Shattered

by Cora York

  Shattered Copyright © 2019 by Cora York. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Cora York

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cora York

  Visit my website at www.corayork.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: October 2019

  SHATTERED

  Alpha Men of Shady Peaks Book 2

  Cora York

  Forever from First Sight

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Montana

  Ten months, two days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes since I last had a drink.

  One minute and zero seconds since I last thought about getting shit-faced, black-out, don’t-remember-a-damn-thing drunk, but I wouldn’t give in to the craving. I’d clawed my way out of hell, and I wasn’t going back.

  When I reached Lookout Point, I stopped to admire the Smokies in their full summer glory. When Blake Shelton sang about God’s Country, he must have been singing about Tennessee. Living here was like living in a postcard that not only changed with the passing seasons but every day.

  Stopping for a few minutes to take in the view had become part of my daily routine. Halfway between the main ranch house and my cabin, I would stick in my earbuds, jack up the volume, and Google my name.

  I didn’t search for myself because I was narcissistic or self-obsessed, not at all. If I had to put a name on it, I would have said I was a masochist because I relished reading all the horrible things people wrote about me online. It was an itch I could never fully scratch, but scratching it felt oh, so good. The hate-filled comments and articles confirmed I was all the things my mom had called me:

  Useless.

  Worthless.

  Pointless piece of piss.

  Over two million hits came back when I typed in Montana Chambers Meltdown. The backlash was still in full effect. Radio stations still refused to play my music. Ex-fans still made videos of themselves ripping up my posters. And gossip sites still speculated about my whereabouts. Most said I was in a mental facility.

  At the grand old age of twenty-six, my career was over. I was nothing but a washed-up singer, and I had no one but myself to blame.

  I deserved every single bit of vicious vitriol thrown my way, and I could confirm, Karma was indeed a bitch. How did the saying go? Be nice to people on the way up because you’ll meet them on the way down. Those people were now gleefully kicking me where it hurt.

  From my early teens, I’d been chemically dependent on liquor. Not sure how I managed to hide it for so long. Perhaps I was as good an actress as I was a singer, and I was one hell of a singer.

  No matter how much I craved the buzz of whiskey fizzing through my veins, I wouldn’t succumb to the devil on my shoulder who constantly whispered that one little drink wouldn’t hurt. Except it would hurt, and it would never just be one little drink.

  Every day my body and brain were a battleground for the sober angel on one shoulder and the drunk devil on the other.

  I’d stay strong, and I’d stay sober. But now that Tricia and Jonah were in Nashville for the month visiting their grandbaby, I worried I’d fall off the wagon and end up trampled into the dirt. She said I’d be fine and since there were no tourists staying this summer, no one would bother me.

  After a wildfire had claimed some of the higher up cabins not long after I’d arrived, Tricia had shut down the dude ranch. At the time, she’d been heartbroken, but now I didn’t think she minded because she couldn’t stand being away from her first grandchild. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Jonah sold off the property and moved to Nashville permanently.

  Despite our differences of opinion on everything from the color of the sky to how someone should make biscuits and gravy, I would miss Tricia and our sparring matches. Going back and forth with her always brightened my day. I was sure she worked on her comebacks because sometimes I wanted to congratulate her on how mean and bitchy she got.

  My all-time favorites were from the day she caught me staring at the bottle of whiskey I kept on my kitchen table as a reminder of how far I’d come.

  I’d had a shit storm of a day and was seconds away from pouring every last drop down my throat. I’d told her I wasn’t going to drink anything, that I was using it to test my willpower. She said I was as windy as a bag of old farts and that I was lying like a rug. She wasn’t wrong.

  Tricia acted like she just about tolerated me, but I suspected that maybe, just maybe, there was a little affection hidden somewhere beneath her sun-leathered skin.

  I was an imposition, and she hated the damage I’d done to her son’s heart. Hurting Colt the way I had wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but not once had she betrayed me or let the wolves know where I was hiding.

  Ever since I’d ripped up the posters the little girls had painstakingly made for me last year, the paparazzi had been on the hunt.

  Because of their snooping, I’d become somewhat of a recluse. I didn’t invite anyone I didn’t already know or trust into my life. I was better off alone. People caused problems, and Lord knows, I caused enough problems of my own without adding anyone else to the mix.

  During my first month at Whistling Wind Ranch, I was practically a shut-in. I hated leaving the safety of my own four walls, and I got jittery if I had to talk to anyone other than Tricia.

  I’d fired my managers and cut all enablers and yes men from my life. Weaning myself off alcohol cold turkey wasn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.

  My first week at the ranch was hell on earth. There were hallucinations where I could smell my mom’s cloying vanilla perfume and hear her berating and belittling me.

  Tricia had been a godsend. A hard as nails take no shit godsend. She’d nursed me through the worst of the DTs. Some days I was confused. Others, I was disorientated and hyperactive. At times, I was downright belligerent.

