by Lori Wilde
“Why are we shoeing horses?” Rhett asked. “You’ve got cowhands for this.”
“You too good to shoe horses?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
Ridge’s head shot up. “What are you saying, little brother?”
“Why are we out here, Ridge?”
“Is it wrong to want to spend time with my brother?”
Suspicion was a cold knife blade underneath his shoulders. He’d forgotten how manipulative his family could be. “Duke put you up to this, didn’t he?”
Ridge had the good grace to look abashed. “Duke wants to see all his grandchildren grow up here on the Silver Feather.”
“I don’t give a shit what he wants. After the childhood he put us through? Narcissistic old sot.”
“You’re being defensive,” Ridge accused.
“The old man is trying to control you,” Rhett said. “To control both of us. It’s what he does.” And it was the reason that Rhett had taken refuge in the PBR.
“He’s changed. After the heart attack and the twins. You haven’t been around much the last few years to see it.” Ridge straightened, put down his tools, and dusted his palms together.
“Unless he’s had a personality transplant, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Rhett snorted.
“Just so you know, Vivi and I talked him into going to see a psychologist after the heart attack.” Ridge rested his arm on the horse stall gate.
Rhett’s jaw dropped. The thought of his domineering father in therapy stretched his imagination to the breaking point. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“You’re always in party mode, working out, or in the arena. Whenever I tried to bring up the old man, you’d wave me off.”
True enough. But he still didn’t trust his father. Too many times the old man had pitted him and his brothers against each other. Making first one, then the other, either the scapegoat or the golden child. “Dad is reason enough to let Tara have the baby,” Rhett said. “She’s always stood up to him. It’s why he doesn’t like her.”
“He doesn’t dislike Tara. He just believes Lockharts belong on the Silver Feather.”
Rhett’s body buzzed as if he’d barely dodged a highway collision. The barn seemed airless, claustrophobic. Tightening his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the judgmental smirk on his older brother’s face. He knotted his hands into rock fists. Chunked out the words as if he were spewing gravel. “See? Right now, he’s got you acting like his flying monkey. Controlling.”
“You’re being overly dramatic.” Ridge’s tone was even, reasonable. “I know this is a touchy topic, and Duke is a complicated man, but don’t walk away from your daughter simply to spite him.”
Rhett let loose with a string of curse words. “I can’t believe you’re lobbying his case. You of all people. The one he mistreated the most.”
“That’s the thing. If I’m willing to forgive him, you should be too. We can put this family back together again. We can stop the legacy of abuse.”
“Not by letting Duke get his way.”
“This isn’t about him and you know it.”
Rhett jutted out his chin, felt contrary. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
“I’m on Julie’s side.”
Rhett’s heart slid up and down his chest as old emotion churned. He remembered the beatings meted out as punishment. The verbal abuse that their father had dished up on a daily basis. Belittling him and his brothers for not being tough enough. Was that where his anxiety over being a father was coming from? Fear of being like Duke?
Ridge seemed to read his thoughts. “You’re not going to be like him. Look at me with Ingrid and Cody. They completely changed my life in all the best ways. I love them to the moon and back, and no matter how I was raised, or maybe even because of the way I was raised, I would never ever abuse them the way we were abused. And neither will you.”
“Can you look me in the face and tell me honestly that I’m the best thing for her?”
Ridge’s steely gaze slammed into Rhett’s. “Brother, a girl needs her daddy. Don’t turn away from her.” He paused for a measured beat, added, “Please.”
Rhett’s pulse was a drum, beating against his ears. Could he actually be a decent father? But how? He was self-centered and shallow. He didn’t deny it. He’d built his life around his own needs and desires without thought of anyone else.
Ridge’s phone dinged. He pulled it from his pocket, checked the text message. “Tara and the baby will be at our house at one. Bridgette and Armand,” he said, referring to Tara and Kaia’s parents, “are already there with Granny Blue.”
