So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
For the day that Nash came back to Suncreek Ridge, to the ranch, tohim.
In between all the waitin’ and sleepless nights, Patrick found comfort in the letters he received from oneMiss Natty Mae. He wondered if Nash’s wife knew he was usin’ her name to sendPatrick letters. If she cared at all that Nash didn’t love her like a husband should love his wife. If she was happy being second fiddle to the men in Nash’s life—to Patrick. He also wondered if life would always be some type of awful waitin’ game, and whether or not he could stomach these long hot months all alone after gettin’ a taste of what it meant to want and be wanted.
LeeAnne visited the ranch on a random Friday at the turn of the season when the leaves on the trees began to shift colors. All the men, aside from Patrick, had gone into town for the first time in months to celebrate another successful season. Patrick was smokin’ a cigarette on the front porch when he saw LeeAnne’s big, ole, shiny truck kickin’ up dust from miles away. The thing was twice as big as Patrick’s beater, but he didn’t have much use for a truck that size. LeeAnne did a lot of haulin’ and travelin’ between ranches—especially after marryin’ into the Mueller family who owned one of the biggest supply stores this side of town.
“Baby!” she shouted, hopping out of the cab. “Where the hell have you been? I feel like I ain’t seen you in ages!”
Patrick shrugged, flickin’ ash off his cigarette. “Right here. Ain’t been nowhere but to see Mama.”
LeeAnee’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Whatchu poutin’ about?”
Patrick cut his eyes at her. “I ain’t poutin’.”
“Bullshit. We’re kin, so I know when somethin’ ain’t right with ya. Now spill. Did one of those pretty girls from outta town break your heart again?”
Patrick shrugged one shoulder, brushin’ off the subtleagainlike dirt off his pants. Back when he was younger, he had an awful habit of gettin’ wrapped up in a fling with a buckle bunny that was visitin’ for the rodeos. LeeAnne had, unfortunately, found Patrick heartbroken one too many times. “Somethin’ like that.”
LeeAnne plopped down next to him. “Pat, I know we ain’t the closest, but you’re part of the only family I got. Now tell me what’s goin’ on.”
“Ain’t nothing, Lee, Jesus Christ. Can’t a man enjoy a cigarette in peace ‘round here,” he snapped.
“You ain’t been off this ranch since God knows when! And seein’ your mama don’t count. You used to come down to Broken Spoke at least once a week, but you haven’t been down there since—” LeeAnne slapped her hand to her mouth. “Pat, don’t tell me—”
“LeeAnne, I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ but”—he pointed at her, cigarette danglin’ precariously between two fingers—“you best shut your mouth.”
“Pat, if somethin’ happened—”
“LeeAnne. I’m warnin’ ya.”
“I just want to know if—”
“Leave it.”
“—he hurt you?”
“Jesus Christ.” He stood abruptly and stomped on his cigarette. “Can’t have no fuckin’ peace, not even in my own God damn home.”
“So nothin’—”
“Ain’t nothin’ happened, LeeAnee, fuckin’ Christ almighty. Can’t you fuckin’ listen for once in your God damn life?” Patrick froze upon hearin’ his father’s voice intermingled with his own. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Lee. I didn’t mean to snap at ya.”
“You wanna tell me what’s really got you so messed up, or are you gonna keep fussin’ about like an old hen?”
Patrick glanced over his shoulder towards the long, endless driveway. He couldn’t hear any trucks, probably wouldn’t 'til well into the night. Sighin’, he ran his fingers through his hair—which was in desperate need of a cut—then gestured towards the door. “Might as well go inside and make yourself comfortable.”
Inside the house, they stood in the kitchen, nursin’ cold beers fresh from the fridge and leanin’ against the counters. Patrick rolled the words around in his mouth, tryin’ to figure out how they tasted, how they felt, how they might sound out loud.
“Pat, you know I love you, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that. Not a damn thing. Whatever it is you’re keepin’ inside that’s eatin’ you up, you ain’t gotta deal with it alone.”
Patrick’s body burned, and his throat grew tacky like it always did when he got close to cryin’. “I wish it was that easy. That it was just somethin’ rotten that happened, but”—he chuckled dryly—“it’s almost worse than that.”
“What do you mean?”