  Not once did she pry into my life choices or ask me any deep and searching questions about why someone with the world at their feet would want to destroy their life. That was a question I asked myself repeatedly. I still didn’t have the answer.

  As sure as the sun would rise, I would sabotage anything good that came into my life. I might not ruin things right away, but I’d slowly sow the seeds and cultivate them, watering them daily with self-hate until the roots were strong enough to pull me under.

  Not only did Tricia make me clean up my own vomit, but after the first week, she said if I wanted to eat, I had to make my way to the main house and chow down with the ranchers and everyone else who worked on the farm. She assured me I could trust them as much as I trusted her.

  Initially, the two-mile hike left my lungs burning and my skin covered in sweat, but now I could make it in fifteen minutes or less without losing my breath.

  No more red-rimmed eyes. No more heart palpitations or paranoia. No more hot flashes or waking up feeling like I’d poisoned my body. I was as sober as a pastor in church on a Sunday, and that was the way I wanted to remain.

  At least
once a day, the devil on my shoulder would ask me if I really needed to stop, that a few shots would take the edge off, but then I’d Google myself and watch the video of me yelling and screaming at those little girls. Their innocent faces distraught and distressed. Their eyes wide with fear. They’d looked up to me, and I’d let them down.

  Pushing everything away for a second, I drew in a deep, centering breath and focused on the view.

  I hoped I never had to leave this place. The small two-room cabin surrounded by oaks, maples, and dogwoods was my home. I had a McMansion in Texas, a penthouse in Manhattan, and a small ranch in Wyoming, but none felt as much like home as my little haven tucked away in the woods.

  I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of my days in these mountains. I wished that it could be a reality. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. One day, I’d have to go back to the real world and atone for my sins.

  For a start, my fans—I still had some—deserved an explanation. Now and again, I updated my social media pages to thank people for their love and support and to let them know I was healing, but I still needed time.

  They were eager to know if I was working on new music. I wasn’t. I hadn’t wanted to write a single word or sing a single note since the night of my breakdown. Seemed sobriety and creativity were like oil and water for me—they didn’t mix.

  Maybe one day, I’d write again. Nothing I wrote now could be worse than my last album. Every time I heard the lyrics of my old songs, my heart broke a little more. The words showed I wasn’t in a good place. They were filled with anger, hate, and revenge.

  Blaming my pushy parents for my problems would be the easy option. Sure, they were due a lot of the blame, like how from the age of thirteen, my mom would give me a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves before I got on stage at talent shows and at beauty pageants, but I was an adult now, and the choices I made were mine. My childhood needed to be put to rest. I wished I knew how to do that. Wished I knew how to move on. Wished I knew how to stop my mom’s voice from whispering in my ear.

  The sound of a galloping horse broke through my thoughts and the music blasting in my ears.

  My heart picked up speed. No one, and I meant no one, ever came up this way. I spun around and saw Winston, one of Tricia’s prized stallions ridden by someone I didn’t know headed straight for me.

  At the last minute, I dove out of the way. I landed with an oomph, and for a few seconds, I wasn’t sure where I was or what had happened.

  Searing pain ripped up my leg, and prickly bushes scratched my face and hands.

  “Shit. Are you okay?” a deep, rumbling voice asked.

  The words “I’m fucking not” bounced through my brain, but they refused to come out. Bile swished around my stomach and dizziness followed confusion.

  Strong hands gripped beneath my armpits and hauled me from the brambles.

  “Can you hear me?” He sat me on the ground, and I looked up, but he was in the shadows, or maybe I was suffering from a bad case of tunnel vision. “Can you stand?”

  A second later, the world whooshed back into focus, and I glared at him. “You almost killed me,” I spat.

  Irritation flashed in his eyes like he was surprised at my anger. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of the road with earbuds in. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

  “You shouldn’t have been riding Winston so recklessly on these dirt roads. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

  “Let me help you.” He held out a hand, but I ignored him.

  “I can manage just fine on my own.”

  I swiped away the blood dripping from a cut on my forehead then pushed off the dirt, gritting my teeth against the pain in my palms and the throb in my ankle.

  When I managed to get up, I yelped. “I think it’s broken.”

  “Sit down. Lemme check.”

  With a thud, I landed on my ass.

  He took off his plaid shirt, balled it up, and said, “Hold this to your head.”

  Wordlessly, I took his musk-scented offering and pressed it against my forehead. I looked at his face and for the briefest of seconds, I forgot about the pain in my ankle, head, and hands.

  My belly tingled, but now wasn’t the time to get all girly over his cowboy hat, tight white undershirt, or the worn jeans that enveloped his thighs. And I certainly wouldn’t fixate on the stubble covering his jaw or his hazel eyes with flashes of emerald.

