My curiosity is piqued. I’ve never seen a horse outside of a television screen. My mother never wanted to be reminded of home and horses were a trigger. Maybe that is why she drank and coked herself up so much. Because everything reminded her of being back on the ranch.
The SUV comes to a stop in front of the house that doesn’t fit in with the rural landscape surrounding it. The mansion stands atop a gentle rise, looking like a weather-beaten king surveying his realm.
Its walls are an old, sun-bleached white, and topped with red terracotta roofing tiles aged by the merciless, scorching sun. The structure sprawls across the hilltop, its wings extending in every direction as if reaching out to the sun-washed horizon. Itis adorned in ornate ironworks and a plethora of windows that reflect the sky and bouncing whisps of clouds.
Scattered along the mansion’s outskirts are robust oak trees, their leafy branches providing a respite from the relentless Texan heat. Patches of vibrant wildflowers weave a colorful border around the manor’s perimeter. The mansion’s satisfying symphony is regularly interrupted with lively neighs emanating from the nearby field.
Behind the steadfast mansion I can see endless acres of ranchland stretching far into the horizon, accentuated freckled outbuildings, barns and corrals among fields of tall green grass speckled with large horses lazily grazing, their gaze drawn to us as we drive past.
“Welcome home.” Martin places the car in park and looks back at me with a smile on his face. The one I return doesn’t reach my eyes, and he seems to sense my unease because he simply dips his head silently before exiting the driver’s seat.
You can do this, Peyton.
I climb out before Martin has a chance to come around and take in the beautiful sight before me. Up close, the mansion looks even more luxurious, but there is also a homely feel to it you don’t get from a distance. The porch looks as though it wraps the entire length of the main house and is bursting with a colorful potted plants scattered across its railing and landing. On one side sits a few worn Adirondack chairs and on the other, a large swinging bench.
“Don’t even think about it, Lee Denver,” a muffled shout comes from behind the screen door leading into the house. “I ain’t going to bail you out this time when old Man Sheppard closes the clink on you.”
I startle when the screen door burst wide open, and a tall man wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, a dirty white T-shirt, and a black cowboy hat storms down the stairs in an angry huff.
“Mind your own business, Pace,” the man snarls as he barrels ahead, not bothering to watch where he is going. “Ain’t no one asking you for nothin’.”
I manage to barely move out of his war path as he marches past me, climbs in his truck, and speeds off.
Well, that is more excitement than I was expecting for my arrival.
The guy on the porch, the one called Pace, slams his hand against the porch railing and curses. He’s dressed in the same manner as the one who stormed away, only cleaner. He’s older than me, with darker hair, but when his eyes flash to mine in surprise, I see the same blue staring back at me. It’s uncanny.
“Who the hell are you?” he snarls, his hands clutching at the railing, causing the wood to creak under the pressure. Taken aback by the hostility in his tone, I gape at him for a moment, no sound leaving my parted lips. “You get hit with the stupid switch or what?”
The what now?
“Pace Denver, you shut your trap right now,” a voice calls from behind the screen door. It’s lighter and feminine. A few seconds later, a girl, about the same age as Pace, tosses open the screen door and walks out onto the porch. She can’t be any more than 5’3 but she stares down the man before her with her hands on her hips as if he wasn’t more than half a foot taller than her. “That is not how your father taught you to greet guests.”
Pace smirks and shakes his head, clearly amused by the girl.
“Papa taught me to shoot first and ask questions later,” he tells her. “But after I shot the mailman when I was ten, he took it back.” The girl’s eyes widen briefly before they narrow into slits, and she reaches out to punch the giant man in the stomach.
“Such a liar,” she mutters when he roars with laughter. I stand in the driveway, my top teeth chewing awkwardly on my bottom lip while I wait for the two of them to finish their banter.After a few more choice words to Pace, she turns her attention back to me. “You must be Peyton.”
Swallowing the lump of anxiety in my throat, I nod my head, unsure of what to say.
The girl smiled broadly and makes her way down the porch steps, her arms opening as she nears me.
“Um…” I step back when she reaches in to hug me and draw my arms against my stomach. “Sorry, I don’t like—hugs,” I finish lamely, toeing the ground with my shoe. My refusal doesn’t damper her smile. She simply holds her hands up as a sign of peace and takes a step back.
“It’s okay,” she laughs. “I forget not everyone is a hugger like me. Welcome to Broken Ridge Ranch. I’ve been waiting all day for you to arrive.”
She has?
“Are you like—my sister?” I know John has children, but I’m not sure how many, and he sure as hell didn’t take the time to tell me their names. It is easy to infer Pace, the man on the porch, and the other guy, Lee, are my brothers. Even if I hadn’t heard their names, it is hard to dismiss the uncanniness of how much we resemble one another. Almost as if we could be triplets. But this girl—she doesn’t look anything like Lee or Pace. Her hair is an ashy blonde, and her eyes are hazel.
Pace cackles from the porch, one hand covering his eyes while the other holds on to the porch railing as his entire body shakes from the laughter. “Oh shit,” he huffs, wiping at his eyes as he straightens and gets himself under control. “I knew this was going to be good.”
The girl shoots him a scathing look, but it’s gone when she turns back to me.
“No, I’m Sutton,” she introduces herself. “I’m John’s wife.”
Wife?
