Page 34 of Redemption

I meet his glassy eyes. “What took you so long to get here?”

“My dad and I left our phones in the truck. I didn’t know anything was wrong until your dad pulled me out of the ceremony during the principal’s speech.” He clears his throat. “He told me what happened. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry like hell that this happened and that I wasn’t here for you.”

I sob when he rests his cheek against mine, and I feel our tears mixing together. “I am too, Beck. I am too.”

“I love you so much, Pres.” He places a soft kiss against my temple. “We’ll get through this. Everything will be okay.”

I wish I had his confidence. Right now, it feels like nothing will ever be okay again.

Chapter Twenty

Beckett

Christ.

Could I have been any more of a jerk? I don’t know what came over me, but seeing Presley in person for the first time in over a decade, stirred up feelings I’ve refused to acknowledge for a long time. Everything was converging on me at once, the most prevalent of which was the gut-wrenching sense of betrayal I feel whenever I think about her marrying another man. After Clayton broke the news of her engagement, I was in denial. It had been less than a year since Presley had been gone. Maybe that’s long enough for most people to move on, but I sure as hell wasn’t ready for that. And I refused to believe she was either after everything we shared throughout the years. Hence, why I convinced Clay to give me her address right before I hopped on the first plane to New York.

I’ll never forget the way she looked that day. I waited outside her swanky building for hours, contemplating what I was going to say to her. How I was going to talk her into coming back home with me. But then I saw her getting out of a black limo with him, and I knew it was hopeless. The girl I fell in love with was nowhere to be found. In her place was this plastic imitation. Gone were the T-shirts, denim, and boots that were staples of her wardrobe. This Presley wore a crisp, white linen dress with skyscraper heels. The long, wild blonde locks I used to love running my hands through were chopped into a sensible pin-straight shoulder-length bob. The girl who only wore makeup or jewelry on special occasions had her face painted in color, and her left hand was weighed down by the gaudiest diamond ring I had ever seen. We were nineteen, for fuck’s sake, but she looked more like thirty.

As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when she tilted her chin up at that bastard, gifting him with the same bright smile she used to aim at me, it felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart. Physically, Presley looked like a completely different woman, but she also looked happy. When she left Hope, she was deeply depressed. No matter what I did or said, she wouldn’t shake out of it. I had never seen someone so overwrought with sadness, and I had no idea how to make it better. I knew at that moment that no matter how badly it was going to hurt, I had to walk away. I had to step aside so she could live her life with another man who somehow managed to give her what I couldn’t.

Joy.

When I got back home, self-destruction became my way of life. I started sloughing off of work, drinking myself into stupors more times than I could count, and getting into fights with anyone who dared to look at me the wrong way. I was a mean, miserable bastard trying to do whatever he could to drown out the memories I was haunted by at every turn. When Colby’s dad, the current sheriff at the time, forced me to sober up in a cell after finding my belligerent underage-drinking ass stumbling down Main Street, I knew something had to change. I was turning into someone I didn’t want to be. Sheriff Mitchell sat me down the next morning and asked if I ever considered enlisting in the military. He shared some stories about his troubled teenage years and how joining the army whipped him into shape. When I really took some time to think about it, I knew that would be the best course of action. I couldn’t stay in Hope any longer.

After quite a bit of research, the Navy caught my attention. More specifically, the SEALs. Although I hadn’t been in any hurry to leave Georgia, the possibilities began to fascinate me. The thought of being at the front of the action, doing some good in the world, gave me an objective to focus on. I knew it would be demanding. I knew my odds of making it past BUDs were slim. But it sure beat the hell out of wallowing in my own misery, so what did I have to lose? I enlisted the next day, and shortly after that, I was on a plane headed to boot camp.

Despite the ugliness I’d seen in humanity during my time in the Navy—and some of it was really fucking ugly—I loved being a SEAL. I quickly learned I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. During those six years, I had regular opportunities to feed that compulsion. I got to see parts of the world I would’ve never imagined and become part of a brotherhood that I’ll have for the rest of my life. Our actions helped make this world a better place, and that gave me purpose. I had every intention of sticking with it as long as my body could handle the ride.

