But what was there to show for any of it?When he died, he’d be leaving behind some rare Hank Williams records, the body of a ’64 Chevy truck, and an apartment overlooking Santa Monica.As for his day-to-day?He rose with an alarm instead of the sun, worked out or did some yoga in his home gym, then went to work where he pretended to be a cowboy, attended meetings and parties until it was time to hit the rack and do it all over again the next day.
None of it mattered, not really.That wasn’t necessarily a revelation.It’s why he’d paused all jobs except that dream one he’d told Cammie to fight for on his behalf.
But that was the thing.He’d fought so long for the superhero role, yet he wasn’t sure it was for him anymore.Maybe it was the whole Hollywood life that wasn’t, actually.Los Angeles, the traffic, the minutiae, the stress and pressure of fame following him every time he went out for a coffee…
If he got the role, that signed him onto at least four films, with the possibility for spinoffs.Which meant at least four or more years in the city.Did he want that?His heart was eerily quiet when he gave it room to answer on his behalf.
The only thing that made him feel alive and worthy most days was Max, his four-year-old golden retriever.An urge to bring him to the mountains and let him sniff out all the wildlife, a desire that was ingrained in his DNA yet lay dormant in the city, overpowered Jace.
His gaze traveled over the peaks and valleys, the shades of vibrant green and yellow less diluted than the coffee.His father’s legacy, on the other hand, was impressive.Something to literally hang his hat on.
Before he could make heads or tails of the decision, he found himself in his father’s barn, staring up at the wall of tools.The scent in the barn bowled over his senses.It was musty and metallic, with a hint of spring.He closed his eyes, felt his old man’s movements behind and around him.The way he’d swing a bale of hay as if it weighed no more than a bag of mountain air.Jace had almost thrown his back out trying to pretend he found hay baling as effortless as his old man.
He could feel the way his father grabbed tools for the day, reverence in his touch.He’d told Jace on more than one occasion,A man’s only as good as the tools he uses.Keeping them cared for is like loving a woman.There’s the right way and every other way.
Jace wondered if that particular advice about tools being an extension of a man came from his dad’s only time away from the ranch: a two-year tour in Vietnam.His dad never talked about that time in his life, either, though.No memories of war, no memories of Jace’s mother.Just the ranch.No wonder it was the place he felt his dad the most; it was all he knew of the guy.
A last memory surfaced just before Jace abandoned whatever foolhardy mission he’d been on when he’d come into the barn in the first place.His father had stood on the porch, a lemonade in his hand.Bless the guy for being the only rancher in three states who didn’t drink.
“It’s all gonna be yours one day, whether you want it or not,” he’d told Jace.“You don’t gotta run her like I do, just promise me you’ll give her the life she deserves.”
Fuck.
His dad’s words lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic twinge and Aurelie’s frustration that he might sell to some hotelier.
It doesn’t matter.It’s not her business what I do or don’t do with this place.
Wasn’t it, though?The thing was, a ranching community was an interconnected web, a family that only survived if they looked out for one another.How she understood that when it was clear as day she’d never stepped foot on a ranch before she met whatever member of the Connors family brought her there, was as much a mystery as the woman herself.
Still, she drove one point home.Jace grabbed a hammer and a crowbar, feeling the weight in his hands.They were solid, sturdy.Extensions of his father.Everything Jace wasn’t, at least until now.
You have a choice.You can change your path anytime you want.
Sure, that was true; he was already considering that when he’d come up to Montana in the first place.But to this?To the life he’d fled when he left Banberry?
It’s not the same life.You felt peaceful in the Connors’s home in a way you’ve been searching for your whole life.
Maybe that was true.Maybe he did.
Maybe that’s how he ended up at the edge of the sagging porch, three weathered and weak boards in pieces at his side.
Maybe that’s why something came loose in his chest.Not so much a lock clicking into place, as a noose being cut, freeing Jace.
“Fuck, Dad.I’m so sorry.”He stopped short at apologizing to himself, reasoning he didn’t deserve that, not yet, anyway.
Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t let them impede his work.He used the tools in the way he’d been taught by the master himself, needing only a few swings to get back in rhythm.Every film where he’d played a cowboy or rancher flashed in his memories, mingling with the reality of life on a ranch and nauseating him.How had he ever left a place as authentic as this for the city?
You had to.You wouldn’t have this perspective if you’d stayed.
He hammered that truth out of the boards under his hands.They broke as completely as his resolve, as wholly as the wall he’d built around himself when he’d left, hoping to bar himself from ever coming back.When that didn’t work, he went to his dad’s barn and got out the decades-old power saw.It sounded like a train coming through the valley, but damn if the thing still didn’t cut like it was slicing warm butter.They didn’t make ’em like they used to.
He put in headphones and got to work.
“What the actual hell are you doing?”
Jace looked up, the sunlit angel standing over him confusing his senses.She carried with her a floral scent that didn’t match any of the local flora.
“Aurelie?”
