Grief moved like a shadow—mostly under my feet until the sun began to fall.
Never far, always waiting.
“Hope you’ll forgive me for overstepping.”
“I—I haven’t—” My voice choked off, but he patiently waited. “I’m afraid of what might happen when I go home.”
He scratched his bristly chin, considering me for a few long moments. “Just let yourself hurt. Ain’t no shame in that. Nothing to be scared of either.”
Easy for him to say.
“You didn’t ask for my two cents, but since I’m on a roll, I’ll tell you what to do. Go home. Hug that boy of yours. Remember everything about her that you possibly can. It’ll burn like fire, but tomorrow you won’t regret a thing.”
He removed the bottle of bourbon from the plastic bag and set it back in the basket. “I’ll make you a deal. If you leave these two bottles here”—he reached around me to pluck something out of a cup on the counter—“I’ll give you this.”
Between his fingers, he pinched a tiny plastic tube of local honey. Cade called themhoney sticks,and he absolutely loved them.
My son.
I reached out, taking the stick. Heat pulled behind my eyes and my jaw clenched.
Cade was the only reason I’d held on all this time. The only reason I kept fighting when I was so damn tired and would rather drink myself into a stupor. Bill knew I needed the reminder.
He gave me a slow, sad smile. “That’s on the house.”
“Thank you.”
His words sounded like a grandfather’s. A gentle, loving chide as he jutted his chin toward the exit. “Get outta here.”
I gave him a single nod, fisting the honey in my hand.
“Night, Jesse.”
The soft brush of doorbells ushered me into the night.
After an abnormally cool Texas spring, the mid-day temperature spike blindsided me. The button-up flannel made sense in the morning hours, but now it smothered my skin’s ability to breathe. The heavy fabric clung to my triceps as I coiled the rope in my hand.
Pores on my neck prickled—maybe more from agitation than the heat.
The way we were cleaning up around this place, you’d think the president of the United States was coming to Meadowbrook Ranch. But no. We were tidying up the tack room for awedding.As if the bridal party was going to be in the dusty barn, browsing bridles and slinging ropes.
My sour attitude wasn’t fair. I knew it, but I was too exhausted to give a shit. After last night, my eyes felt puffy, my limbs sagged, and my throat ached. I’d gotten half the hours of sleep I typically did, and, as much as I appreciated Bill’s advice, I’d prefer an alcohol hangover versus an emotional one any day of the week.
I was practically the walking dead this afternoon.
I hated that my current fog of grief fell directly over Tag’s wedding—made me a sorry excuse for a best man—but this weekend had brewed up the perfect storm. When your soulmate was six feet under, weddings stopped being a happy event. All the ceremony talk and reception preparations kept landing like wire bristles, forcing open all the wounds I’d almost healed.
Plus, April was hard every year.
When I realized how tough this weekend would be, I told myself I’d be okay. That I would do better than I expected. My inner pep-talkwas something along the lines of“nothing is as bad as you fear it might be.”
Bullshit.
It was worse.
But I needed to get my head out of my problems, and at least try to focus on Cade, my ten-year-old son. He had gotten home from school just a little while ago, and had been lost in quiet thought ever since. He stood a few paces away at about four feet, five inches tall. Underneath his cowboy hat was a headful of hair in bad need of a trim. His hands sorted and untangled bridles with a dexterity that could only come from living and breathing horses and equipment. When a bit snagged leather, he gave it a frustrated tug.
Gathering strength, I sucked in a deep breath. Getting Cade to talk to me felt like pulling teeth some days. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”
