Wilbert Tennessee died surrounded by soft pillows and Danny’s humming voice and the scent of lavender oil.
Darian inherited the house. The money. The silence.
He quit his job. Didn’t leave the house. Lived off delivery and memory. The sippy cups stayed in the cupboard. The books and colored pencils in the closet. The rainbow chart on the wall, gathering dust.
Ten days ago, he’d ordered sleeping pills.
They arrived in a plain brown box.
He opened it. Sat on the floor with the cap in his hand for nearly an hour. He even thought through the note. Not for sympathy, he didn’t want that. He needed the clarity.
It hurts. I’m tired. I miss my Daddy.
But he didn’t write it.
He just sobbed until his throat gave out.
I want my Daddy.
The next morning, he flushed the pills and opened a tab on his laptop.
Rawhide Ranch.
One month.
Butterflies program.
Wilbert couldn’t take care of his Little anymore.
So Darian would have to.
Chapter Two
Easton Emmerson gripped the steering wheel with one hand and tapped the brake as the wrought-iron gate of Rawhide Ranch came into view. The sun was low, just beginning its descent behind the Sapphire Mountain peaks, casting long shadows across the winding drive.
The drive had taken him longer than expected.
He pulled to a stop beside the guard shack and rolled down his window. The scent of horses, dust, and pine hit him like an old song he hadn’t realized he still remembered the words to.
Admit it, man, you’re depressed.
The guard on duty wasn’t Jacob Andrews as usual but a young man in a Rawhide logo hoodie. The kid peered into the car. “Afternoon, sir. Name?”
“Easton Emmerson,” he replied, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
The guard scanned a list on the clipboard. “Right, Dr. Emmerson. You’re expected. Someone will meet you at the front entrance.”
The gate creaked open, and Easton gave a brief nod of thanks before easing the car forward. The road curved gently, flankedby grazing pastures, scattered trees, and the wide-open sky that made Montana feel holy.
Despite his impatience to have the journey over, he eased off the gas pedal and let the quiet of the place settle over him. It was the quiet before the storm, because soon he would be surrounded by mischievous Littles here, there, and everywhere.
And maybe he’d find a way to enjoy life once more.
It had been almost six years since he’d last visited. A few weekends here and there over the years, but his life had been far too scheduled with operating rooms and trauma centers and a calendar that looked more like a punishment than a plan.
This visit was different.
He wasn’t here for play or a conference or to drop by Wilbert’s favorite boot shop.
