Page 14 of Rope Me In

“This isn’t you,” Gavin says.

I square my shoulders. “Open your eyes, big brother. Maybe this has always been me but you’ve been blind to it.”

“No—”

“See, Gav, this is the problem. You keep telling me who I am. Maybe you should stop and smell the dying roses.” With that, I walk away, making a point to go greet one of the ranch hands, Art, with a smile on my face and a joke already leaving my mouth.

Art laughs, and the tension in the air breaks. Gavin is burning a hole in the back of my head, but I refuse to look at him. I have work to do, and I don’t want to fight anymore.

“Art, can you finish out the stalls in the back? They just need new shavings.”

“Sure thing,” he says.

I hand him my pitchfork and dump the bucket. With Gavin’s eyes still searing into me like I’m a bug under a microscope, I decide I need a break to cool off from this conversation and nurse my hangover.

“I’ll be back this afternoon to finish up that fence in the south pasture,” I tell Art.

“Need help?”

“Sure. I’ll text you.” With that settled, I head toward the house. I know Gavin won’t follow me because there’s too much work to do.

When we all decided to move forward with Blake’s plans for the Montgomery Family Dude Ranch, it was understood there’d be a ton of work to do to get it off the ground in such a short amount of time. Nine months, to be exact. Three of which have already passed.

I said we needed more time, but I was ignored. Not that I could fight much, anyway. For the first month after the accident, I spent my time in bed on pain meds while Momma fussed over me. Turns out broken bones and a broken heart are a complete bitch to mend.

During the second month, I got more involved, but I still found myself being pushed out. Blake did her best to include me, but since I was going to the city for appointments and tests on my heart, again, I couldn’t do much.

By the start of the third month, I had mostly given up trying. I started physical therapy for my arm and was allowed to take longer walks by my doctor but was banned from lifting anything. Again, not something easy when your life is working the land.

In a last-ditch effort, I tried to help Blake with some paperwork, calling and negotiating with contractors about the updates we needed to the guest house and such, but I’m not meant for sitting on my ass. I prefer physical work, to feel as if I’ve earned putting my feet up at the end of the night, to know that I did good work that day, accomplished something.

Not being able to do that has made me feel worthless. I’m hoping now that I’m able to work again, I will feel less of that.

But it doesn’t feel that way. Especially after my fight with Gavin.

After a few minutes, I approach the house I’ve lived in since the moment I took my first breath in this world. My feet stop, and I take in the peeling white paint of the two-story home with the wraparound porch that needs a fresh sanding and a coat of paint. Dad and I would spend hours out here some nights, unwinding after work. Sometimes Gran, Momma, or Gavin would join us. We’d talk about work, mostly, things that needed to be done, cattle that needed to be sold. Nothing too deep but things that were important to our livelihood.

A yearning fills my chest, one for simpler days when Dad was still alive, when I was more like the carefree boy Gavin so desperately wants me to be again. That thought has more memories of my time on the porch flash through my mind, like the day my dad gave me my first drink of whiskey at fourteen years old. The time I realized that my future was this land, living in Randall—not becoming a horse-reining champion like my kid self once imagined.

An intense feeling of sadness hits me like a mallet, and the hair rises on my arms.Open your eyes, big brother. Maybe this has always been me but you’ve been blind to it.

Those words I spoke to Gavin echo in my mind. I said them for a reason, even if I didn’t mean to say them out loud. Because despite the memories I have of this porch, my home, the nights spent with Dad, I’m not so sure I was ever the carefree and happy boy my family believed me to be. Because I think I’vealways felt this crack inside me. This past year has only spread it wider, the pit below it growing and festering.

I reach for my flask, wanting to feel the sting of whiskey down my throat instead of the burn of the feelings I so desperately have been trying to rid myself of for maybe my entire life. My fingers brush the cool metal just as a blue butterfly flutters by.

The insect stops my action, and I blink. I exhale a breath through my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rein myself in. Rein my thoughts in. It’s too early to get drunk, and even if Gavin thinks I’m like our dad, I can handle my shit without getting buzzed by noon. Or at least, I think I can. I stopped myself from drinking before. I was sober for three months.

I adjust my hat, running up the few steps to the front door and flinging it open. I’m going to grab a few things then take that dip in the spring. I need to get off this property for a bit and clear my head—hopefully press the restart button on this day.

Yep, that’s what I’m going to do.

Chapter 6

Presley

Ten missed calls, twenty-ninetext messages, and even an email. A freaking email. I tried not to read them—or listen to the five voicemails Derek left, either—but of course I did. Because I’m a glutton for punishment.

My favorite text was:Why would you do this to me? To us?

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