by Larissa Ione
Oh, shit. He’d forgotten about that. Mostly. “I told you I was sorry.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“The card must have gotten lost in the mail.” He hadn’t sent a card, and going by the skepticism on Zeke’s face, his brother suspected as much. “Aren’t you even going to ask how long I’m going to stay?”
“Nope.” Zeke folded his arms across his chest, going full-on mule. “Don’t care. You’re welcome to stay until the end of the month, and if you’re still here then, you’d better decide what you’re going to do.”
Chase felt like he’d been sucker punched. He’d made mistakes...he’d made a lot of mistakes. But he’d always remembered to send presents for the kids at Christmas and for their birthdays, and when they’d gotten older, he’d sent graduation gifts. No matter where he was, he kept an eye on news that came out of Storm, and he’d always gotten a kick out of seeing his mayor brother talk to the media.
“Guess I’ll go get the condiments myself.” Zeke walked away, leaving Chase alone and feeling like crap.
He wandered around, chatting with everyone who didn’t think he was little more than a vagrant, and as he ate his burger and the fall-off-the-bone roast suckling pig, he talked with Tara and her family, reconnecting.
“You know what this party needs?” Tucker asked as he joined their little group at the picnic table. “Some guitar music.”
Chase’s blood froze. “I don’t think so. I just ate, and I drank too much beer...”
“I haven’t seen you with a single beer,” Tara said, clearly not buying his excuse. “Come on, Uncle Chase. We want to hear you play.”
Carol clapped her hands, and her filthy, ragged doll fell to the ground. “Please, Uncle Chase?”
“Please?” Danny joined in, putting down the ketchup bottle he’d been playing with to give Chase big puppy-dog eyes.
As much as he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t have a good reason to refuse. So, with great reluctance, he fetched his guitar from his room and sat down in one of the chairs near the bonfire Zeke and Tate had built when the sun began to go low on the horizon.
As he took the well-used instrument out of its case, he ran his fingers lovingly over the smooth wood and rounded curves. She was a lady who had never hurt him, who had been there for all his important moments, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows.
I’ve neglected you lately. But it’s not you, it’s me.
Closing his eyes, he plucked at a string. There it was, a sound like a lover’s whisper. He did it again and again, letting the tones fill his soul. As his nerves settled, he started playing in earnest. Drawn to the music, everyone gathered around, the energy in the air building like an electrical storm, and pretty soon it turned into a sing-along and a dance contest.
He lost track of how long he played, but he knew when he’d played too long. It was the tremors. The stinging sensation in his fingers. He was in the middle of a song and there was no way he could stop without raising questions. But he kept missing notes and he suddenly felt very, very out of tune.
No one seemed to notice, but damn, he was sweating. His focus was narrowing and shifting, and when he looked up from his guitar, to his horror, the world spun. Or maybe it was the dancing, but either way, he felt as if he was coming apart at the seams.
Somehow he made it to the end of the song, and he put on a big smile and waved. “Thanks, everyone, but I’m done. You were a great crowd tonight.”
There was laughter and clapping, and then everyone went back to partying, and he got to try to put away his guitar without shaking like a leaf.
“I didn’t think it was possible for you to play worse than you did when you left,” Anna Mae said as she strutted past him, nose in the air.
Her words stung even though he knew she was lying. She used to love to listen to him play. But as music and wanderlust took time away from her, she began to resent his guitar. And later, him.
Jogging, he caught up to her before she got to the house. “Annie—”
She snarled at him from over her shoulder. “You do not get to call me that. Not anymore.”
He’d always called her that. Hell, he was the only person brave enough to do it. The fact that he no longer had that privilege hit almost as hard as his medical diagnosis had.
“Fine,” he said wearily. “But we should talk.”
She kept marching, head high, spine so stiff he figured it would snap if he touched her. Not that he would do that. She’d bite his hand off and give him rabies.
“About what?”
God, he hated it when she did that. When she was being difficult for the sake of being difficult. “What the hell do you think?” He picked up his pace, determined to stay next to her. She’d always walked freakishly fast when she was being pissy. Those long legs could move. And they could wrap around a man’s waist and make him beg for mercy. Of course, his waist had been a lot smaller back then. “We need to talk about the fact that I’m back in town and we’re going to run into each other.”
“Obviously, we’re going to run into each other.” She waved her hand dismissively, the rings she’d worn for years glinting in the light from the tiki torches that lit the path to the porch. “I knew you’d be here today. I just assumed you’d have the good grace to stay away from me.”
“Dammit, Anna Mae,” he sighed, too exhausted to play nice. “I’m not going to live like that. Life’s too short.” His recent diagnosis had made that very clear to him.
Stopping suddenly, she rounded on him, her expression a strange mix of anger and what he could only describe as fear. But of what? “Does that mean you plan to stay?”
He didn’t have a choice. And after a life of total freedom, of sleeping where he wanted, of eating what he wanted, of drinking all he wanted, the lack of choice tasted bitter. Now it was all slow down, eat healthy, exercise, take your medicine, and make good with the family.
“Yes, I’m going to stay.”
