Page 2 of Holding The Reins

Ten minutes later, we make our way under the arches of Silver Pines, my family’s full-service equestrian ranch, and a bittersweet mixture of peace and grief settles into my bones with the view of our ranch logo. The half a mile long, white fenced drive always looks the same, no matter what. It’s my haven, my safe space; and even with Dad no longer here, it’s still my only true home and the closest I’ll ever feel to him again. I haven’t been home since he died in January and the grief is no less crushing now than it was then. The old, massive white farmhouse, the ‘big house,’ comes into view in the distance.

“So, have you heard from the good-for-nothing prick again?” Ginger asks, doing her best to distract me.

“Not in the last hour,” I say and sigh. “He’s just malfunctioning because I was the one who left him. How dare I. The great Andrew Waterfield couldn’t keep his fiancée? What will Page Six say?”

Ginger snorts. “He should’ve thought about that before he stuck his overzealous dick in every woman under thirty in Seattle.”

“I think he got the message that I’m gone for good. I wrapped my ring up in the thong I found in his jacket pocket and left it in the middle of the kitchen table.” I start laughing and Ginger’s mouth falls open.

“You bad ass bitch, you.” Ginger shakes her head with a smile that tells me she’s impressed.

“I should’ve seen it before this winter. The late nights, the trips away, the elite club of assistants always accompanying him and his colleagues everywhere.”

“People tend to trust the man they’re engaged to; this is not on you.”

I nod and turn to let the sun hit my face through the window.

In my defense, Andrew is a rich, gorgeous, manipulative asshole that swept me off my feet my freshman year at Washington University. I wanted to believe in true love, so much so that I let it blind me. It took me over seven years, and my dad’s dying words to help me see the light. Finally, I went with my gut and got the hell out of Seattle and the toxic cloud that hung over us. I’m only twenty-five; I spent my crazy, wild years playing the aristocratic, soon-to-be wifey, and now, I just want to see my family, have fun, hopefully find a job and breathe.

As we pull up to the house and the gravel crunches under Ginger’s tires, a million memories and images flash through my mind. Grief is the oddest thing—it hits you hard in the moments you’d least expect. Cream soda in the pantry my dad used to love to drink on a hot summer day over ice, the old rake leaning against the house that created the most incredible leaf jumps in the fall when I was young, the tree swing where he pushed me on countless hot afternoons. Grief swells in my chest, overwhelming me. I half expect to see him bound through the front door, but I know in my head he never will again.

“I’m home, Dad,” I whisper.

Ginger squeezes my hand beside me. “He knows, babe.”

“Hell, baby, I feel like I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays,” my mother, Jolene—aka, Mama Jo—calls to me through the kitchen.

She prances into the living room like a breath of fresh air, chasing my somber mood away instantly. Skinny jeans, bare feet, Farrah Fawcett hair tied back with a pink scarf and a Brooks & Dunn t-shirt hanging off her shoulder.

“Let me look at you.” She smiles as she leaps into my arms.

Wade, my oldest and grumpiest brother pushes his way through the front door with our old golden retriever, Harley. Harley nuzzles up against me like I’m his favorite human. I’m officially covered in fur and slobber but he’s the cutest dog alive, so I’ll forgive him as I rustle behind his ears.

“CeCe Rae,” Wade greets in his gruff, settled voice, tugging on my ponytail, always adding in my middle name.

“Sergeant,” I retort naturally.

He has a lot on his shoulders—our entire ranch for one, but it hits me so much more now than it ever did before. He looks exactly like my dad and just seeing his face reminds me that my dad is still here.

I let go of Harley and give Wade a big squeeze. He tenses a little as he always does. He’s not the touchy-feely type, but I know his heart is somewhere under that tough exterior.

“I’ll get your bags; Mama has you set up in Stardust.” He mentions one of the five tiny help cabins, each named after Willie Nelson albums on our ranch. Spirit, Stardust, Blue Eyes, Legend and Bluegrass.

“I got you new linens and it’s all clean and fresh for you, darlin’. I even stocked it with food.”

“Thank you, Mama,” I say as she tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, keeping her hands at the side of my face to look at me.

Jolene Ashby is still beautiful, and vibrant at fifty-eight and she never takes shit from anyone. She’s a true free spirit. I strive to be more like her every day.

“You look like you’ve been crying, baby.”

I make the universal sound for “yeah-huh.”

“So, how many times has that good-for-nothing bastard called you?”

I laugh at her assessment of my ex-fiancé, and sit down on the edge of the living room sofa. She looks at me expectantly, hands on her hips, but I don’t answer her, I just sigh in response because at this moment I’m not ready to talk about Andrew with everyone.

“Can I just have tonight? I promise I’ll fill you in tomorrow, all the details. I just want to breathe in the fresh air, unpack, and hide in my cabin with a book.”

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