“I know I won’t.” His smile was kind. “Where are you staying?”
“A short-term rental. A cottage a few miles from here. I’ll need to find something more permanent eventually, but it’ll work for now.”
“We have guest cottages on the property,” Bas said, looking to his father for confirmation. “Three of them. Empty this time of year. You could stay in one of those.”
I looked between them, not quite believing what I was hearing. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose?—”
“You’re not imposing,” Thomas said firmly. “Consider it part of the employment package. Bas will show them to you tomorrow morning. Pick whichever one you prefer. They’re all furnished, utilities included.”
His generosity overwhelmed me. I’d come here expecting to beg for a chance, to grovel and plead. Instead, I’d been given a job and a place to live.
“Thank you,” I said again. “Really. Thank you both.”
I drove backto my rental cottage two hours later, processing everything that had happened. The conversation had stretched on after dinner. Bas filling me in on their winery operations until Thomas announced that was enough shop talk for the night.
The best part was that they’d both treated me as a colleague. Someone whose opinion mattered.
Now, lying in an unfamiliar bed, I stared up at the dark ceiling. I should’ve felt relieved, but there were other things preventing me from relaxing.
The lie about going to Italy was merely the beginning. The rest of it—the other lies and secrets—would hurt both my father and Kick so much more if they found out.Whenthey found out.
I had to hope that, by then, I’d be strong enough to face whatever came next.
4
KICK
Igot home a few minutes after one in the afternoon. The drive back from the airport had taken less than an hour, but my hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel, and my jaw ached from clenching it the entire way.
Isabel was gone. On a plane to Italy. Walking away without looking back.
I sat in my truck, staring at my house, before cutting the engine. For the past few years, I’d been gone far more than I was home while Snapper and I chased the team-roping championship at every rodeo we could get to. Coming back to an empty house had never bothered me before.
It bothered me now. Maybe because I wouldn’t be heading out again any time soon. The companionship, the parties, and the women were now a thing of the past. Snapper’s shoulder injuries had sidelined both of us, and while he’d told me it wouldn’t bother him if Ifound another header, I never would. Snap and I had been a team since we were kids. It would take years to develop the same intuitive approach he and I had when it came to roping a steer in under four seconds. Hell, I’d heard someone just did it in three point two. No way we’d come close to that, especially at our ages. I’d turned thirty a couple of months ago, and Snapper was two years older than me. The two guys who won this year’s NFR were both twenty-three. Sure, there were guys older than us who still competed and made damn good money at it. But with every passing year, the injuries happened more often and got worse. Just like my brother’s.
What I hadn’t figured out yet was what the hell I’d do with the rest of my life. I could work at our family winery full-time. I helped out whenever I was home. It was good, honest work, and I loved being in the vineyards, but as the youngest of seven, I wouldn’t be in the running for head winemaker until I was in my seventies. Not that I aspired to be. That was the problem. Other than being a roper, I hadn’t aspired to a damn thing.
I forced myself out of the truck and went inside, where the silence pressed against my eardrums and thoughts of Isabel swirled around in my head. Why had she looked like she was going to a fucking funeral rather than her family’s swanky villa in Tuscany? I tried to shake my worry. She was fine. Not thinking about me—or us—at all. Then again, I was doing enough of that for her and me combined.
So why did my gut keep insisting something was off?
I dug out my phone and opened Instagram. Her last post was from three days ago—wine bottles at the Van Orr estate with some caption about holiday vintages. I scrolled through her feed, looking for updates. Airports. Planes. Italy.
Nothing.
Maybe she just hadn’t posted yet. The flight was long, and she’d just gotten in the air. Or maybe she’d outgrown social media like most of us had.
I closed the app and tossed my phone on the counter.
The rest of the day dragged. I unpacked my bag from Christmas. Did laundry. Fixed the fence in the backyard that had been sagging since November. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off Isabel.
It didn’t work. Even after I finally went to bed, sometime around two, she plagued my dreams.
The following day,Snapper called and asked if I wanted to help at the vineyard. Relief hit me before I even answered. Two days ago, my brother and I weren’t speaking. Now, he was inviting me back to work alongside him like he used to.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
We worked side by side, and while the rhythm was familiar, there was a carefulness between us that hadn’t been there before. Like we were both aware we’d almost broken something we couldn’t fix. He didn’t push for conversation, and neither did I. Being together was enough. The easy comradery would come back on its own if we didn’t try to force it.