Rhett let out a groan. He was not the elderly Apache woman’s favorite person. Granny Blue had given him a rash of crap the brief few weeks that he and Aria had dated. She’d called him a scallywag and said he needed to grow up and stop acting like a boy. What would she have to say about Julie?
He was not looking forward to making conversation with Tara’s paternal grandmother. Or Tara, for that matter. She got her moxie from her granny; that much was evident.
Truth was, he hadn’t been able to get Tara out of his mind all week. He thought about her in odd moments. The fuzz of early morning, in between sleeping and wakefulness. How she’d bought strawberry wafer cookies to serve when she knew he was coming. One day, as he stood in line in the grocery store, he’d spied a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. He remembered that when they were kids, she’d loved Juicy Fruit. He’d bought a pack and stuck it in his back pocket. He’d planned on giving it to her as a peace offering. But now it just seemed stupid and weird.
“Rhett?” His brother’s voice brought him back into the room.
“Huh?”
“You gonna stay here and pout or you gonna go to the party?”
He was still ticked at Ridge, but it seemed less attention-getting to show up with his brother than to come in alone. Although neither would be fun. He’d already gotten a heap of ribbing from his father, brothers, and friends about the baby. That morning, he’d found a box of condoms on the dashboard of his truck.
Ha-ha. Everyone was a joker.
“Hey,” Ridge said. “All testing and teasing aside. You know when it comes down to brass tacks, whatever you decide, Kaia and I always have your back, right?”
“I know you do. But Kaia is Tara’s sister.”
“Doesn’t matter what we think. I’ll support you in your bid for custody. I’ll speak up for you at the hearing. We’ll help you.”
“What about Tara?”
“Julie isn’t Tara’s biological child. Much as Kaia loves her sister, right is right. And it’s right for a girl to be with her biological dad.”
“But Tara loves Julie as if she were her own.”
Ridge ducked his head, shuffled his boots. “There’ll be other babies for Tara. Babies who don’t have a father who wants them.”
It was too much. He was split right in two. Rhett walked to the barn door, banged his head repeatedly on the wall.
“You okay?” Ridge’s voice was thick and cottony, tinged with concern.
Rhett turned to his brother once more. “Not really.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Invent a time machine so I can go back and not sleep with Rhona.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I might be able to help.”
“No.”
“Okay, I can respect that.” Ridge bobbed his head.
Rhett didn’t intend on spilling his guts. No sir. Not in the least.
But his eyes met Ridge’s and he just started babbling. “I feel like there is a giant detonation button dangling in front of me, and if I push it, I’ll blow everything up. But if I don’t push it, the ground will crack open and swallow me whole.”
“Do you want to blow it up?” Ridge asked.
Acid burned its way up Rhett’s throat, and when he spoke, he said the truest thing he knew. “I think I already did.”
Chapter 9
Rag doll: What a rider looks like when he’s hung up and dragged around.
Tara walked into Kaia’s kitchen on the east side of Silver Feather Ranch, dreading seeing Rhett again. She hadn’t seen him or heard from him since the parenting class, and she’d gotten her hopes up again that he was backtracking on the notion of filing for custody.
The silent treatment was a bit maddening and left her in limbo. Although she realized he was probably in limbo too, still debating on whether he was ready to give up the PBR and become a full-time father.
She’d thought about texting him, just to check in, but thought better of it and let things lie. But radio silence escalated her anxiety. What exactly was the man up to?
Kaia was sitting in the corner breakfast nook nursing Cody, a baby blanket discreetly covering her. Her sister’s son was the same age as Julie, and Tara couldn’t help comparing her tiny little foster daughter to her robust nephew. At four months old, the differences between a preemie and a baby born at term were significant.
Granny Blue and her mother were looking after the rest of the children in the big den, baby gates set up at the doors. The minute Tara had walked into the house, Mom had confiscated Julie, plopped down in a rocking chair, and shooed Tara into the kitchen. “Go spend time with your sisters.”
Tara’s sister-in-law, Casey, was bustling between the stove and the kitchen island, taking cocktail sausages, wrapped in crescent roll dough, out of the oven.
