My vision drowns in warm tears.
It was different earlier. There was a sense of pride in knowing I could make the decision to end things based on principle.
But now …
It seems the decision has been made for me.
There’s no recovering from this.
There’s no bouncing back.
This is the bottom dropping out.
“Leighton, talk to me.” Grant moves closer, lowering to his knees and taking my limp hands in his. I want to recoil at his touch, but I don’t have the energy. “Did something happen? Is it your grandmother?”
He doesn’t get it, at least not right away.
But when his eyes move toward the phone, his breath catches. And then he lets me go, his hands sliding off of mine, slow and careful.
Grant stands, straightening his posture before slipping his phone into his pocket and studying my face.
The weight of his stare is heavy, but the silence between us is heavier.
The man who has argued hundreds of cases over his budding career is officially speechless, unable to defend his reprehensible actions.
And how could he?
The evidence is damning, and his lack of words may as well be a guilty plea.
He leaves.
I stay.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
Leighton
“I mean, you could come live with us,” my younger sister says on the other end of the phone. “But Adam has fifty percent custody, so his kids are here half the time and the house is super chaotic and loud, and I don’t think you’d enjoy sleeping on the sofa. Besides, you always said you hated San Francisco and…”
“Aubs, I’m not going to impose,” I say, stopping her before she makes this any more uncomfortable for either of us. Our relationship is as complicated as we are close. The love is there, but we’d kill each other if we lived together at this point in our lives. Besides, I’m not keen on the idea of sleeping on someone’s sofa, and hanging out with my four rambunctious step-nephews doesn’t exactly appeal to me in my current state.
“You know you could stay here,” Aubrey reassures me, “if you really needed to.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t think you’d enjoy it.” I can picture her chewing her nails to the quick, worry lines spreading across her forehead, guilt eating her alive.
“Stop,” I say. “You and Adam are still newlyweds. And you’re still adjusting to the whole stepmom thing. The last thing you need is someone crashing on your couch.”
“Where are you going to go?”
Slumped against the hallway wall, I place my palm across my forehead and exhale. “I don’t know? I’ve got some money saved. I was thinking of going somewhere remote. Somewhere I could just get away and figure things out on my own.”
“Like a tropical island?”
“No … more like … maybe … I don’t know.” I chew my bottom lip. “Back home.”
“Home … as in Kansas City?”
“Home as in … Bonesteel Creek.” I squeeze my eyes tight. We haven’t so much as mentioned Bonesteel Creek since we fled our family farm over a decade ago, leaving life as we knew it in a cloud of gravel dust.
Life was grand. Until it wasn’t. But deep in my heart, and in ways I can’t explain, it’s still home to me. In my mind, it’s still chock full of love and laughter and the kind of memories that make my heart so full it feels like it’s about to burst.
“You’re going to move to South Dakota?” The repugnance in her voice is ripe. She clearly doesn’t share the same memories as me, but she was younger then and her fond recollections aren’t quite as vivid as mine.
“I’m not moving there,” I say. “I just want to go there for a while. A month, maybe two?”
“But … why though? We don’t have any family there. At least not anymore,” Aubrey says. “And I can’t imagine there’s anything there to do for fun. What’s the population? Fifteen hundred, sixteen hundred at best?”
“I’ve been wanting to go back for a while now. Just never had the chance. I kind of feel like it’s now or never.” Rising, I shuffle to the office and take a seat at the desk. Lifting my laptop lid, I cradle my phone on my shoulder and pull up this new RentBnB website I keep hearing about. A quick search of Bonesteel Creek, South Dakota pulls up only three listings: a dated two-bedroom ranch within city limits, a five-bedroom hunting lodge just past the county line road, and a sprawling white farmhouse complete with a wraparound porch and picket fence.
“Why are you so quiet? What are you doing?” Aubrey asks.
Clicking on the farmhouse, I zoom in on the picture.
“Holy shit.” I flip through the interior photos.
“What? What?”
“I think our old house is on RentBnB.” I click through the pictures, my heart beating in my chest as a grin claims my mouth. “It is. Oh my god. Aubrey, our old farmhouse is for rent! Seventy-five dollars per night. And it’s available immediately!”
“That’d be weird to stay there though,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
“I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s a sign.”
My phone dings from across the room as I’m knee deep in my first suitcase. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’m not sticking around here. I messaged the owner of my old house on RentBnB two hours ago, but I’m not holding my breath.
Taking a break from packing, I grab my phone and check my email for the eleventh time since this morning.
To: Leighton Hart ([email protected])
From: Casey Tibbs ([email protected])
Subject: Bonesteel Creek rental
Hi, Leighton.
Just wanted to let you know I received your message via RentBnB. There are a few other parties interested in renting the house during the dates you requested, one of them looking to stay this weekend and through the end of the month, but since you’re wanting to book the place for sixty days, I’m willing to give you first dibs.
