Page 2 of Fragile Heart

We set out toward the far field, but I can’t quite manage to get the damn invitation out of my mind.

Chapter One

SEVEN YEARS LATER

BRIELLE

The GPS chimes for the third time, notifying me that I’ve managed to miss the turn. Again. I blow out a breath and pull over to the shoulder, easing the car into park and turning on my hazards even though I haven’t seen more than a handful of cars the last fifty miles on this two lane highway.

What is wrong with me today? It’s not like I’ve never been to Melissa’s family ranch. Granted, it’s been a few years. But could so much have changed that the turnoff is now impossible to find?

I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest, trying to get my bearings. My eyes burn with tears, but all I’ve seemed to do the last several weeks—months, really—is cry, and I’m freaking over it. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in this stupid car for the better part of twelve hours. My legs hurt, my back hurts, and I can’t seem to find a way to keep one hip or the other from going numb at the most inconvenient and frustrating intervals. I tap my toe, counting to ten. My phone pings, but I ignore it.

I can do this.

Finding this ranch couldn’t be as hard as finding those damn messages on his phone. Or having to face downthat womanwhile I was cloaked in the black dress that made me out to seem like a mourning wife. And certainly not as hard as shaking her damn hand while feigning ignorance over her being more than just his coworker. That’s how everyone else knew her, at least. No one in his family knew that she’d been his mistress. Not until a month later when she announced she was pregnant and sued me, trying to force the estate to settle with her instead. As if that was how estate laws even worked in Colorado.

So instead of his mistress getting his millions, I have it all—along with the daily waffling between smug satisfaction knowing she got fucked over by him just like I did and guilt that I have his money when he clearly cared about her more than me.

My breath lodges in my throat, and I force my thoughts away from the entire mess. I can’t think about any of that right now, not when I’m already knee-deep in panic over finding the ranch. The road is long and flat with copses of trees appearing every few hundred feet before the long green prairie grasses overtake the land again. The mountains seem small here, even though I know they’re just as tall and majestic as the ones I hiked in Colorado the last decade. Everything is green and tan and contrasts against the bright blue, cloudless sky.

It’s beautiful. And I can’t manage to appreciate it.

That anxious bubble swells in my chest, and I shake out my hands.

“You can do this,” I whisper, trying to believe it this time.

I glance down at my phone and can’t help but smile at the text message from Faedra.

We’re rooting for you!

And then she sends a picture of the twins on her lap, and I laugh, the sound wet with my tears. Each girl holds a sign. Iris’s bright smile is in contrast to Rose’s more sober expression, though her eyes are happy. Iris’s sign says “Luv You Ant Brielle!”, and it’s done entirely in blues and purples. The “r” is backwards, and none of the letters are anywhere near the same size, but it warms me anyway. Rose’s is simple, a heart with my name in the middle.

Faedra sends another text.

Rose wants you to know that she made the heart purple just for you even though hearts are actually red because she knows it’s your favorite color.

I laugh. I can’t help it. Of course that’s something Rose would need to clarify. She may be the spitting image of Logan. But personality? She could have been Jude’s clone. I’ve never seen a five-year-old be so stoic in my entire life. It’s freakingwild.

They’re perfect. Tell them thank you!

She doesn’t immediately text back, so I drop my phone and focus on the road again. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices I’ve traveled the same three miles on this blasted highway and calls the cops. I wipe my hands across my cheeks, ignoring how they come away wet.

Won’t that just be the fucking cherry on top of this whole mess? Nothing quite like needing a damn police escort to your best friend’s place because the turnoff isn’t where you remember it being and the sign you always used as your marker is nowhere to be fucking found.

“Come on, Brielle. You can do this,” I say. I reset the GPS and prop it against the display screen of the car. “If you can face down that bitch, you can find Melissa’s place.”

When it no longer feels like I’m half a second from losing my mind, I ease back onto the narrow highway, turning so that I’m heading the opposite direction. Going significantly slower than the posted speed limit, I manage to notice a gravel road right where the map promises there should be a turn off, though there isn’t any sign like there was last time. Large trees that were little more than saplings last time I was here tower on either side of the road, blocking view of anything but what’s directly ahead of me.

How fast do trees even grow in four years?

“Melissa, I swear to God, you’re putting in a damn sign at the road if it’s the only thing I manage to do this summer,” I mutter.

A couple hundred feet from the highway, hidden by the trees, a large metal arch spans the road. The poles on either side are large and the same black metal as the gates attached. The gates are currently pulled open and held with serious-looking locks on each side. In bold letters, the name of the ranch arches over the road, following the simple arc of metal above and below it, dark against the pale blue afternoon sky.

Misty Mountain Ranch.

She hadn’t changed the name after all.

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