sit between my legs, one step down and facing the open grassland. Jarret’s been out there before dawn every day, covering the workload for Lorne, Conor, and me. He volunteered for the extra shifts to keep his mind off things, but I intend to pull my weight today. After I take care of Conor.
“Deep breaths. In and out.” I lean over her from behind and rub the muscles above her breasts, working upward to massage her shoulders and the curve of her neck.
She sleeps in my t-shirts and still wears one now. It swallows her tiny frame like a potato sack, brushing her knees and hanging off one shoulder. Seeing her in my clothes fills me with possessiveness. Soothing her with my hands injects shots of rightness through my blood.
“That’s so good.” Her head falls back, and she drapes her arms over my knees, the toast forgotten in her grip.
I stop.
She twists her neck to squint at me. “Why did you—?
“Eat.”
Her eyes slide to the toast, squinting harder. I know her stomach’s too twisted up to acknowledge hunger. I expect her to refuse. So when she takes a hearty bite, I mentally fist pump.
Pushing my luck, I nudge the plate of eggs with my boot. “All of it.”
“Fine.”
She eats, and I massage. She hums, and I idly stroke her hair. Together, we watch the sun climb and think about Lorne.
Curling up in the V of my legs, she hooks her arms around my thigh. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I did some research online.”
“I did, too.” Her nails bite into my denim-clad leg. “It’s all…too much to take in. Maybe I just can’t focus right now. What did you find?”
I read about homicide cases similar to Lorne’s, and the verdicts make my chest so tight I can’t breathe. “It’s too early to—”
“I need honesty. Please. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
With my arms bracketing her from behind, I lean closer and hover my mouth over her bare shoulder. She smells so sweet I ache to taste her skin.
Focus, Jake.
I clear my throat. “He shot two men. Since the first one was in self-defense, it’s negligible. The prosecutor will go after the biggest charge. With Wyatt, Lorne acted in the heat of passion. It wasn’t premeditated or coldblooded. If they see it that way, he’s looking at manslaughter.” I rub the sudden stiffness in her arms. “It’s better than first-degree murder. Minimum sentence for manslaughter is ten years.”
Her chin trembles, and the auburn crescents of her lashes spread over her cheekbones, hiding the torment in her eyes.
I decide not to mention the 85 Percent Rule, which would require Lorne to serve at least 8.5 years before he can even be considered for parole.
That’s the best-case scenario. Since he used a deadly weapon, he could face life in prison. How much has he admitted to the detectives? Do they know he rode out to the pasture with the intent to kill a man?
Levi Tibbs. I now have the name of the motherfucker we let live.
I flex the hand wrapped in gauze, anticipating the eventual scar. All four of us will carry that scar and never forget the blood oath we made. In the meantime, I will plan and wait with godlike patience.
Levi Tibbs sits behind bars on charges of rape and aggravated assault. Turns out, he and his dead accomplice came from Oregon, with mile-long criminal records and outstanding warrants. Apparently, they were on the run when they spotted Conor in town earlier that day and followed her home.
It sickens me that she blames herself. As if she deliberately attracted those men and caused Lorne’s arrest. We argued about this yesterday, and I vehemently reminded her that she saved my ass. If she hadn’t broken through my fog of rage that night, I’d be in jail right now, facing murder charges.
I brush my nose along the soft skin on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything? More food? A book from your room? Sunblock?”
If she sits out here much longer, her skin will burn.
“My legs aren’t broken, Jake.” She turns her head toward me and kisses my cheek. “I miss Ketchup.”
Her black mare. She was twelve when we got our own horses. I let her name mine Barnabe and thought it was the worst name ever until she announced, “I’ll call mine Ketchup, because I’ll always be in the lead, shouting, Catch up!”
“What did the doctor say about riding?” I ask.
“I’m on restriction for four weeks.” Her sigh brushes my cheek, and she leans back against my chest. “I’ll bring her some apples today and hang out with her in the stable.”
“She’ll like that.”
Outside her bond with Ketchup, Conor doesn’t have female friendships. Maybe because she grew up with three boys. Or maybe because she didn’t have the softer influence of a mother in her life.
I’ve never seen paint on her nails or cakey goop on her face like the girls wear at school. Her wild mane of red hair doesn’t come from a box or a salon. It’s all hers, and when it’s caught in the wind, she looks like a mystical goddess.
