“It’s been seventeen years. I thought it would be easier now. But her ghost still walks the halls of the house, like it always has,” I mutter. “And he still blames me. I can see it in his eyes.”
His head shakes. “He blames himself.”
“No. He blames me. Hell, so do I.”
“It was an accident, Way.”
“I was supposed to be watching her.”
It happened in December, the year I turned eight. Every year, the week between Christmas and New Year’s, Pop would pack us up and take us to the Grand Targhee Resort, about an hour west of Jackson Hole, for a family ski vacation. It was my favorite time of year because he worked sunup to sundown on the ranch every other day, and it was the one time we got his full attention.
That morning, Pop and I had gotten up early and gone skiing. When we came back to the valley to the cabin we rented, Momma and our grandmother had lunch ready. We ate together, and Momma and Pop went back to the slopes. I wanted to go with them, but Pop told me to stay behind and help Grandma with Crissy, who was only four years old, so they could get some quality time on the advanced slopes. I was being a brat about having to stay back with my sister, but Pop promised to take us all out snow tubing after supper.
It was a particularly snowy day. Great for skiing but bad for driving, with low visibility down in the valley. Grandma had settled in by the fire with her knitting needles, and I begged her to let Crissy and me go outside to build a snowman. She agreed but told us to stay in the front yard, where she could see us through the window, and I promised to keep an eye on Crissy.
It only took a minute. Less than that. I was rolling a huge ball of snow for the snowman’s base, and I told Crissy to find some sticks for its arms. She wandered over near the tree line to look for some fallen branches when a car came around a curve too fast. The driver lost control, and it skidded toward the cabin and veered straight at Crissy, who was bent over, picking up twigs. I screamed for her and took off running, but my legs wouldn’t carry me fast enough.
I close my eyes, and I can see it happen in slow motion all over again.
“Waylon?” Caison’s voice drags me back out of the memory.
I slide the empty mug aside and signal for the bartender.
I’m gonna need something stronger.
I’m up before the sun, which isn’t unusual, but it still pisses me off every time my alarm goes off and the world outside my window is pitch-black. Sometimes, I long for a day—just one day —where I sleep until I wake up naturally. I bet my eyes would pop open at five a.m. just to spite me. I laugh to myself at the thought.
The house is quiet—too quiet. No Charli showering. No Grandma Evelyn humming as she kneads dough. Just the low hum of the heat flowing through the vents and the distant creak of old wood settling.
Cabe asked me last night if I could help him knock out morning chores so he could go into town. When I asked why he was going to town so early, he simply said, “Breakfast,” but Ididn’t miss the blush creeping up his neck. I wanted to push, but I figured I’d leave it until he was ready to spill the tea on his new flame, so Charli and I could begin the merciless teasing we were inevitably going to bombard him with.
I pull on my jeans, thick socks, and my softest hoodie—the one from the first junior rodeo I competed in—with a ripped neck and a hole in the right sleeve. My hair goes into a messy braid. No makeup. No mirror. The horses don’t care what the hell I look like.
Outside, the air bites. So cold that it makes my lungs ache when I breathe in deep. The moon hangs low and pale, throwing silver light across the paddock. The horses nicker softly when they hear the crunch of my boots on gravel.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “I’m coming.”
The barn doors groan when I slide them open. I flip the light switch just inside, and the overhead fluorescents flicker a few times before buzzing to life. Stalls line both sides, familiar faces peering out—ears pricked, eyes bright.
“Morning, handsome,” I tell my beautiful boy, Jupiter Rising, scratching his nose through the bars. “You’re looking particularly ornery this morning.”
He snorts.
The stall across from Jupiter is empty. Cabe must have beaten me out and is already on the back of his horse, riding out to check the perimeter.
I grab feed buckets, measure grain, talking as I go. I always talk to the horses. So does Charli. Cabe says it’s weird, but our mother used to do it all the time.
“You’re gonna eat, and then you’re gonna behave,” I tell Moonpie, a gorgeous palomino American quarter horse. “No biting, no kicking, no attitude. I know that’s a big ask.”
Once everyone’s fed, I start dumping and scrubbing water buckets, stacking them neatly near the hose. My hands are numbfrom the ice-cold water by the time I drag the hose across the concrete aisle.
I turn the corner near the haystacks—and freeze.
There’s a body.
A human body.
Stretched out across a pile of loose hay in a dark corner on the far side of the barn, near the doors that lead to the paddock.