There’s just one issue—payment via RentBnB takes several days to clear, and if you’re needing the house by tomorrow I’m not sure that’s going to work. The only other option would be for you to wire me the payment today.
I could meet you there first thing tomorrow … or whenever you arrive … with the keys and answer any questions you might have. It’s a really neat house, full of a lot of charm and history, and the location is quiet and picturesque, perfect for a relaxing getaway.
Let me know if you’re okay with wiring the payment and I can send you a contract via email. I’ve done it that way in the past and have had no issues, but I understand if you’d rather not.
Feel free to call me as well. I’ll be around all afternoon. If I don’t hear from you by 5pm CST, I’ll be renting to the other party.
Hope to hear from you.
Casey Tibbs
(605) 555-4482
With juddering fingers, I dial Casey’s number, and he answers almost immediately. I can’t let this house get away. I have to get out of here. And this might be my only chance—ever—to go home one last time.
Chapter Three
Leighton
There’s a tan line on my left finger where my engagement ring used to reside, but the tighter I grip the steering wheel of my rented Impala, the more it fades away.
Thirty-six hours ago, I watched Grant walk out of our luxury Scottsdale townhome without so much as an apology. Once I composed myself, I called my sister, booked my stay, and packed my things.
And now I’m here.
Parked near the side yard of my childhood home. An electric buzz hums through me. Hope? Excitement? Fear of the unknown? I feel everything all at once, and I love it.
The proprietor is supposed to meet me at the door to hand off the keys and answer any questions. I’ve already paid the five grand, which covers sixty nights here as well as a cleaning fee and deposit for incidentals.
A sleepy Australian shepherd mix pokes its h
ead up from the back of a dark blue vintage pickup truck outside our old machine shed. Rising, it wags its tail before hopping down and coming to investigate.
The ring of my phone in the console cup holder startles me.
Once again it’s Grant.
And once again, I choose to ignore him.
There’s nothing he can say or do at this point to convince me to give him another chance. An apology would be nice, but it wouldn’t change things. The damage is done, and I’ve never believed in second chances.
Tossing my phone in my bag, I climb out of the car and pop the trunk. My two suitcases are filled to the hilt, crammed full of almost everything I have. Clothes. Shoes. Jewelry. Photos. A few keepsakes. Grant owned everything else in the apartment we shared, and looking back, I wonder if it was just a tactic to keep me around. He owned everything. I had nothing—only him.
Soon after graduating law school and moving west, he insisted we start from scratch. He wanted all new everything, the kinds of things that a Maserati-driving, Gucci loafer-wearing attorney would have.
We threw out our stained futon, hot plate, and faded dorm bedding and embarked on our new journey courtesy of his shiny—and new—black American Express card.
The dog watches me, blinking its mismatched eyes and keeping a conservative distance before taking a seat on the dirt-and-gravel driveway.
Wheeling one of my bags to the gate, I show myself through the very same picket fence my father built twenty years ago and pause to take it all in.
I wasn’t sure what coming home would feel like. I’d thought about it a thousand times before, mostly in little daydreams, but I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me for the fullness enveloping my body or the tingles running down my spine and out my fingertips. I can’t remember the last time I felt this connected to anything.
Being here just feels … right.
This is home.
This. Is. Home.
Closing my eyes, I can almost hear the sound of my brother and sister chasing each other around the yard with the hose, giggling and squealing. I can picture my mother’s flower beds next to the front porch—a sea of pink blooms—and all the Boston ferns she insisted on hanging every spring. The scent of clean air and freshly cut hay fills my lungs, and in the distance a cow bellows and a wind chime jingles.
All these years have passed and yet nothing has changed.
There’s not enough money in the world to buy this feeling again, so I bask in it, standing on the sidewalk as the bright South Dakota sun kisses the top of my head.
It’s been far too long.
Moving on, I make my way up the painted steps of the front porch, toward the screen door. The storm door is wide open and in the distance, the smell of someone’s dinner wafts through an open window.
That’s odd …
Why would the owner make themselves dinner in a rental property?
Knocking on the screen door, I clear my throat and peer inside, hands cupped around my eyes.
“Hello?” I call out.
The clinking and clamoring of kitchen dishes tells me someone’s definitely in there.
“Hello?” I call again, louder. “Anybody home?”
Pulling my shoulders back, I practice a friendly smile until the sound of heavy boots scuffing against wood floors grows louder.
A shadowed presence fills the doorway before slowly stepping into the light. The door swings open and a tall man wearing dusty jeans, faded boots, and a plaid button down stares me down.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m Leighton.”
The man says nothing, his honey brown eyes inspecting me from head to toe.
“Leighton Hart,” I add. “From Arizona.”