It’s so easy to be besotted with her. I don’t care if that makes me pussy-whipped. Let the haters burn with jealousy, because the hottest girl alive only has eyes for me.
“You’re beautiful.” I ghost a kiss against her neck.
“Me?”
“You.”
The screen door opens behind us. Footsteps creak the wood decking, and the door slams shut.
“Jake.” My dad’s irritated tone stiffens my shoulders. “Come here.”
I twist my neck to glare at him. “What?”
He stalks forward, dressed in a black suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, white Stetson on his head, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. No tie. I’m not sure he owns one.
His deep-wrinkled scowl fits the occasion. Wyatt Longley’s funeral is today, and he’s the only one in our household brazen enough to attend.
His polished boots pause at the top stair, and he towers over us looking for all the world like a pissed-off oil baron. “Conor, go inside and put some clothes on.”
What the fuck? The shirt hangs past her knees and completely hides the shape of her body.
My hackles bristle, snapping my voice. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“It’s okay.” She grabs the guitar and breakfast dishes. “I need to take a shower.”
She slinks by my dad, chin tucked and eyes lowered in a way that fuels my anger. She’s always been respectful toward him, but lately, he hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it.
When she steps inside and closes the door behind her, I stand, putting myself at his height.
He was an attractive man once. Maybe he still is, but the years have multiplied the lines on his face and sagged the disapproving scowl that’s become his permanent expression.
“What’s your problem?” I clench my hands at my sides.
“Watch your tone.” His voice shudders the air between us as he leans into it. “I told you to stay away from her. Especially now. Last thing she needs is you knocking her up.”
“Jesus, Dad.” My eyes bug. “She needs her friends. Her family. She needs all of us.”
“We’re here for her, but there’s going to be some changes around here. You kids are grown, and the house is getting cramped.”
My stomach hardens. “What do you mean?”
The house is eight-thousand square feet. The main kitchen and living space separates two massive wings—a Cassidy wing and a Holsten wing—totaling eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. It’s more space than six people know what to do with.
“What changes?” I ask.
“We’ll continue this later.” He glances at his watch. “I’m late.” Turning toward the door, he glances over his shoulder. “I need you in the field today. Your brother’s not keeping up with the chores.”
Pinching the brim of his hat, he tips it like he always does and disappears inside the house.
Why is he even going to the funeral? The murder’s all over the news, making Lorne out to be a stone-cold killer. Sandbank doesn’t get this kind of excitement and can’t accommodate the media circus that’s flooded in. Thankfully, no one’s tried to trespass on our property.
I head inside just as my dad steps out the front door. Making a beeline toward the Cassidy wing, I pass the formal dining room, sitting room, and gaming area. Reclaimed hardwood, dark leather, and chunky, roughly-finished furniture gives the spacious rooms a rustic, masculine feel.
Our dads built this house, but the ten-thousand acres belonged to Conor’s mom, Ava O’Conor. She was an only child and barely an adult when her parents died and left her the land. Her best friend, Julep, stayed at her side while she grieved, helped her manage the farm finances and turn it into the cattle operation it is today.
In return, Conor’s mom gave Julep half of the business shares and named the ranch after her.
Julep was my mother.
Our fathers didn’t know each other before they married Ava and Julep. Their friendship came after, if I can call it that. They inherited the ranch when our mothers died, which makes them more like business partners. And co-parents, I guess, since they raised the four of us together.
I hit the hall to Conor’s bedroom, passing her dad’s office and bedroom. Both empty. He must’ve left the house before I woke, because I haven’t seen him.
The door to Conor’s room hangs open. Since our dads aren’t home, I don’t hesitate to enter. The sound of water in pipes draws me toward her bathroom door.
I step over her square toe boots and trail fingers along the guitar on her bed, surrounded by an explosion of color on the canvas covered walls. She collects impressionist paintings of horses, and I’ve indulged her over the years, buying up artwork to add to her room.
At the bathroom door, I touch my forehead to the wood. Then my palm. My breath. Tim McGraw croons Highway Don’t Care from within, accompanied by Conor’s velvety hum.
Is she already in the shower?
Three days ago, I would’ve walked in without knocking. But now… Would she hide her body from me? Intimacy between us is understandably on hold, but I don’t want to put space between us.
For the first time in my life, I don’t know how to proceed with her.
With a heavy exhale, I raise my fist and knock. “Conor?”
The door cracks open, releasing a cloud of steam. The song plays from her phone on the counter. The shower sputters behind her, and she peers up at me, hair still dry and a towel wrapped around her body.
