But there’s something else there too.
Guilt.
Heavy. Suffocating.
The kind that settles deep in your bones and refuses to move.
Because I trusted her.
Because I left her there alone.
Because I wasn’t around enough to see what was happening right under my nose.
And because part of me—some sick, twisted part—still wonders if I should’ve known.
If I should’ve seen it coming.
If I could’ve stopped it.
I scrub my hands over my face, dragging myself back to the present.
Doesn’t matter now.
It’s done.
She made her choice.
He made his.
And I’m the idiot who got left standing in the wreckage.
I push off the counter and head for the door, needing air.
Needing space.
Needing anything but the ghosts in this place.
The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the ranch. Everything looks calmer in this light. Softer.
Deceptive.
I lean against the porch railing, staring out over the land.
I fucked up enough of my life to know this place is good. It’s my only chance at redemption.
Jersey Iron Ranch is real.
And part of it is mine.
Not because my asshole sperm donor greased some palms when I wasn’t looking.
We are building Jersey Iron Ranch from the ground up—and it’s going well. It’s something I can be proud of.
Not Ace Gunner’s empire built on lies and backroom deals.
Not the crooked bullshit he calls business—claiming stock that ain’t his, squeezing every dollar out of men who don’t know any better.
I spit into the dirt.
