CHAPTER ONE
BITTERN
A MONTH EARLIER
There’s a harsh sun the day I get out of rehab.
Now, I’m used to being locked up, though I’ve never been to prison. Growing up, the cage holding me in was poverty. Then came its close cousin—desperation, which led me to the darkness under the mountain. The accident followed on its heels. After that, my prison was a mental fog I couldn’t fight my way out of, no matter how hard I tried.
I melted into nothing. A backdrop. A cautionary tale. An insipid little bird on the edges of the marsh.
I always wondered why my mother called me Bittern. She could’ve called me any number of bird names, like Robin or something. Hell, there are some a lot easier to pronounce and spell, with a little more dignity to them. But no, she had togo with Bittern, an inconspicuous bird known for hiding in the weeds by the water’s edge. I never had the presence of mind to ask her why, but it’s too late now. Everybody’s gone, just Freya and I left.
Blinking, I shade my eyes.
I stand at the top of the hill, Ryder Ranch sprawling out in every direction. A linen bag hangs from my hand, filled with everything they gave me when my time came due to check out. A toothbrush, deodorant, one change of clothes, and a comb—that’s about as much as I’ve ever owned, so not much has changed there. My room in Kentucky, at Aiden’s house, was mostly empty for all the years I lived in it, just a mattress covered in a blanket and a sheet and a dogeared copy of Audubon'sField Guide to North American Birds. I might not be educated in the traditional way, but I’ve read through that book a few times, thinking about it here and there, and I reckon I learned a good bit from it.
A twinge of sadness moves through me. I wonder if my copy still exists, but I have my doubts.
The front door stares back at me. I’m outside employee housing, a row of wooden buildings sitting on the crest of the hill at Ryder Ranch. The manager’s house is a few doors down, right where the land slopes up then drops down. That’s where Andy and Ginny live, the current manager and housekeeper. There are a few wranglers sitting on their porches up and down the row, some watching me stand there like I’m frozen.
I shake my head and walk up the porch steps.
The house is clean and simple. I open both doors and step inside. It’s small, maybe eight hundred square feet. I prefer that. Small houses feel more like home. The floor is sanded wood all over, a rug thrown in the living space and hallway. There are simple curtains over the windows that look east, west, andsouth. I wonder if all the housing is furnished or if my sister had something to do with this.
Freya’s the only reason I’m here, if I’m honest. After my father, Aiden, moved us all out to Montana and Freya met Deacon, I watched as she got her shot at happiness. It wasn’t what I thought she’d do in the end, marrying some roughed up, tattooed rancher from out west, but I have never seen anyone treat her so good. That counts for a lot, because my sister’s been through hell and back in her short life. She deserves a little peace.
Me, I still don’t know what I’m doing. Years of being drugged up has me feeling like I was dead in my grave, and I’m just now rising to life like Jesus on the third day. Everything is different. I’m like a colt trying to get up on wobbly legs and explore the world for the first time, only, I’m thirty-some odd years old.
I’ve lost a lot of time.
A coldness settles in my chest, but I try not to make it worse by turning it over.
Setting my bag down, I take my coat off. Then, I start pacing around the kitchen to figure out what I need to buy for the house. This is my first time living alone. When Deacon picked me up, he did two things. First, he reminded me that if I ever slipped up in regards to pills, he would make sure I never saw Freya again. Second, he gave me an advance on my wages for the next two months, which means I can take my work vehicle into town and get whatever I want.
Want—that’s a strange concept for me.
What do I want?
What do I like?
Who am I?
Those questions rattled around in my head the entire time I was in rehab. It might be the only part of that experience I can remember clearly. Everything else was a blur of whiterooms, scrubs, pill cups, and therapy offices. Then, they sent me stumbling out into the sun.
There’s a coffee maker, one of the fancy kinds where the cup goes in the top with a button to hit that makes exactly a cup. In the cupboard sits a pair of rustic brown mugs. I turn them over in my hands, wondering what my prospects are of having somebody else to drink coffee with.
Not high.
Setting the cup down, I hit the button, and the machine doesn’t do anything. Frowning, I glance it over, realizing the water reservoir is empty. Alright, I can fix that. Filling it up, I press the button again, and this time, it makes me a cup of coffee.
My throat is tight. The world doesn’t make sense. I lost out on all the seemingly normal things that come easily to everybody else. Now, here I am, struggling to make coffee without a drip machine.
I go out on the porch with my coffee and sit on the steps. Deacon gave me a pack of cigarettes on the way home. Deciding not to drink again was my choice. Alcohol feels too much like Aiden now. I smelled it on his breath one too many times. Cigarettes are still a gray area for me.
I’m gonna do this. I might be starting from scratch, in mourning for all the time I lost, but I’m doing this, and nobody is going to stop me.
Least of all myself.