Her expression fell, and for the first time since he’d been back, he saw the age in her face. Anna Mae had always been a striking woman, and that hadn’t changed. But she had a few more wrinkles, a lot more white hair, and her lips weren’t as full as he remembered.
Her snort of derision was the same, though. “What does Zeke say about you hanging out like a stray dog? I’m sure he loves having you around.” The sarcasm had gotten a little old, too.
“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t.” The pain of admitting that was sharper than he expected.
“So you’re just going to hang out, all unwelcome, at your brother’s place?”
Chase waited until after Bryce walked past with Carol before he answered in a lowered voice. “Anna Mae, I know I let you down. I know I left you—”
“Yeah, you left me,” she snapped. “You left and never looked back. You never called or wrote. I had to hear about your exploits through the grapevine. Did you even miss me?”
“Of course I did.” His heart had ached for her. He’d kept her picture with him at all times, taking it out often, usually while in a drunken stupor, to study her eyes, her lips, the lush body he used to worship with his own. “I missed you every damned day.”
She sneered. “I might believe you if you’d ever once called.”
He’d tried. Several times. But he always hung up before she answered.
“I couldn’t,” he said, swallowing the raw note in his voice. “I couldn’t bear to hear your voice.” He tucked his trembling right hand into his pocket, afraid she’d notice. Afraid she’d see his weakness and pounce on it like a coyote on a wounded rabbit. “If I had, I might have wanted to come back.”
“And would that have been so bad?” She watched him expectantly, as if she was hoping for an answer that would ease the pain he’d caused her.
“Yeah. Back then, it would have. I needed to get away, Annie.” He’d felt trapped in this small town. His soul had demanded excitement and adventure and freedom, and the mere thought of settling down, even with
a woman he loved, had filled him with dread and fed his depression.
“You needed to get away more than you needed to be with me,” she said quietly. “You needed to get away from me.”
She looked so vulnerable, so fragile, and his mind flashed back to the day he’d told her he was leaving—with or without her. Even now, she pressed her hands to her belly the same as she’d done back then, as if she was going to throw up.
“It wasn’t you, Anna Mae, I swear.” Instinctively, he reached for her, but she sidestepped, and his hand fell to his side. “Please believe me. I needed to get away before I lost my mind.”
“Well,” she said, hardening her voice as her body went rigid again, “I hope it was worth it. I hope your mind is happy and healthy and whole, because that was not how you left me.”
She turned her back on him and walked away, just like he’d done to her all those years ago.
And no, his mind was not happy and healthy and whole, and neither was his body.
You have Parkinson’s disease.
The words, spoken by a doctor in Nashville, rang like a death knell in his ears. Sure, the diagnosis wasn’t fatal, but it might as well be.
Because for someone like him, who needed freedom as much as he needed air, being trapped in a body that wouldn’t cooperate was its own special kind of hell.
Chapter Nine
As Ian looked out over acres of gently rolling hills, he thought about how different Texas was from Montana. Obviously, he’d known that, had been through the state a time or two when he was in the military. He just hadn’t paid attention back then.
But now he could feel it in the air and hear it in the chirps of birds and insects that weren’t as common or that even existed up north. In this part of Texas, the green hills kept the horizon close. Back home, the land was flat as a sheet, dotted only by the odd plateau. You could see forever, all the way to the majestic mountains in the distance.
There was a certain appeal to Texas, but he had Montana in his blood, and he didn’t think he’d survive long without real mountains within sight. The military had dragged him around for almost ten years, always stationing him in shitholes, and he’d missed the Rockies every single day. Back then, he’d hoped to show his son the mountains someday, but that wasn’t going to happen now.
“Mr. Briggs? You sure you don’t want to look at another property?”
Ian turned to the real estate agent, Grady, a middle-aged man whose plate-sized silver and turquoise belt buckle barely peeked out from beneath his beer belly. “I like this one.”
“But it’s no longer for sale.” He dabbed at his sweaty brow with a blue handkerchief he plucked from his taupe suit jacket. People still used handkerchiefs? “Mr. Harlan just signed the papers.”
“He signed yesterday. The ink isn’t even dry yet, so he hasn’t moved forward with his plans.” Apparently, Griffin Harlan, some movie star, wanted the land for a vineyard and winery. He was calling it Hollywood & Vine, and the plan was to get star power behind the label. The wines would then be named after Hollywood legends and movies. Interesting concept.
“He won’t sell,” Grady insisted, “and even if he did, the price would be astronomical. Now, the adjacent property is for sale. It’s half the size, but it’s the closest property to Storm, and you said you didn’t want anything too remote.”
A truck came around the corner, but instead of passing by, it turned into the drive. Ian was surprised to see Zeke and Tucker Johnson get out, looking like they had serious bugs up their asses. It was a huge change from the last time he saw them, last night at the barbecue, with Tucker three sheets to the wind.
“Zeke. Tucker.” Grady nodded at them both in greeting, and Ian did the same.
“What’s going on here?” Zeke asked, skipping niceties.