“Thanks for rescuing the pigs in a blanket,” Kaia called to her sister-in-law.
“No prob.” Casey got mustard and ketchup from the fridge. “I know what it’s like to wish for a clone.”
The kitchen smelled of memories. A feast was spread out on the sideboard, a blend of Texas cowboy cuisine and Mescalero Apache fare—barbecue brisket, fried green tomato and okra rolled in cornmeal, potato casserole, green beans, venison steaks, cornbread, acorn squash stew, and peach cobbler for dessert.
Aria was manning the Vitamix, whipping up banana daiquiris for the party. Aria worked as a wedding planner for Vivi Lockhart, Rhett’s stepmother. The Silver Feather was a popular wedding venue in Cupid and the surrounding towns of Fort Davis, Marfa, and Alpine.
“Anything I can do to help?” Tara asked.
“Drink this.” Aria pressed a daiquiri in Tara’s hand. At twenty-five, Aria was still single and carefree.
“Thanks.” Tara took a sip.
“Where’s Julie?” Aria asked. “I haven’t met that little love button yet.”
“Mom insisted on stealing her.” Tara cast a glance over her shoulder toward the den.
“I still can’t believe Rhett has a baby daughter.” Aria shook her head, sending her fall of dark straight hair swinging about her shoulders. “Such craziness!”
“Why can’t you believe it?” Kaia asked, rearranging herself and draping a well-fed Cody across her shoulder to burp him. “It was bound to happen eventually. Play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”
“Despite his fast and loose reputation, Rhett was always careful to use condoms,” Aria said.
All eyes swiveled to Aria.
“What?” A nonchalant shrug rolled off her shoulders. “We had a good time together. That’s all.”
“I’ve got a question for you,” Kaia said. “Did you hear the hum when you kissed him?”
“What?” Aria pulled back her chin, shook her head, looked at Kaia as if she’d lost her ever-loving marbles. “With Rhett? No way. Why would you even ask that?”
“Kaia heard the hum with Ridge. Ember with Ranger . . .” Casey supplied.
“So, you think all the Alzate women are soul mates for the Lockhart men?” Aria laughed and sank her hands on her tiny waist. “That idea is as nutty as the humming thing itself. Rhett wasn’t The One.”
“The legend is truth.”
They all turned to see Granny Blue standing in the doorway. Her braided gray hair looped into a neat crown atop her head. She headed for the coffeepot, poured herself a half cup, and turned to face her granddaughters.
“Ember and Kaia know what’s real,” Granny Blue said.
“Absolutely.” Kaia got up, wrapped her arm about their tiny grandmother’s waist, and leaned against her. Kaia wasn’t much taller than Granny Blue’s five-foot-one. Aria was a bit taller at five-three. Ember was five-five. At five-foot-seven, Tara felt like a tree among her diminutive family members.
From the time they were small children, Granny Blue had been telling the four Alzate sisters a fantastical story about true love. According to the legend, when the women from Granny Blue’s lineage kissed their soul mates, they heard an indisputable humming in their heads and knew immediately they’d found their One and Only.
Kaia vowed it had happened to her when she kissed Ridge. Ember backed her up, saying the same thing happened when she’d kissed Ranger.
Tara didn’t believe in the legend. She was a nurse, for crying out loud. Her education was grounded in science. She was practical, and down-to-earth. She had always been the sensible one.
When they were kids and their mother read Little Women to them, Ember pronounced that she was Jo, except for the writing thing, Kaia was Beth, Aria was Amy, and Tara was Meg. Aria had gotten miffed at that and thrown an Amy-style fit. Tara might have been offended except it was true. Like Meg March, she was responsible, motherly, and kind. Kaia had been the most upset, saying, “I am not Beth. I don’t intend on dying young.”
“It’s just a book,” Tara had comforted her younger sister at the time. “And Ember is being silly.”
Still, there was a grain of truth in Ember’s equating the traits of the four Alzate girls with the March siblings.
