“I need you to find her,” I growl to my sister over the phone while my truck bounces in a pothole.
Frankie tsk-tsks in my ear, which she knows annoys the shit out of me. “I looked! Someone said they saw her with Josie Mae. I’m sure she’s fine.”
I sigh, exasperated and more than a little freaked out. “’Kay, thanks. Call me if you see her.”
Wade called me at the fair right after I lost sight of Shelby, saying I needed to get back to the ranch as soon as possible. I only got out of him that something is wrong with Ridge before the line dropped. You’d think a town as big as Hornville could get their cell service operational as a matter of basic safety.
So here I am, driving away from the woman I just confessed my love to, after I nearly burned down the fair, and she had to defend me to her ex-boyfriend. My fist hits the steering wheel, but even that sharp sting of pain doesn’t help me feel less frustrated. Ridge better be fucking dying.
My truck skids to an abrupt halt on the dirt cut-through when I see the hulking outline of my older brother in the field that borders Wade’s farmland. He’s got a bonfire going, which isn’t abnormal. This spot is where we often have a controlled burn, but when Ridge tips his head back and drinks something before staggering around the fire, I know something’s off. Ridge isn’t a drinker. Not to excess anyway.
I hustle over, checking out the fire and seeing that it’s contained. My responsible brother even has a hose ready to go just in case. I swing my focus to Ridge. He takes another swig, and I’m close enough now to see it’s whiskey. He wipes the back of his mouth with his wrist. When he sees me, he leans left and then staggers right.
“Whadya doin’ ’ere,” he slurs.
Well, fuck. “Coming to check on you, big bro. You okay?” I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Goddamn, he’s rocking more than a canoe in a hurricane. Takes a lot to make the sturdiest Gamble boy sway on his boots.
He bats off my hand and tilts back his head for another sip. With a growl, he takes the bottle from his lips and tips it over the dusty ground. It’s empty. He throws the damn thing in the fire, where it shatters and sparks.
“Whoa, easy there,” I mutter, hoping he doesn’t have another bottle somewhere on his person.
Ridge points at me, then staggers to the right. “Nothin’ but a goddamn whore.”
My eyes widen. Ridge isn’t exactly a ray of fuckin’ sunshine, but he doesn’t usually use that kind of language to describe women either. “Who is?”
He grunts, kicks a pebble, and nearly ends up on his ass. He rights himself just in time to stay on his feet. A cloud of dust now hovers over our boots.
“Is this about Tiff?”
“Tiffany Grace!” he snaps, correcting me like she would. He spits, then steps right in it when he staggers left.
“Did she come back?” I feel like I’m playing the guessing game with a drunkard.
Ridge scoffs, grinning up at the sky like a maniac. “She come back?” His laugh makes me grimace.
“Okay. She’s still gone, I take it?” I reach for my phone to check for a text or call from Shelby and realize I left it in the truck. I think about getting it to call Pops. Maybe he can talk some sense into Ridge.
Ridge swings his head back and nearly plows right into me, losing his balance. I barely right us both. Scratch that. Not calling Pops. Ridge is too unstable right now. He ricochets off me and bends down next to the fire. I reach for him, worried he’s going to take a header into the flames. He straightens, unscathed, with a stack of papers that had been held down by a rock.
“Look at this shit,” he spits. He nearly throws the stack of papers at me.
I manage to keep it all together by some small miracle, but it’s the heading on the top page that has my blood running cold.
Summons: Petition for Divorce.
My head whips up to see Ridge wiping his hands over his eyes. Oh fuck me. Is Ridge crying? Personally, I think this calls for celebration, but maybe now’s not the time to verbalize how much I despise my sister-in-law.
I wave the stack of papers. “Didn’t know this was coming?”
Ridge snorts and has to wipe his eyes again. He plops down in the dirt and stares into the flames. I sit down next to him, giving him enough room to take a swing and not hit me. Even drunk he could do some damage. Clearly, he’s in shock. Wouldn’t be surprised if he started a fight just to have something to take his mind off the impending divorce.
We end up sitting like that for close to thirty minutes without physical violence. The flames start to die down, and I’m itching to get my phone out of the truck and call Shelby. I don’t, though. My brother needs me right now. Besides, Frankie knows to look for her.
“Had no fuckin’ idea,” Ridge finally says, voice raw. “Went out to my truck to check the cattle and some fucker in a polo shirt handed me the papers. A polo shirt. Can you believe that shit?”
He’s still slurring his words a bit, but he’s built like an ox. It would take more than half a bottle of whiskey to take him down. I’m not sure the polo shirt is what I’d be focused on in this situation, but I go with it.
“Total dipshit, I agree.”
