Instead, I got in my car and drove away. Some patterns were just too damn hard to break.
The Hell Creek Hotel looked exactly as I remembered it. It was a three-story brick building from the twenties that had survived through the Great Depression out of sheer stubborn refusal to crumble. The lobby smelled of pine cleaner and coffee, with the same worn leather chairs gathered around a stone fireplace. Behind the desk, an older woman with silver-streaked hair glanced up, her eyes widening in recognition.
“Jesse Nelson? Is that you?”
I winced at the name. “It’s Jesse Harris. Haven’t gone by Nelson in a long time.”
“Oh.” She frowned slightly. “I’m Maggie. I bought this place from the Hendersons about ten years back. You probably don’t remember me. I used to work at the school library.”
I nodded vaguely, though I had no recollection of her. “Just need a room for the night.”
“Of course.” She handed me a real metal key. There were no keycards here in Hell Creek. “Room two-twelve. There’s breakfast from six to nine. I’m... sorry to hear about Jack. He was a good man.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the key and my small overnight bag. I hadn’t planned on staying, and I hadn’t packed for more than the funeral.
The room was clean but dated, with faded floral wallpaper and a quilt that had seen better decades. I shrugged out of my wet suit jacket and sat heavily on the bed. The will reading tomorrow. What could Jack possibly have left me? A final reprimand from beyond the grave, most likely. Not that I didn’t deserve it.
I pulled out my phone to check messages. There were a handful of work emails I should answer, and a text from my boyfriend Derek asking how it went. I thumbed a quick reply.
Me: Made it to Hell Creek. Funeral was miserable. Will call later.
I hesitated before adding:Miss you.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him more. Not about Cole’s piercing stare or the weight of fifteen years of guilt pressing down on my chest. Derek wouldn’t understand. He came from money and stability, a family that had Sunday dinners and holiday traditions and talked on the phone every other day. He’d never known what it was like to be the outsider, the stepson who never quite fit in.
The radiator in the corner clanked and hissed as it struggled to warm the room. Outside, the rain continued its steady assault. I stripped off my wet clothes and stood under the shower until the hot water ran cold, but nothing could wash away the chill that had settled in my bones since I’d crossed the Montana state line.
After toweling off, I pulled on the only other clothes I’d brought… jeans and a button-down that suddenly felt too city, and far too polished for Hell Creek. I needed a drink.
The Trough was still the only bar in town, its forty-year-old neon sign buzzing in the gray evening light. I parked across the street, steeling myself before pushing through the heavy wooden door. The conversations didn’t exactly stop when I walked in, but they definitely quieted. Eyes tracked me as I made my way to the bar, some curious, others hostile.
“Whiskey, neat,” I told the bartender, a heavyset woman I didn’t recognize.
She nodded, pouring a generous shot. “You’re Jack Nelson’s boy.”
Not a question. “One of them,” I corrected, downing half the whiskey in one swallow.
“Well, your brother’s been drowning his sorrows here since the doctor gave your daddy six months.” She pushed the bottle toward me. “Seems like you’ve got some catching up to do.”
The whiskey burned, but not enough to cauterize the wound her words opened. Six months. Jack had been dying for six months, and I hadn’t known. Hadn’t bothered to check in. Cole had carried that burden alone. Then again, he could’ve reached out at any time and told me. It seemed like I wasn’t theonlyprideful one in the family.
“Another,” I said, pushing my glass forward.
Three drinks later, the door swung open, bringing with it a gust of cold air and the looming presence of Cole Nelson. Thebar fell silent for real this time. He stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his hat, those blue eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his stubbled skin.
For a moment, I thought he might turn around and leave. Instead, he stalked toward me, each step deliberate, predatory. The crowd parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. He stopped beside me, close enough that I could smell the rain on him, mixed with leather and that expensive cologne he’d been wearing since high school, the one my mother had bought him every Christmas.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
I turned to face him, alcohol making me braver than I felt. “I have as much right to be here as you do,” I snapped back. “Piss off.”
Cole’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists, and for a second, I thought he might hit me right there. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear.
“You lost the right to be here when you left us all behind,” he growled. “Fifteen years without so much as a phone call, and now you show up expecting what? A warm welcome?”
The whiskey made my tongue loose. “I didn’t come for a welcome. I came to say goodbye to Dad.”
“Dad,” he mocked, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “As if he was everanythingto you.”
