I slide into my seat, trying to ignore the way my bones ache like I’ve been carrying more than the weight of the farm all morning. Trying to ignore the phantom memory of the look on Wren’s face when she realized I was standing there.
The screen door creaks again, followed by the sound of boots scuffing across the foyer floor. My mom steps into the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a leather binder tucked under her arm. She smells faintly of hay and copier ink, a strange blend that clings to her because she spends her mornings checking pastures before burying herself in the books.
Riggsby Cattle doesn’t run on grit alone. Mom’s the one who makes sure every dollar balances, every invoice is paid, every ranch hand’s paycheck clears. She’s spent years handling the finances, many of those years balancing raising children glued to her hip.
“Something smells good,” she says, offering Grandma a hug before making her way around the table. She sets the binder down on the counter, squeezes Grandpa’s shoulder, and presses a kiss to my cheek like she always does.
One thing about the Riggsbys—we don’t skimp on affection. We’ve learned the hard way how quickly loved ones can be ripped away.
She slides into the chair across from me, reaches for the soup, and glances around like she’s taking stock of all of us. “What’s going on here?”
“Your mother-in-law thinks your son is an idiot,” Grandpa says around a mouthful of cornbread.
“I never said idiot.” Grandma swats at him with her napkin. “I said he was acting exactly like you did at his age.”
“Which was—?”
“Like an idiot.” She levels him with a look that has me biting back a grin.
Mom narrows her eyes at me, spoon poised in midair. “What did you do, Jett?”
Before I can open my mouth, Grandma answers for me. Of course, she does. “Wren Drummond stopped by.”
The spoon in Mom’s hand halts halfway to her mouth. Her eyebrows lift, and I brace myself. “She’s home? I thought that was a rumor.”
“She’s back,” I say flatly, dragging a chunk of cornbread through the soup to keep my hands busy.
Mom studies me for a long second, then her lips press into a thin line. “Jett Samuel, do you have a black eye?”
Grandpa snorts, damn near choking on his soup.
My jaw tics. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Mom pushes back her chair, gripping my chin and coming closer, like she needs a better look. It’s a black eye, one I’ve sported too many times to count. “Are we back to this?” she snaps. “The fights. The recklessness. You promised when you came home, you’d leave all that behind.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I shove away from the table, pacing toward the sink, because sitting still feels impossible. “I wasn’t looking for a fight.”
“But you found one.” Her voice sharpens, disappointment dripping from every word. “You always do, don’t you?”
“It’s been years since I’ve been in a fight. You act like I came home three years ago and have found myself in weekly brawls down on Main Street.”
She sighs, shoulders dropping. “I can’t go back to how things used to be.”
“I get it, Mom. I do, but I’m not that same stupid boy, and it sucks you still think so little of me.”
The air in the kitchen grows heavy. Grandpa clears his throat, but Grandma sends him a look to silence him.
Grandma folds her arms, watching me like she’s waiting for me to admit something. Maybe she already knows. She's seen this all before. A wild son with more fists than sense. The only difference is—her wild son didn’t live past fifty.
I drag a hand through my hair, the weight of her stare pressing harder than any war zone ever did.
Mom’s shoulders lower slightly, voice quieter now. “Don’t fall back into your old ways, Jett.” Her voice works around the words. “You don’t get to raise hell anymore. Not when we all need you steady.”
I was always a wild child, ornery and unpredictable. Throughout high school, that turned into rebellion. I was popular in school, a jock, but I lived on the edge. Partying, pranks, pushing boundaries…and the law.
Riggsby Cattle doesn’t survive if I keep screwing up. We run nearly five thousand acres that stretch farther than the horizon. Every grazing plan, every calf born, every fence line repaired—my shoulders carry it.
I lean against the sink, arms crossed, my jaw aching from how tightly I’ve clenched it. My fingers twitch, needing a cigarette. I tried to quit when I came home, but the bad habit stuck. My black eye throbs with each heartbeat, a pulsing reminder of last night. Of Wren. Of the past I can’t outrun.