  With a gentleness I didn’t expect, the stranger cupped my ankle in his palms and felt around.

  “Does this hurt?” He prodded around my Achilles tendon, and, not wanting to show what a wimp I was, I bit my lip and nodded, even though I wanted to swear like a ranch hand and curse him into next week.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, “but we have to be sure. Do you think you can get on my horse? We’ll have to go to the clinic in town to get you x-rayed.”

  “No,” I snapped. “It’s probably a strain. Can you take me back to my cabin? It’s just up the road. A tight bandage will do fine.”

  “You need stitches for your forehead. One way or another, you’re getting checked out even if that means I have to throw you over my shoulder.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know your name or why you’re here.”

  Dylan

  “Dylan Willows. Tricia’s nephew. There’s a new stallion coming tomorrow that needs breaking.”

  “Tricia didn’t tell me she had family staying.”

  “Does she tell you everything?”

  The sexy blonde sniffed and gave me a side-eye. “No.”

  “So why would she tell you I was coming to stay?”

  Looking pissed at my reply, she shrugged. Since her falling was my fault, I would do all I could to make it right. We were both lucky she hadn’t been seriously injured.

  I’d been worked up over a phone call from my friend Mason and hadn’t been paying attention. I should have been watching the road and not gotten so lost in my thoughts.

  I was off the Unleash the Beast tour until Mason, who also happened to be my pain in the ass doctor, gave me the all-clear. He said he wouldn’t do that, at least not yet. In fact, he said since I’d had two concussions in the past eight months from getting bucked off, I should stop bull ridin’ for the rest of the year. Wasn’t going to happen. I’d already missed two rodeos and planned to rejoin the tour as soon as I finished training Tricia’s horse.

  I could kiss the world championships in November goodbye if I didn’t ride soon.

  At thirty-six, I was getting on in years, and the younger cowboys were biting at my spurs. Plus, I was starting to creak and ache in places I didn’t know existed, but the chance to win the gold buckle and honor my dad meant I’d push my body past its limits.

  He’d always dreamed of being a world champion. Came close in the '70s and early '80s, but it wasn’t meant to be. I wanted to win for him. Needed to hold that buckle above my head, look to the sky, and say, “This is for you, Dad.”

  Mason tried his best to scare me. Said if I kept bashing my head the way I’d been doing, I was at risk of long-term damage and a neurodegenerative disease. I knew it was a possibility. The last few years of my dad’s life showed me how much damage falling too many times could cause. But I had to ride, and I had to win.

  I was on the mend from the injuries I’d sustained a few weeks ago. A dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, plus another concussion—a mild one this time. My injuries were bad, but not career-ending.

  My mom would have locked me in the barn and thrown away the key if she knew what Mason had said. In her mind, the rodeo had stolen her husband and had replaced him with a man who’d forgotten the life they’d built together.

  She’d begged me to wear a protective helmet, but since it wasn’t mandatory, I never did, and I don’t think I ever would. I couldn’t ride with something like that on my head. It would throw me off balance. My cowboy hat was more than enough.

  I should be counting my bles
sings and not counting down the minutes until I could ride again.

  Before I’d gotten hurt, I’d stayed on all eight seconds and had scored an eighty-seven out of one hundred. I was in the lead, but I wasn’t fast enough to get out of Mother Clucker’s way after I’d dismounted. The brute of a bull kicked the shit out of me. The bullfighters and barrelman tasked with distracting him so I could get clear couldn’t get his attention. Mother Clucker wanted to take me down, and he’d succeeded. Could have been worse. Much worse.

  Compared to some of the injuries I’d seen, mine were mere scratches. A few months back, a bull stepped on Shannon Laffey’s chest.

  The beast he was riding bucked him off, then used his body as a stomping ground. Shannon ended up with several compacted fractures and a collapsed lung, and most seriously, a crushed aorta. Poor guy was still in a medically induced coma.

  Broken backs, busted jaws, and battered bodies, you name it, I’d seen it.

  “You okay?” the petite blonde asked. “You look like someone died.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a small shake of my head. “Few things on my mind. You’re coming back to the main house with me, getting in my truck, and going to town.”

  She lowered my shirt from her forehead. The blood had congealed, but unless she wanted a scar on her pretty face, she’d need a doctor to sew it up.

  “I said no. Don’t you know what’ll happen if I go into town? Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “I’m Montana Chambers. Haven’t you ever heard Don’t Get Mad, Get Madder, or Heart Stompin’ Boots? Your aunt didn’t tell you about me?”

  I shook my head.

  “You listen to the radio?”

  “You’re a singer?”

  “Sort of.”

  “So you’re not a singer?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re either a singer or you’re not. Which is it?”

  She blew out a loud, frustrated breath. “Are you always this exasperating? I can’t believe Tricia didn’t fill you in about me. I used to live with Colt. I walked out on him. Broke his heart.”