Grady held up his hand in a placatory gesture, confusing the hell out of Ian. The Johnsons seemed ready to go to the mat over something, and hopefully Grady knew what it was because Ian was lost.
“Mr. Briggs is looking for some land for cattle,” Grady said, “and since this property is still listed, he wanted to take a look.”
“That’s just a technicality. The property is sold.” Zeke turned to Ian. “It couldn’t be used for cattle anyway. It’s been slated for a vineyard.”
Zeke’s defensiveness was curious, wasn’t it? “What if Mr. Harlan decided to start a ranch on this property instead of a vineyard?”
“He can’t do that,” Grady said. “The purchase agreement specified what the land can and can’t be used for.”
That seemed odd. “Is that common practice in Texas? Who decides what the land can and can’t be used for?”
“It’s common here,” Tucker said. “And we decided. We would have bought the land if the potential buyer wanted it for cattle.”
Grady dabbed at his face again with the handkerchief. “Property owners around here have an agreement with the Johnsons. Anything over a certain acreage must first be offered to the Johnsons.”
Suddenly, the reason Ian hadn’t seen any other large ranches in the area made sense. “Ah. So you don’t want the competition.”
“Griffin Harlan’s winery will bring a lot of money to Storm.” Zeke’s stance was aggressive, a clear message that he wouldn’t tolerate a disruption in the way things were run around here. “It isn’t that we can’t handle a little competition,” he said. “It’s just that we need diversity in the area.”
That was bullshit and Ian knew it. Zeke was protecting his own interests. “Is that why back in the day, you blocked the sale of the Weissman property when a buyer wanted it for cattle? But you didn’t oppose the sale when a retail company needing warehouse space made an offer?”
Zeke’s head snapped back in surprise. Tucker just looked confused. “How did you know about that?”
“Small town,” Ian said with a shrug. Actually, he’d overheard someone laughing about it at the barbecue, one of those, “Remember when…” stories that was only funny if you’d been there. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but he’d given it a shot. Looked like he hit the target.
Anger flashed in Zeke’s expression. “It was nice that you came all the way down here to see Marcus, but as you can see, he’s doing fine. So why don’t you run on back to the wilds of Montana and let us handle our own business?”
Ian inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. Looking at property had been a bit of a lark, something he hadn’t even been sure he wanted to do. But these jackasses had just solidified his wavering resolve. Marcus shouldn’t be working for these pricks. He should have a ranch of his own.
And Ian was going to make sure he got it.
Chapter Ten
“Hey, Marcus, ’sup?”
Marcus grinned at Logan, who was washing glasses behind the bar at the pub his family owned. “I’m here to meet Ian.” He glanced around and saw the man sitting in a booth near the back. He waved in acknowledgment, and Marcus waved back, giving him the universal “be there in a second” gesture. “Can I get a Harp?”
“Sure.” Logan dried his hands and poured a glass of lager from the tap. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Really good. Brittany’s family is still trying to run me out of town, but that’s old news.”
Logan winced. “They did something new? Besides that article?”
“You didn’t hear?” Marcus plopped a ten on the counter. “This morning the police came to our house because they got an anonymous call that women were heard screaming.”
“Holy shit.” Logan slid the glass of Harp to him and took the bill. “You got swatted?”
“Well, it was two overweight, old cops who couldn’t break down a door if they teamed up and had a battering ram, but yeah. They were total dicks and my mom and sisters got stuck right in the middle of it. And then Brittany called to tell me she had to delete her Facebook account because she was getting so much harassment.”
Logan’s eyes shot wide as he handed Marcus change. “What the hell? Why
are people harassing her?”
Anger soured his stomach. The shit she had to put up with made him sick with impotent anger. People were saying horrible things to her, threatening her, even, but he couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Anonymous social media trolls sucked.
“Half of them think she’s giving women a bad name for putting up with my worthless ass, and the other half are mad because they think she’s hurting her father’s campaign by dating a half-breed criminal.”
“I’m sorry, man.” Logan shook his head. “People are just damned stupid.”
Marcus laughed. “And that, right there, is why I come to you for advice. You boil any problem down to its most basic form.”
Logan shrugged. “I have a gift.”
Shooting Logan a “you’re hopeless” look, he grabbed his beer and joined Ian at the table.
“I’m glad you called,” he told Ian. “Brittany is busy with school, and the Johnsons said they don’t need me at the ranch today. They sent a lot of cattle to market recently, so I’m not working as many hours as I’d like.”
Ian took a drink of his own beer. Judging by the color and Ian’s preferences, Marcus guessed the beer was this month’s special from a local craft brewery.
“That’s what I called you here to talk about.” At the gravity in Ian’s voice, Marcus’s gut dove straight to his feet, filling his boots.
“I don’t like the sound of this...”
Ian smiled. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.” Still, he seemed to need a moment to collect himself, and Marcus prepared for the worst. “You know how I feel about you, right? You’re important to me. I couldn’t love you more if you were my biological son.”
Marcus swallowed. Hector hadn’t, not once, said he loved Marcus. Not that Marcus would have believed it. But he definitely believed Ian, and his eyes stung with emotion.