He’s quiet, still.
“We were emailing yesterday …” My smile fades. “About your house …”
His dark brows meet and he releases a hard breath. There’s a tiny scar above his upper lip, no bigger than a point on a barbed-wire fence, and while there’s a touch of salt-and-pepper at his temples, he’s got a young face and a body built for riding and roping.
“Woman, I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about,” he breaks his silence, his voice low and monotone. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
He steps inside, letting the screen door slam against the frame.
“Wait, what?” I knock on the door. “Come back.”
I hear him groan, his boots shuffling and then stopping as he turns to glance back at me.
“I paid you five thousand dollars,” I say, my voice broken and climbing higher in pitch than I’d like.
The cowboy moves closer, opening the door. I take a step back and he follows, letting the door slam again behind him as he strides onto the porch.
“Five thousand dollars?” His lips pull up at one corner, and the closer he stands, the more he towers over me.
“Yes,” I say. “For a sixty-night stay at this house.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember the owner’s name, the man who eagerly accepted my payment and seemed more than excited to ensure I was going to have a lovely stay.
“Casey,” I say when it hits me. “Casey Tibbs. That’s your name.”
His face is washed in incredulousness as he stares into the distance for a brief second.
“Casey Tibbs?” he asks.
I nod, certain that was the name.
“Lady, I think someone played some kind of trick on you.” He snuffs his chuckle, expression turning serious. “Casey Tibbs is dead.”
“I’m confused …”
“He was an old rodeo cowboy from the fifties,” he says. “Whoever scammed you out of your five grand knew their South Dakota lore. Man’s buried about ninety miles from here.”
“So this house isn’t for rent?” My posture deflates.
My everything deflates.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“No, ma’am,” he says, shoving his hands down the front of his tight jeans pockets and rocking back on his boot heels. “This is my home. Has been for the last seven years.”
My jaw falls, but nothing comes out.
“Better call your bank. Get your money back and get yourself a real place to stay.” He studies my face.
“I wired him the money.” Like a fucking idiot because he seemed so friendly and benign and sent me a contract—that in retrospect was nothing more than a piece of paper with a bunch of fake names and numbers on it ….
“Good lord.” The cowboy shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his straight nose. “Why would you do something like that?”
Everything happened so fast. When I saw the listing, I didn’t want it to get away. I didn’t want to lose my chance. And I wanted to get the hell out of Scottsdale and away from Grant as quickly as possible. “Casey Tibbs” claimed that sending him the money directly through the website would take three to five business days to clear, and if I wanted the place immediately, I could just wire him the money and he’d meet me at the front door with the keys the next day.
I can’t believe I fell for that.
“I have my reasons.” My cheeks scald, my ego burnt to a crisp. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, this unquestionably takes the cake.
He shakes his head. I can almost feel him judging me.
“Not as smart as you look, I take it.”
“Would it be too much to ask for a little bit of compassion here? Kindness? Something?” My hand spans my forehead, and I remind myself to breathe. I don’t mean to bite his head off, but stating the obvious is a dick move.
“Compassion?” The man scoffs. “I don’t do compassion. And if you’re looking for kindness, you’re looking at the wrong man.”
Our eyes meet, and I see his are dark, pained almost. There are no smile lines etched on his smooth face. No crinkles at the sides of his eyes. His movements are steady, deliberate. His stare is heavy, loaded.
“People used to be nicer around here.” I exhale, shakin
g my head and taking in my surroundings one final time. A wave of emptiness washes over me followed by a flood of exhaustion. I’m officially directionless, stuck in a boat with no oars and drowning in a sea of rash decisions. “I remember a time when people around here smiled. And helped each other. And treated others with the same fairness and respect they expected.”
His eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I grew up here.” I point at the house, peering over his shoulder and past the screen door. “In this very house. We moved when I was fifteen, but this was our home. This was our farm. My father built this fence. My initials are carved into the closet door in the last bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. My mother picked out that wallpaper in your living room.”
He doesn’t smile. “I’ll have to thank her. The flowers really give this place some real pizzazz.”
Sarcastic ass.
Rolling my eyes, I add, “I don’t expect you to care. I was just giving you a little history on the property.”
“I don’t care.” He shrugs.
“Okay, well.” I pull in a deep breath and gather my pride. “Thanks for … nothing?”
Gripping the handle of my bag, I lug it off the front porch and pull it down the sidewalk. It catches on a crack in the concrete, tipping over, and when I stop, I notice him watching me.
I can’t get to my car fast enough, and by the time I’m peeling out of his gravel drive, he’s retreated back inside my home.
Asshole.
Chapter Four
River
“Morning, handsome.” Donna grabs a chipped John Deere mug and a glass coffee pot, flashing a crooked smile that lights her wrinkled face.
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