I wait for her to open the door wider. She doesn’t.
“What are you doing?” She clutches the towel against her chest. “Your dad…”
“I’m sorry about earlier. He’s…” Stressed out? Worried? A crusty, uptight asshole? I refuse to make excuses for him. “He’s not here.”
She pinches her lips and doesn’t open the door.
“Just wanted to check on you.” I trace the slender shape of her face and slide my thumb across her bottom lip. “I have to head out to the field.”
“Wish I could help.” Her mouth moves against my touch, tightening my groin.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“’kay.”
Leaving her alone goes against every instinct inside me. I lean down and steal a quick kiss from her lips. Then I force my boots to move, out of her room, out of the house, and straight into the toils of raising cattle.
For the next eight hours, I submerge myself in backbreaking chores, repairing irrigation ditches, moving cattle from pasture to pasture, and tending to haying equipment.
When the sun finally sags behind the ridge, thoughts of seeing Conor rejuvenates fatigued muscles.
Barnabe’s arched neck bobs gracefully with his ambling gait as I guide him along the fence line, looking for holes where cattle can escape or predators can enter.
Jarret rides alongside me, listening to my recap of the conversation I had with Dad this morning.
“The house isn’t too small.” He wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his bandaged hand. “Maybe he’s going to put a padlock on her door or hang security cameras or some shit.”
“What the fuck for?”
“To keep you from populating the house with Holsten babies.”
“That’s horse shit.” I clench my hands around Barnabe’s reins. “It’ll be a long damn time before we can even think about sex.”
“I know that. You know that. But he’s had a rude awakening. He knows why you were in the ravine that night, and Dalton’s too distracted with Lorne to keep his daughter out of your bed. Dad knows it’s only a matter of time before you sneak off with her again.”
“He can’t keep us apart.” Conviction hardens my voice, sharp and solid.
“As long as you’re under his roof, he’ll try.”
And he’ll fail. She needs time, but the moment she doesn’t, the very second she’s ready to finish what we started, I’ll be on her, in her, devouring her little sounds as I sink between her legs.
My shirt clings to my chest with sweat. I lift the Stetson from my head and run a rag over my damp hair as the sound of an approaching horse reaches my ears.
I turn Barnabe toward the noise, eyes on the horizon, expecting one of the ranch hands.
Ketchup bursts over the hill, racing toward me at a full gallop with Conor in the saddle. Unruly locks of red whip around Conor’s face, and she hugs in tight, increasing speed. What the fuck is she doing?
“She’s not supposed to be in the saddle.” Jarret dismounts and steps forward.
“No, she’s fucking not.” I join him on the ground, muscles tensing to punish her forty ways to Sunday.
Ketchup pulls up beside me, and I grab the bridle near her snorting snout, holding her still.
The moment I meet Conor’s red-rimmed eyes, my anger spirals into dread. “What happened?”
“He’s taking me away!” Her hoarse words explode inside a sob, and she slides off the horse and into my arms.
“What? Who?” My blood runs cold as I cradle her face, searching for the source of her distress.
“Dad. He…he brought movers this morning, and they packed up his room and my room, and I tried to stop them, and Dad lost his temper, and Oh, God, Jake, he’s so mad. We fought, screaming and shouting like you wouldn’t believe, and he won’t listen. He won’t—” A deep, shuddering inhale loosens the tears in her eyes. They streak down her face and slice up my heart. “He wasn’t going to let me say good-bye. So I ran. Straight to the stable. To Ketchup. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Slow down. You’re not going anywhere.” I pull her tight against me and find Jarret’s wide eyes over her head. “Why on earth would he move off the ranch?”
“He’s moving us to Chicago, Jake!” She holds me in a death grip, angling her neck back to see my face.
Dalton’s from Chicago, but he doesn’t have any family left there. Maybe it’s a temporary move?
“Just for the summer?” My question rasps from a dry mouth.
“Permanently. He sold his shares of the ranch to your dad.”
My insides turn to steel, my throat a clenched fist. “It’s your mom’s ranch. Your inheritance. He wouldn’t sell it.”
The rumble of engines sounds in the distance, jacking my pulse.
“He’s coming.” She twists toward the horizon, every muscle in her body strung taut. “We’re leaving—”
“No. Fuck that.” With my hands on her face, I crush my mouth to hers, my insides an inferno of desperation.
