So much has stayed the same, and yet, there’s so much that’s different.
Still, Lanceleaf is home.
Vegas might be where I put down my roots, but with Willa’s arms banded around my waist, there’s no denying that this is the town that made me who I am.
We ride through, not stopping. Downtown fades at a distance as I continue on the long stretch that leads to all the ranches. Willa’s grip tightens when we pass the Elliott Ranch sign, but I keep going. We’ll deal with herfather another day. It’s already getting late, and I know she’s tired.
I considered staying at the motel in town and putting off this conversation with Kincaid until tomorrow but decided against it. He needs to know I’m here and that I’m not backing down. As of right now, the ranch is as much mine as it is his. If we’re staying anywhere, it’s going to be in one of the many bunkhouses or cabins on my family’s land.
My hand finds the back of Willa’s, as I try to calm her. Or maybe I’m trying to calm myself. The thought of coming face-to-face with my brother after twelve years has me on edge.
The Ironside Ridge sign has been redone recently, but it still looks just as I remember, with bull horns on either side. I recall hanging a new one with my grandfather after a brutal winter storm fifteen years ago. We got the worst winds I’d ever seen. The barn took a beating, and the sign that had been around since Grandpa bought this land broke off the old wood posts.
It took weeks to put everything back together, but we did it through hard work and sweat. That’s how things are around here, which isn’t much different from the clubhouse.
As I pull down the road, I take in the barns, the outbuildings, the fences, and finally Grandpa’s house. I’m relieved to see some of that patchwork still there. Generations laying their hands on it. Tending to it. Taking it apart and rebuilding it.
Kincaid used to believe in that as much as I did. With me gone and Tate in his head, that’s clearly changed.
My grip on the handlebars tightens, irritation strumming through me.
The moment we pull up to the front of the house, Kincaid steps out. I haven’t seen my brother in over a decade, and I hate that his face still reminds me too much of Mom. It’s only gotten stronger the more he’s grown into himself.
But other than that, he’s no longer the cocky kid I used to pull pranks on. He’s practically a stranger, wearing a brand-new cowboy hat and perfectly polished boots. It’s like he doesn’t even work the land anymore. With all the new machinery and people coming and going, he probably doesn’t.
Kincaid leans against the railing as I pull to a stop, watching me closely as I help Willa off the bike and take her helmet.
She’s yet to look at him. Her lower lip is red from where she’s been nibbling on it.
I tilt her chin up, forcing those stormy-gray eyes to me. “I’ve got you.”
She nods, swallowing hard. Her fingers lace through mine as we walk toward the house.
“Look whose back.” Kincaid smirks, lifting off the railing. He slowly makes his way down the steps, pausing at the bottom. “Willa.”
“Kincaid.” She juts her chin up.
On the outside, she’s all strength and defiance, but her palm is sweaty as she presses closer to me.
“I see my brother didn’t kick you to the curb when you showed up in Vegas. Interesting.” His smile grows as he looks at me. “You having fun with my sloppy seconds?”
The angry beast I’ve had on a leash the past twelve years uncoils. I reach for my gun, pressing the barrel to the center of my brother’s forehead.
“You talk about her like that again, and I’ll repaint the front door with your fucking brain matter.”
Kincaid’s smile falters the slightest, but I don’t flinch. I stare him in the eyes to make sure he knows I mean it. After all the shit he’s put her through, he’s not going to shame her.
We all have a past. Everyone does shit they’re not proud of. He doesn’t get to judge her for it.
“Sorry, sorry.” Kincaid chuckles. “Bad joke.”
We both know he wasn’t joking, and that’s his mistake. He still thinks of me as the version of myself back when I lived here. A little reckless, but harmless, nonetheless. I’m not that person anymore. Blood or not, if he fucks with Willa, I will plant a bullet in his head. He’s going to regret forcing me to come back.
I lower the gun, and Willa rests her hand on my arm, rubbing it like she’s trying to soothe me.
The door to the house swings open again, and my spine stiffens as my stepdad walks out. His hair is fully gray now, and the sun has worn lines into his face. He’s just as smug as his son as he walks over to us.
“Good to see you, Dean,” he lies. “Afraid it’s a bit of a wasted trip. Your little attempts to scare our potential investors failed. Seems we have enough of them fullyinvested to convince the probate judge it’s in the ranch’s best interests to let them help settle our debts.”
