Page 1 of Fragile Heart

Prologue

ETHAN

The front door of the farmhouse slams behind me.

“Brandon, you ready to head out?” I call up the stairs.

There’s a muffled grunt from upstairs.

Melissa sits on the island, her hair pulled back and tucked under a simple blue ball cap that coordinates well with her brown glasses and gray hoodie. She glances up as I walk deeper into the house, not bothering to toe off my boots.

They’re mostly clean.

She eyes them, her lips pursing, but doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, Mel,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into my side. She hums, loosing a deep breath. “How was your trip?”

“Good. Denver is always pretty, especially the mountains,” she says. “We got to see Vail, and I’ve never seen it not buried in six feet of snow. I think it’s even more impressive with the aspens full of leaves.”

Her voice slowly lightens the more she says, and she smiles, just a little. I high-five myself. She hasn’t smiled much recently,not since her dad died in May, right during her last round of finals in college. Without any more comment, she picks up her breakfast and dumps it in the trash, loading her dishes into the lower level of the dishwasher. Once the kitchen is tidied, she blows out a breath.

“I’m going to take Lizzie for a ride, I think,” she says, though I’m nearly positive she isn’t really talking to me. After a minute, she nods. “Yes. A ride will help.”

“Be careful. That fire’s burning hot right now, and today’s winds might send it over the ridge.”

Caleb had made sure I wasn’t going to be moving any cattle over Fool’s Bluff today because of it.

She glances over her shoulder, a rueful smile gracing her lips. “Brandon should be down any minute.”

And she disappears out the sliding door that leads to the backyard—and the detached garage.

I glance around the kitchen, trying to keep myself occupied while I wait for Brandon. A piece of paper catches my attention, the black flowing script standing out in the rustic-leaning home. I take a step closer until I can read what it says, and then I wish I had just let my curiosity lie for once.

Brielle Jones and Brett Ashford request your presence to celebrate their love in a wedding…

I turn around, trying to get the damn words to scrub from my mind.

It’s been three fucking years. Of course she’d have moved on.

Thatthinginside me rumbles its disapproval, its possessiveness still an overwhelming wave all these years later. It didn’t make any sense. It was a simple summer fling, something that had been doomed from the moment it began. And I’d been the one to make sure it didn’t turn into some half-assed long distance abomination that fizzled after two months. No, there’s no reason for my breath to catch and my stomach todrop out at the thought of her fucking someone else—knotting someone else. And so I shove it all down until I can hardly feel it.

Brandon comes down the stairs at last, dressed similarly to me, a worn flannel overlaying a simple white T-shirt and faded dark wash jeans that have seen better days. His boots are even more worn, but he doesn’t mind. Not much is more comfortable when you’re in the saddle for ten hours moving cattle than the worn boots you’ve spent the last four seasons breaking in.

As we head out the same door as Melissa, he tucks his hands into his pockets and looks out over the mountains. There’s just a bare layer of snow coating the highest peaks, the spring runoff well and truly finished. Not that there had been all that much. Caleb had been gone the last five weeks, fighting multiple fires across Wyoming and Montana. He’d even been called in to help with a nasty one running along the Canadian border in Washington.

“You think about it?” Brandon asks, not looking at me. He grabs Phoebe’s saddle and heads toward her stall.

My stomach clenches, but I shove that reaction down, too. She’d moved on. So could I.

I nod and grab Martini’s bridle. “Let’s do it. If we get the paperwork done by the end of the summer, we could be at the October gala.”

His shoulders relax. “Think we’ll get matched the first time?”

I shrug, focusing on getting Martini ready for the hard day ahead.

“Yeah, probably not. I think I read somewhere that the average pack takes three galas to match. But that still puts us before next year’s fire season, so at least Caleb won’t be up a creek.”

Brandon continues on about the Council and our registering as a pack. I keep my mouth shut, not willing to ruin his good mood or hopeful disposition.

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