My arm hooks around her back, my fingers stabbing in her snarled hair, pulling, holding, seeking certainty in the only place I’ll find it. She’s my home, and I’ll never let her go. It’s not even in the scope of possibilities.
“Doesn’t make sense.” Jarret paces around us. “Your dad wouldn’t leave Lorne. Not now.”
She breaks the kiss, shivering in the humid air. “He said I can’t go to school here after what happened and doesn’t want me around during Lorne’s trial and c-c-conviction.” A sobbing hiccup chops her voice. “He’s giving up on Lorne. Called him a murderer.” She slaps at her tears, gritting her teeth. “How can he say that about his own son?”
My mind spins, analyzing and rejecting every word. But I can’t deny Dalton’s recent coldness or the tension between him and my dad.
There’s going to be some changes around here.
They were planning this. Making arrangements. Dalton Cassidy intends to take my girl from me.
Fear jolts down my spine. I gather the whole of my existence in my arms and hug her tight, protecting what’s mine, freezing the moment, and shaking to the depth of my core.
Headlights sweep across the graying sky. Tires crunch across rugged terrain, and three trucks bounce over the hill, charging toward us. I feel her slipping through my fingers and squeeze her harder.
“Jake.” Her hands reach, gripping and pulling on my shoulders as she lifts on tiptoes. “No matter what, we stay together. Miles, months, cities, years…” Her breath strangles. “We’re bigger than anything that tries to come between us.”
A car door opens and shuts. The tread of boots advances.
She’s already accepted this. It’s in the droop of her posture, the silent fall of tears on her cheeks, and the release of her fingers on my shoulders.
I’m not anywhere close to acceptance. I never will be.
“I don’t want any trouble from you boys.” Dalton Cassidy pauses ten feet away.
A horde of beefy ranch hands climb out of the other trucks and close in. Dalton brought reinforcements.
“What’s going on?” Jarret steps between Conor and the advancing men.
“Conor and I are starting over.” Dalton hooks a thumb beneath his belt buckle, his hat gone, revealing a sheen of sweat on his balding head. “I’m sure she told you.” He waves a hand toward the truck. “Let’s go, Conor.”
“Remember, Jake.” Huge broken-glass eyes stare up at me. Lashes red as the sunset. Soft, tear-soaked lips press to mine, floods my mouth with salt and anguish. “No matter what.”
“No, I don’t accept this!” I grip her face, shouting loud enough for the world to hear. “I’m not letting go!”
She grips me right back, holding our mouths together. We exchange breaths, hanging on heartbeats and losing our footing as our life rips apart in a whirlwind of arms.
Four men grab Jarret and me, yelling and pulling, as another one wrenches Conor from my grasp.
“No! Stop!” She thrashes against the unbending arms. “You’re hurting them!”
“Conor!” I fight one off, but another one tackles me to the ground, pinning me with a body twice my size. “Let go of her!”
“Get her in the truck.” Dalton strides away, following the man restraining Conor.
The sounds of her cries swamp my lungs with red-hot agony. I release the pain with a roar, bucking and kicking at the girth that weighs me down. Beside me, Jarret falls to the dirt beneath two men, wrestling and screaming for Conor.
Arms shove her into Dalton’s pickup truck, and her screams reach a fevered pitch. “I love him! You can’t do this! I love—”
The doors shut, deadening her cries.
“Oh, God, No! Wait! Conorrrrr!” I claw at the ground as urgency seizes my lungs. There’s too much weight. I’m overpowered. Can’t breathe. Can’t get to her. “Get off me! Let me go!”
Her fists pound the window as the truck lurches into motion, taking her away.
Why is he doing this? She’ll be alone, more lost than ever. Her mental state’s already in shambles. How will she heal without the support and comfort of home?
She won’t.
Agony lances like a thousand blades, gutting me from all sides. Men shift against my back, pressing me down. Jarret twists beneath two others, shouting incoherently.
Tires spin, and the truck speeds away, leaving me face down in the dirt. Flayed apart, spilling devastation in thick streams of tears. Trapped, frantic, shattered to the bone. And livid.
The stink of sweat and fury scorches the air and clouds my vision. I curl my fingers, grabbing fistfuls of violent rage.
When the truck vanishes over the hill, the field falls still. No shouting. No engines. No light. Only my broken whisper, hacking through the thunder in my head.
“I failed her again.”
My heart drowns in the carnage.
She’s gone.