Page 1 of The Last Promise You Made

Chapter One

Ryder

WHAT HURTS THE MOST

Performed by Rascal Flatts

When I dragged myself out of bed, I had no idea I’d be holding a funeral for a crow before the day was over. I’d been given marching orders from my mother to stop the birds from eating the last of her crabapples. To ensure they were extra sweet, she’d waited to harvest them until after the first snow, and now the damn beasts were taunting us, feasting on the fruit as if it had appeared from thin air in the middle of our Tennessee winter.

I was late getting to the ranch due to a mess-up with the plumbing supplies I’d ordered, so even though I didn’t swing by the house, I could still practically hear Mama huffing while she watched the birds destroy the last of her fruit. Forcing aside my frustration at the morning’s delays, I stomped into the ranch’s office and grabbed my shotgun from the lockbox. I loaded it, pocketed another box of ammo, and headed out. My long stride took me past the immaculately maintained blue-and-white barn with its intricately twined metal H near the roofline. Like every other addition I’d made to the family property, it had been carefully and purposefully crafted to portray the elegance our guests looked for in a luxury resort. These days, the ranch was far removed from the dusty, worn-down farm it had once been.

As I rounded the barn, my feet ground to a halt. The view bled the last of my frustration out of me as I took a deep, cleansing breath. Nothing could beat this. Nothing. Year-round, the ranch was picturesque—worthy of a postcard even—but with a peaceful dusting of snow on the fields, it held extra magic. The bare oaks slumbered under the thin blanket of white while jade peeked from beneath the frozen layer on the evergreens. The low slope of the heather-gray mountains turned the view into a smoky watercolor painting, the pastel blue of the sky blending in with the hills.

The sun was doing its best to bring the temperatures up into the livable range, and I closed my eyes, raising my face to the timid warmth as I breathed in the ranch air I loved. The only thing I treasured more was my family. I wouldn’t give this life up for anything. Not for my long-ago dreams of architecture and design. Not for a random woman who came and went from my life in the flash of an eye. Nothing would take me from this place.

The entire morning full of annoyances left me on the next exhale. Hitching the gun over my shoulder, I strode over the field, boots crunching on the ice clinging to the sleeping grass.

The crabapple trees were just past the main pasture near the empty guest cabins. During this time of year, no smoke curled from their chimneys, and their fall-toned, craftsman-style fronts were a stark contrast to the black and white of the January landscape. Next to the ten completed cabins, two new ones sat in various stages of undress, awaiting roofs and siding.

An all-too-familiar feeling of regret attempted to worm its way in through the peace the view had settled in my veins. If I hadn’t been blinded by love, those last two cabins would have been built years ago. But they were here now and would be ready for our new season when it began in April.

Even knowing Grandfather Hatley was likely rolling over in his grave at what we’d done to the property, the transition from a cattle ranch to a dude ranch had kept the land in the Hatley name. And we’d managed to hold on to pieces of a working farm in order to give our guests the full ranch experience. We’d simply added on the outdoor resort activities they craved. Whitewater rafting, horseback riding, and hiking adventures were what drew people to us for repeated stays, along with Mama’s hearty, down-home meals to which she’d added a modern flair.

As I neared the crabapple trees, the half dozen crows feasting on the remaining fruit lifted their beaks in an unspoken dare. I’d bought a sound gun late last year that had kept the birds away from most of the crops, but the damn thing had died just before Christmas and was sitting in Willy Tate’s garage, waiting for him to fix it. Willy worked slow as molasses these days, grieving a relationship that had disappeared years ago.

I was probably the only soul in Willow Creek who understood Willy’s continued mourning. I wasn’t sure my soul would ever stop howling for what I’d lost. But dwelling on the past would do nothing except make me long to lose myself in alcohol or sex or both, and that wasn’t going to happen with a week’s worth of work piling up.

I lifted the shotgun, aiming for the tops of the trees, intending only to scare the beasts away. I’d hunted with my dad and grandfather as a kid, but I’d never quite gotten a stomach for the killing. Maybe that was why I wasn’t overly sad when we’d sold off our remaining beef cattle and stuck to a handful of dairy cows.

Just as I pulled the trigger, one of the damn birds took flight. Crap timing meant the pellets collided with the bird’s chest, and it plummeted to the earth several yards away.

A high-pitched shriek broke through the air, and I whirled around, coming face-to-face with my niece, Mila. Disappointment radiated from her hazel eyes. The dark brows that didn’t match her honey-wheat-colored hair were lifted in shock.

My heart kicked into gear. Not only because of the look she was sending me but also from the memories of her last experience with guns a mere fourteen months ago.

I took a step toward her, gentling my voice and saying, “What are you doing out here, kiddo?”

Instead of replying, she took off running for the farmhouse with her blond braids flying and her cowboy boots kicking up snow and dirt.

“Shit!” I looked back at the laughing birds before hauling my ass across the field after her.

She was faster than any six-year-old had a right to be, and I hadn’t quite caught up to her by the time she rounded the barn, passed the brick-and-ivy front of the Sweet Willow Restaurant, and banged up the steps of the wraparound porch on the farmhouse I’d grown up in. The blue siding and white trim echoed the sky above it where smoke puffed out of a pair of chimneys on opposite sides of the gray shake roof. Shiny and spiffed up these days, the home had sat in that exact spot for near on two hundred years.

I hollered out for Mila to stop once more, but she ignored me, pushing inside with me on her heels.

“Nana!” she screamed. “You have to punish Uncle Ryder!”

There was a hitch to her voice that threatened tears and made my chest squeeze tight as my mother squatted down to pull my distraught niece into her arms. Flour sifted through the air, catching in a beam of sunshine from the large windows over the farm-style sink and casting them in a hazy halo.

“Bug-a-boo, what on earth?” Mama asked, brows drawing together.

“I do not like Uncle Ryder anymore. He is mean, mean, mean!”

A sob escaped her chest that tortured me a bit more as my mama met my gaze over the top of Mila’s head. Her bright-blue eyes, the same color as mine, widened in concern. The hint of wrinkles around the corners of her mouth was more evident as she frowned at me.

I pulled my black cowboy hat off, running a hand through my thick waves the same chestnut color as my mother’s before gray had decided to weave its way into hers.

“Why was she out by the crabapples?” I asked. None of us had truly let Mila out of our sight since an asshole gang member had taken her and my sister at gunpoint, put a bullet in Sadie’s thigh, and tried to use Mila as leverage against my brother several months ago.

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