by Pam Godwin
“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.
FIVE
Conor
Starting over started with the back of my dad’s hand across my face. The gush of blood from my nose did exactly what it was meant to do. I stopped trying to jump out of the truck. Stopped begging him to turn around. Stopped asking questions.
It was the first time he ever struck me out of anger.
But it wasn’t the last.
That was three months ago.
“This is for me only, so I can reach you when I need to.” Dad tosses a cheap cell phone on the kitchen counter in our high-rise apartment. “No out-of-town calls.”
His subtext rings loud and clear. No calls to Jake and Jarret.
He made sure my phone and laptop didn’t make the trip to Chicago. But he doesn’t know about the cash I stole from his wallet the week we moved here. Doesn’t know about the phone I bought with it. Doesn’t know that every number I have for Jake, Jarret, and John Holsten has been disconnected since I left.
Or maybe he does know, and he’s just taunting me.
Cruelty has become his coping mechanism. And whiskey. When they both take the reins, I don’t recognize my father.
“I need a car.” I pocket the phone and cross my arms. “I won’t be able to walk in the snow.”
School started this week, but that’s not why I want transportation.
I’m stranded on a concrete island. The air stinks of exhaust and asphalt. Glass and steel blot out the sky. And the noise… I don’t know how city dwellers walk down the street without flinching at the blare of traffic and shouting and sirens.
Maybe Chicago is a nice place, but I’ve never lived in a big city. The air doesn’t smell clean. The food comes in paper boxes. The rhythm of life is too fast and impatient, and the constant din pounds inside my chest, making me feel unhinged and off-kilter.
I ache to go home.
I miss Ketchup.
I need Jake.
It’s been three months, and I haven’t spoken to anyone in Oklahoma. The unbearable isolation is making a meal of my guts, hollowing me out piece by piece.
With the advancement of technology, 928 miles should’ve been insignificant. But Jake and Jarret changed their numbers, and they’re not on social media. The emails I send go unanswered. Same with my handwritten letters.
I went so far as calling local businesses in Sandbank—the diner, post office, bank, and hardware store—and left my new number with the owners, asking that they pass it along when the Holstens stop in.
And still nothing.
Since my dad is alienating me, the same must be true with John Holsten. He’s somehow prevented Jake
and Jarret from contacting me. But why?
It still doesn’t make sense why Dad left home. He wants to start over? He’s too ashamed to show his face in Sandbank? There must be another reason. And what’s John’s motivation in this? Severing contact with the only family I’ve ever known is driving me into a black hole with only my self-destructive thoughts to keep me company.
“It’ll be months before it snows here.” Dad hooks a finger around the bottle of whiskey on the counter. “When it does, you can take public transportation.”
He carries the bottle into the sitting room and unscrews the cap. It’s not even eight in the morning.
While the cabinets overflow with alcohol, there’s little else filling the apartment. Minimalistic furnishings shove against barren walls. A couch, TV, coffee maker, and breakfast bar for two. No dining room. No family dinners. No family.
The two bedrooms are just as empty and plain. He hasn’t bothered with warmth or decoration, and he shuts down my suggestions to add a rug, a lamp, anything. Because he doesn’t want to be here. He’s just as miserable as I am.
I follow him into the sitting room, glaring at his slumped, robe-clad back. “I want to visit Lorne.”
He goes still, shoulders stiff, and sets the whiskey on the side table in a calm, controlled movement. Too calm.
I step back, hugging my waist.
“Oklahoma is off limits.” His tone cuts like a knife, but there’s a trace of pain dulling the edges. “You will not go there. You will not contact anyone at the ranch. And you will not mention your brother again.”
He won’t even look at me.
A debilitating ache sears my chest. A septic, twisted, uncontrollable ache. I can’t breathe through it. My face scrunches up, and my hands ball into fists, clenching to smash his head in.
I don’t care if he’s turned his back on me. How can he do this to Lorne?
After my brother was arrested, he remained in custody in lieu of bonds totaling three-hundred-thousand dollars, which my dad refused to pay. Dad also refused to attend his hearings, no matter how much I begged.
I wasn’t there for Lorne when he needed me.