“When you hear the hum . . .” Kaia sighed dreamily. “Everything changes.”
As far as Tara was concerned, the humming story was simply a self-fulfilling prophecy. Her sisters wanted the legend to be true. They wanted to believe in it, so when they kissed the men they were falling in love with, through the power of suggestion, their brains produced the humming sound. Suggestible. The placebo effect. The humming myth, while romantic, was nothing more than that.
Besides, Tara had been in love before. And she hadn’t heard a thing when she kissed Kit. Not humming. Not ringing. Not a whisper. The lack of love music hadn’t changed her feelings for him one whit.
Granny Blue had told her that the missing hum meant Kit had not been her soul mate. Tara had kept quiet. Kit was a good man. But she hadn’t wanted to get into an argument with her grandmother.
Tara was a team player who could readily put the needs of others first when need be, which was why nursing had been such a perfect fit. Granny Blue claimed Tara’s personality stemmed from the earth element in her sign. Tara was too sensible to buy into something as unscientific as astrology. Which, Granny Blue claimed with delight, was exactly something an earthy Taurus would say.
As a natural historian, Tara was fascinated by Native American lore. She was the one who bought a yearly subscription to Ancestry.com, plotted their family tree, and compiled the myths, legends, and tall tales. She credited her Grandfather Alzate for her love of history. She’d been his favorite grandchild, and everyone knew it. Although she couldn’t say for sure if she’d been the favorite because she loved listening to his stories of the Wild West days in the Trans-Pecos and their Mescalero Apache heritage, or if she’d loved the stories because he’d favored her.
Grandfather Alzate had been educated at Sul Ross University in Alpine, sent by his employer, Cyril Lockhart, back in the 1950s, to learn animal husbandry and natural resource management. He spoke fluent English, but with Tara, he would utter the Apache words he didn’t use with anyone other than Granny Blue and her father, Armand.
Her grandfather had once said to her, “If you children were school subjects, Archer would be math, Ember would be science, Kaia would be social studies, Aria would be art, and you would be history, Shindálé.”
She loved when he would call her by the Mescalero name for a patern
al grandchild. In his native tongue, when a grandfather called his grandchild Shindálé, the child called him Shindálé in return. It was only later she learned the complicated language rules for Mescalero Apache kinship that differed so greatly from English, but it seemed like their secret code.
Shindálé.
The term of endearment had made her feel special and she set out to learn the language of her ancestors from her grandparents. She was the only one of her brother and sisters who spoke Mescalero Apache. She’d also, as part of her job in the NICU of a border town, learned Spanish.
When Tara was fourteen, Grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. She was the only grandchild who spent hours at his bedside, fetching him glasses of cold buttermilk, holding his hand, reading to him from the history books he loved to debunk. She would fluff his pillows and smooth the covers and put a cool cloth to his forehead when he felt feverish and offer him ice chips.
“You are a born nurse,” he told her in the end, his eyes burning bright with gratitude. “It is your sacred calling, Shindálé.”
The minute he said it, she knew he was right, and from then on, her career in medicine had been set in stone. He’d even left a modest sum for her education in an envelope he’d given to Granny Blue, with the strictest instructions not to let any of the other grandchildren find out about the gift. The money had paid for her first year’s tuition at Sul Ross. To this day, her siblings were clueless, and Tara would never tell. No point stirring up hurt feelings.
She missed her grandfather something terrible.
“Tara will find her soul mate,” Granny Blue was saying, and it was only then that Tara realized a whole conversation had been going on without her.
“Huh?” She blinked.
“You’ll find him,” Granny Blue reiterated. “I know you’ve given up hope, and that’s why you were prepared to adopt Julie on your own and become a single parent, but he’s out there. I promise you.”
“How do you know?” Tara said, feeling rankled and defensive. “Maybe it’s my lot to walk this world alone.”
“There’s a lid for every pot.” Granny Blue’s smug smile was armor against Tara’s scowl. “He’s out there.”