Unfortunately, Fate, being the fickle bitch she is, had other plans. One minute, we were riding in the Humvee on a routine patrol, giving each other shit like we always did, and in the next, an IED changed our lives forever. I was one of the fortunate ones, walking away with partial hearing loss, minor nerve damage, and a fucked-up head. Sure, it sucks having permanent injuries, but at least I made it out with all of my limbs intact. One of my brothers lost a leg. Another went home in a box. I consider myself pretty fucking lucky, all things considered.

The Navy offered me a desk job, but I couldn’t see myself doing that. I needed to be active. Being idle did nothing but give me time to think. To remember everything I’d rather forget. So...at my dad’s request, I came back home to work with him. As difficult as it was coming back here and facing another set of demons, I like to think things turned out the way they were meant to in hindsight. If I hadn’t been injured, I would’ve missed the last few months of my father’s life. Life had already taught me to never take things for granted, that it could all be ripped away in an instant. But that didn’t lessen the shock when my fifty-three-year-old father didn’t wake up one morning. The man took care of himself. He ate well, and he was physically active. There was no reason to suspect anything was wrong. But that didn’t prevent the blood clot from forming in his artery. Nor the massive heart attack that occurred as a result. One day he was here, the next he wasn’t.

Fuck.

I pull off my hat and rake a hand through my hair. What the hell am I going to do about Pres? I told myself not to follow her, but when I saw her heading toward the stables, looking like an apparition from the past, I couldn’t imagine myself being anywhere else. When I got my first glimpse of her up close, I felt like I was going to burst out of my skin. Desire and longing fought for dominance as the Presley I once knew stood before me. She looks as incredible as she always did. In fact, she might be even more beautiful now. Her hair is long again, falling down her back in loose waves. She was wearing makeup, but it was subtle, just enough to enhance her features, not mask them. She’s a bit thinner—probably a little too thin—but her jeans and simple cotton tee hugged her curves in a way that had me itching to explore.

There is one big difference, though. Presley’s breasts are significantly fuller, which caught me off guard. I never thought she felt a lick of self-consciousness when it came to her body, but there’s no doubt she had surgery. Granted, from what I could tell, they look entirely natural. She didn’t go overboard by any means. If I didn’t have every inch of her body memorized, I would’ve never suspected she had implants. I won’t lie and say the thought of mapping the new topography of her body with my hands didn’t get me going. Despite my anger with her, I had to keep my fists clenched to prevent myself from touching her.

Have I said fuck yet? Because fuuuuuck.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I glance to the side where Clay is hopping off the ATV he drove over here. “Feels like it.”

Clayton comes up beside me, ensuring he stays on my left. Leaning over the paddock fence and jerking his chin toward the new arena we’re having built, he says, “It’s coming along nicely. Everything still on track?”

I nod. “Ahead of schedule, actually.”

“If I haven’t told you already, I think this is a really good thing you’re doing, Cowboy.”

“Thanks, man.”

Mr. J had wanted to build an indoor arena for a while, but construction didn’t start until last month because it took quite some time to get funding and all of the permits in order. Having an enclosed riding space will offer a controlled environment for the new equine-assisted therapy program we’re launching. When I came back from overseas, I was a fucking mess, as much as I tried to deny it. Losing my dad so soon after my return didn’t help. But the more time I spent on the ranch with the horses, the better I felt. It’s a daily struggle, and I’ve come to accept it might always be that way, but for the most part, I’ve found ways to cope.

I saw a counselor for a while after the blast. We talked a lot about how animals can provide emotional support, especially to those suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Horses have been proven to offer a unique advantage over other animals because they have such a strong awareness of emotional temperament and nonverbal cues. You can’t just force a horse to do your bidding. You need to learn to collaborate with the animal and build a trusting relationship—skills that would carry over to the people in your life. I certainly saw the benefit in it, and when we started drawing plans for the new arena, I brought my proposal to Mr. and Mrs. J.

Not only were they onboard, but they also wanted to take it a step further than I had imagined. In addition to the new arena, we also have a crew building a small lodge that will serve as guest housing. Licensed therapists will be on staff to provide counseling during a twenty-one or twenty-eight-day retreat where guests will have daily interactions with the animals. Our ultimate goal is to offer trauma survivors a quiet place to develop the necessary skills to better manage their triggers and anxiety.

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