“You always did that,” I grumble.
“Did what?”
“Put everyone else above yourself. Your grandpa. Your brother. Me. The only time I ever saw you do anything for yourself was when you left. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. Turns out you just found another cause to commit to so you wouldn’t have to think about your own well-being.”
“I’m a selfish asshole, Willa. Don’t try to paint me as the good guy.”
“I’m not saying you’re the good guy. But you put everyone else first. You can lie to your club, and you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. You’d throw your life away for them like it doesn’t even matter because that’s what you think.”
“That’s what I know.”
My stomach knots because he clearly means it. Dean’s life never mattered to him; it’s why losing his mother was the final straw. After that, he had no sense of self-preservation. She loved him unconditionally—the first person to do so. And she was gone.
“You matter to me.” I glance at him, staring him in the eyes. “I wish you mattered to yourself, but I can’t force that on you. So just know that you matter to me.”
He searches my face, not arguing. Not agreeing either. He simply stares at me for a long time, considering what I said.
“I respect what you did for your club,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “But I’m glad you got out. That you didn’t spend the rest of your life there.”
“Me too.” He clears his throat. “Thanks for the letters, by the way. Surprised you wrote to me.”
“You got my letters?” My eyebrows pinch, and he nods.
After I heard Dean was in prison, I couldn’t shake the guilt over how we left things. I had so many regrets and no way to get them out. So I wrote him a few times, not saying much, but just making sure he knew someone was still thinking about him in case he needed a reason to fight through whatever he was going through.
“You never wrote me back.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “Didn’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad you got them.”
He nods, resting his hand beside mine on the bed. Our fingers brush, but we don’t cross that line, even when every part of me wants to. Even with alcohol swimming in my system, I know better.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. And as I drift to sleep, I swear I hear him say, “Thanks for thinking of me.”
The sun is barely cresting the horizon as I take off into the desert. This is my favorite time of day on the weekends. When my first chores of the day are done, and I get a break before breakfast.
Wind whipping through my hair.
Hands raw from how hard I’m gripping the reins.
Out here, I’m free.
Out here is the only escape from the yelling that’s become a constant in my house. Dad yells at Mom. She gets drunk and yells at me. It’s an endless cycle, while they both praise Eden. Because God forbid anything ruin her day.
I ride the property line, aiming toward the road when a car pulls over. No one pulls over out here because there’s nothing but endless ranches. I tug on the reins to slow my horse as a familiar dark head of hair pops out of the car.
Dean Graham.
He’s too hot for his own good.
Solid muscle from working on the ranch his whole life. Sun-kissed skin. A smile that leaves me breathless. Once, he held my hand when I tripped on a slippery spot in the school gym, and I still can’t stop thinking about his touch. Callouses that tell stories I’d like to know.
While his brother is relentless in his pursuit, I just want to get to know him.
Dean pays the cab driver and then pats the roof. He starts down the road as it pulls away, finally spotting me.
“That a new horse?” He angles his chin at her.
