“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.“And thanks for taking the guys home.I’m sorry I ran out of there without saying goodbye.I should’ve?—”
She steps forward and silences me with a finger on my lips.
“Don’t.”Her eyes dart around my face before settling on my lips and the finger she has pressed against them.She blinks rapidly, a stunned expression filling her features, like she can’t quite believe she’s touching me, then she snatches her hand away and takes a step back.Clearing her throat, she meets my gaze once again.
“Shadow should be here any moment with the rest of the guys.Their trucks are safe in the lot for the night.”
My throat feels too tight, so all I do is nod.
A few moments later, Shadow pulls up driving Amelia’s beat-up Honda.If the circumstances were different, I’d probably laugh.Some men are born to ride horses; others are made for motorcycles.Shadow is the latter and seeing him struggle to climb out of Amelia’s car is a sight I likely won’t forget.
When he finally makes it out from behind the wheel, and straightens to his full height, he walks over to me and Amelia.He gives his cousin’s arm a squeeze, then fixes me with a stare.He doesn’t offer his condolences, nor does he give me a well-rehearsed speech.Shadow is a straight shooter, and I respect the fuck out of him.It’s the very reason we’ve stayed friends for as long as we have, despite our lives moving in totally different directions.
“Nothing I say will make any of this right.Just know I’m here if you need anything.”
“I appreciate it, man.”
He turns to Amelia.“You ready to go?”
Our eyes lock and for a moment, everything else fades away.
She’s all I see.
All I hear.
And fuck, do I want her to be the only thing I feel.
Pulling me out of my trance, she hands me Wyatt’s keys.“Again, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I pull my hand out of my pocket, and take the keys from her.Our fingers brush, and a familiar spark flickers to life.“Me too.”
It’s an open apology, spoken years too late.
I lift the whiskey bottle and pour the remaining liquid into the crystal tumbler.The bottle was full when I began my quest to erase the image of the coroner zipping the body bag containing my grandfather’s body from my mind.
I wish I could say my plan worked, that the hours I’ve spent drinking have not only bleached the horrid memory, but have made me numb to the tragedy.That’s just not the case, though.I’m not even numb, and the only thing I’ve done is prolong the inevitable.
Knocking back the last of the whiskey, I slam down the glass and reach for my phone.I try to recall the last time I picked up the phone to call my sister, but I can’t.I should feel guilty, but the phone works two ways, and while she’s been off, chasing her dreams, making a life for herself, I’ve been here struggling to preserve our family legacy, watching as our grandfather slipped away.
There were so many times I thought about asking her for help.I figured maybe she could take a sabbatical from her cushy life, come home and care for granddaddy.I wouldn’t have had to pay an aide or be in a constant state of worry every fucking day of my life.Hell, if Della were here, our grandfather might still be alive tonight.He would never have gotten on that fucking horse if she had been home, watching out for him.
My fingers curl around the phone, and my jaw clenches at the thought.In the back of my head, I know I’m doing exactly what Tyler told me not to, that I’m looking to cast blame on someone other than myself, but I just don’t seem to give a fuck.
I glance out the window as the phone rings and rings, cringing inwardly when I realize the sun isn’t even up yet, and my sister is probably in her tenth dream.But just as I’m about to end the call, Della’s voice floats through the line, and to my surprise, she doesn’t sound like I’ve woken her.
“Hey, Maddox.”
“Hey yourself,” I say, my tone hoarse, but at least I’m not slurring.“I didn’t realize the time.I should’ve waited a couple of hours.”
“It’s fine.You’re not the only one with an ungodly schedule.I worked through the night.I’m actually just getting ready to wrap things up here.”
That gives me pause.I don’t know much about Della’s job, but she works in an office and plays with numbers.Pulling an all-nighter when it’s not tax season doesn’t seem kosher to me.
“Is everything okay?You hardly ever call me,” she says.“Something wrong with the ranch?”
My gaze slides to Granddaddy’s recliner as I try to choose my next words carefully.The fact she would automatically assume there’s a problem with the ranch and not ask about our grandfather irks me.
“No, it’s not the ranch,” I clip.
