Which makes it profoundly disturbing that I allowed a slip of a woman with whiskey-brown eyes and reckless courageto embrace me as though she possessed every right to offer comfort.
I finish the whiskey and consider pouring another, but that path leads toward the sort of thinking that created this predicament.
The kind that allows a man to believe he might claim things that were never intended for him.
The house settles around me with the familiar sounds of seasoned timber and accumulated memories. This study served as my father's sanctuary before becoming mine, and his father's before that.
Three generations of Blackwell men have occupied this chair, rendering the difficult decisions that maintain eight thousand acres and two hundred head of prime cattle.
Three generations of men who comprehended that duty must always supersede desire. Without exception.
I reach for Dusty's collar where it rests on the corner of my desk. Rich brown leather worn supple from years of faithful service, bearing a brass nameplate engraved simply "Dusty Blackwell."
I had removed it before his bath last week, intending to restore it once he dried. Now it remains all I possess of him while he recovers in Colt Mercer's clinic.
The irony proves more bitter than aged whiskey.
Of all the veterinarians in Montana, fate decreed that my injured companion should land upon Colt's doorstep.
The one man whose presence I cannot endure.
My phone vibrates again. This time the number unfamiliar, but the message causes my chest to constrict with unexpected force.
This is Lucy from the clinic. Dusty ate all his dinner tonight and his incision site looks good. Dr. Mercer says he should be able to go home in 2-3 days if he keeps improving. Thought you'd want to know. - L
I study the message longer than is prudent.
Professional, concise, precisely what I requested.
Yet there exists something in that simple dash-L signature, something intimate that transforms it from mere medical correspondence into something more personal.
Perhaps I am merely projecting desires I have no business entertaining.
She embraced me today.
This woman I scarcely know, this young lady employed by the man I have permitted to despise me for two years, had perceived something in my expression that compelled her to step forward and offer solace.
When did someone last extend such comfort? When did anyone last see beyond the Blackwell name, the wealth, the carefully maintained composure to glimpse the man beneath?
I delete the message and place the phone face-down upon the desk with deliberate finality.
Because preserving it suggests hope, and hope remains a luxury I relinquished two years past.
Lucy Reid is everything I should stay away from. She's young. She's the kind of woman who acts on instinct rather than logic. And she's loyal to Colt, which makes her dangerous territory for a dozen different reasons.
But when she'd stepped between me and Colt this morning, eyes blazing with righteous fury as she defended his medical competence, something had shifted in my chest. Not just because she was brave enough to challenge me, which not many are. But because she was right.
And because for the first time in two years, it appears that Colt Mercer has a woman willing to stand in his corner.
Guilt carves through my stomach like a dulled blade. Colt remains ignorant of the true reason I walked away from our friendship.
He doesn't know I stood outside our bedroom door and heard every word. Sophia's laughter as she told her friend how simple it was to make two grown men dance to her tune. How she'd already decided I was the better mark. All that Blackwell money wrapped up in a man desperate to be loved, while Colt was just a distraction.
He loved Sophia with complete devotion. He wouldn’t be able to bear the heartbreak.
So when I put an end to Sophia’s ambition and she decided to leave, Colt blamed me. He got angry with me. And that anger led to hate.
It was better that way. Anger and hate are better emotions to have other than heartbreak. They lead to act. To react.
