Page 118 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Yes, my ranch. One of many revelations from last night, though definitely the kinder one. The one that doesn’t make me want to put my fist through something. The ranch has been mine since Gramps passed. Gramps, who—as of approximately twelve hours ago—isn't my Gramps. Not by blood, anyway.

I didn’t know that yesterday morning, and now I do. And somewhere underneath all the wreckage of last night, that fact is sitting quietly, waiting for me to have the capacity to deal with it. Right now, I don't. Right now, it's just another thing that happened, lined up behind all the things that hit harder and hurt worse.

I find my rhythm in the work, the way I always do. The rake in my hands. The brush moving over the mare’s coat. The quiet company of horses who don’t care what your last name is or who your father might be. Long as you show up, do the work, and don’t let them down, they’re good with you.

Makes one of us. Because that's all that's running through my head this morning, round and round on that same relentless loop.

Who is my father?

Did my actual father know I exist?

Did he want me?

My head feels like a pinball machine, bouncing from one question to the next so fast I can barely keep up. I don’t have answers to any of them. They keep stacking up until the weight of it all feels almost physical, slowing me down at jobs I could normally do half asleep.

I’ve been trying not to think about Maeve, but I’ve not been doing a great job of it. I can still see every detail of those photographs when I close my eyes. The images have been branded somewhere I can't reach. And I know, somewhere in the rational part of my brain, that she didn't owe me anything. We weren't together. She told me she wasn't interested. She never made me a single promise.

But she was my friend.

My only friend on the ranch.

And sure, maybe some of what I felt for Maeve was never quite what I thought it was, but I still thought I could trust her. As my friend. As the person who made me feel like maybe I wasn't too much to be around, wasn't too difficult, wasn’t too emotional.

She made me feel like I could start to enjoy life again.

And the whole time, she was sleeping with him.

While she was being my person, the one I felt like I could count on, she was his too, and more, if those photographs are anything to go by.

I don’t know what to do with all this at the moment. Where to put it in my head until I’m ready to deal with it. It’s not like there’s a shelf in my brain for everyone around you is lying to you, your father isn’t your father, the girl you like is sleeping with him, and apparently, you own a ranch now. I let it sit there instead, taking up every waking thought.

I press my forehead briefly against the mare’s neck and breathe, then pick the brush back up and crack on with my jobs like it’s a normal day.

Just with an even louder head.

The barn is done in no time, so I take myself into the office, shutting the door behind me firmly as though a bit of wood and an old brass handle are going to protect me from the knowledge that she is also in this house.

I pull up the riding school files. Budget breakdowns. Scheduling. The dozen small details that are still waiting on me. I put my head down and throw myself at them, and for a while, for a blissfully, mercifully short while, it works. The numbers require enough focus that there isn't room for anything else.

That is until the door begins to open.

The hinges give that slow, deliberate screech that means someone is being careful rather than just walking in. Wade steps into the room and closes the door quietly behind him.

I haven't seen him since the parking lot.

He looks just as rough as I feel, which is saying something, because I feel absolutely fucking terrible. The lines around his eyes cut harder than usual. Hat turning slowly between his fingers. His hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush.

It’s strange, seeing him like this.

In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Wade Carter look anything less than solid. Well, up until yesterday.

Seeing him standing there looking like absolute shit should feel satisfying, and yet it doesn’t.

Neither of us speaks.

We just stare at each other as the hum of the computer fills the silence. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, keeping my face steady.

I break the silence, mainly because I can’t stand it any longer.