“I’m not hungry.” My voice sounds strange.
He studies me for a moment, and I can see him weighing whether to push. Then he nods. “I need to check on some things at the upper pasture. Fence line that probably got damaged inlast week’s storm. Check the one we were working on the other day to see if the ranch hands finished it up. You going to be okay here alone for a few hours?”
He heads into the office and returns a black phone in his hand, but I’m still focused on the word alone.
Alone. It should feel like freedom, but instead, it makes anxiety spike in my chest. What if Roman shows up? What if?—
“Hey.” Calder crosses to me, tips my chin up with his fingers. “You’re safe here. Roman won’t come to this house without me present. That would be admitting he gives a shit about you, and he’d never do that.”
“What about your brothers?”
“Sawyer’s in town meeting with the accountant. Levi’s helping with the horses. Kade...” He pauses. “Kade,” he grits out, “knows better than to bother you when I’m not here.”
The territorial edge in his voice should irritate me more than it does.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be fine.” It’s a lie, but one of us has to start believing that.
He searches my face, looking for cracks. Then he leans down and kisses me, soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of me. When he pulls back, there’s something almost tender in his ice-blue eyes.
“Lock the doors if it makes you feel better. I’ll have my phone.” He extends the one he’s holding. “This one is for you. It’s all set up and unlocked. You’ll have to set the code, and my number is already programmed. Call me if you need me.”
Then he’s gone, truck engine rumbling to life outside, gravel crunching under tires as he drives away.
I stand in the kitchen for a long moment, listening to the silence. Staring at the sleek—expensive—device in my hand. Should I call someone? Who? The only people I really ever talked to before were my dad and Allie. And I am ashamed toadmit I don’t know either of their numbers off the top of my head.
The house settles around me, floorboards creaking, wind testing the windows. Just me and the weight of everything that’s happened. I should do something productive.
Clean. Unpack the few belongings Calder brought from the cabin, including my mother’s quilt. Go over what they had stocked here when we showed up. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from circling the drain of panic.
Instead, I find myself in the living room, staring at the bookshelf lining one wall. Most of the leather-bound books look old and probably belonged to Calder’s grandfather or great-grandfather. Ranch management guides. Montana history. A few weathered novels. I pull out a copy ofWuthering Heights. The spine is cracked, proof that someone in this family has read the book multiple times.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I’m just returning the book to its shelf when I hear the knock.
Every muscle in my body goes tense. Calder wouldn’t knock. My father wouldn’t know where this house is. Who else could it be? One of the brothers? Roman?
Another knock, softer this time. Almost hesitant.
I move to the front door slowly, my heart hammering. There’s no peephole, so I crack it open just enough to see who’s on the porch.
Elena Bishop stands there, Calder’s mother, looking nothing like the broken woman I barely caught a glimpse of after the rodeo at the main house. She’s dressed in expensive jeans and a cream-colored sweater; her gray hair pulled back in that severe bun. That’s not what stops me, though. It’s her eyes. They’re the same icy blue as Calder’s, except where his are sharp and calculating, hers are distant and haunted.
“Mrs. Bishop,” I say, unsure what else to call her. Mother-in-law feels too real.
“Elena, please.” Her voice is soft, cultured. Like she came from somewhere better before Roman Bishop got his hands on her. “May I come in?”
Would it be rude of me to decline her visit? I’m sure. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but something about the way she’s standing there, almost fragile despite her rigid posture, makes me step back, and without thinking it through, I gesture for her to come in.
“Of course.”
She enters like she’s walking into a stranger’s home, not a house on property her family owns. Her gaze sweeps over the living room, kitchen, and beyond before returning to me.
“I wanted to welcome you properly. The other night was... not ideal circumstances for a first meeting.”
Not ideal.That’s one way to describe watching Roman beat Calder half to death and slap me hard enough to leave a bruise that’s still vivid against my cheek.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask, falling back on the politeness my mother had drilled into me. “Or tea?”
