Page 23 of Wild Horses

Giving her hand a quick squeeze, I clear my throat. “Theentire Davis Designs business model is the antithesis of every tenet Warren Phillips ever held. Not only do you care about your employees and customers, but your focus is on building beautiful homes, not soulless skyscrapers.”Or anything that will make you money regardless of the cost.

“Then what’s the problem? You’ve made friends here, and we…”

I swallow the lump in my throat at her unsaid words. We’ve made so many strides forward in our relationship. I’ve learned more about my sister in the past twelve weeks than I had in the prior lifetime of being her twin.

“Anyone need a refill?” I ask, looking for an excuse to step away. I stalk to the glass counter and snag the coffee pot from Clairy, taking my time topping off everyone’s drinks.

Why don’t I want to stay here and buy into the business Tuesday and Bond are growing? There are tons of reasons. I don’t want to encroach on the life she’s built. I don’t want to be in construction.

It’s certainly not because I’m holding out hope that a chestnut-haired cowgirl will ride into town, begging me to run away with her. Nope. Not hung up on the woman who ghosted me after one amazing night at all.

I don’t realize my palm is rubbing over the sting in my chest until a small hand lights on the crook of my elbow. “You can talk to me, War.” I meet eyes that mirror my own. “You seem so, I don’t know… adrift, maybe?”

“I’m exploring my options.” I try for a cavalier smirk, but I can tell from her reaction it comes out as a grimace.

“Promise you’ll consider it, okay? We’d love to have you stay. The whole town would. Everyone adores you, even with the depression beard.”

I scrub a hand over my thick facial hair while Tuesday tuts.

“Seriously, if your goal is to go back to Dallas incognito, you nailed it,” Bond calls from our table.

I match Bond’s teasing tone. “First, I’m not going back to Dallas. Second,” I continue, gesturing to where Griff sits, eating a sea salt croissant, “a lot of the guys around here have beards.”

Tuesday’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah, well, the Viking can pull it off; you look like a yeti.”

“Damn, sis, how do you really feel?” I turn to her friends. “Clairy, Charli, be honest. Is it that bad?”

Clairy laughs. “I like it. It’s very mountain man chic.”

Charli thinks before she gives her diplomatic answer. “It’s definitely different from the way you looked when you showed up in Trail Creek, but it’s growing on me.”

Tuesday sighs. “Fine, leave it, but at least put some beard oil on it or trim it or something.”

I catch my distorted reflection in The Bee and The Bean’s window. My flannel shirt is unbuttoned over a plain, fitted white T-shirt, half tucked into a pair of worn jeans. My shaggy hair and shaggier beard conceal a portion of my face. The watch on my wrist is the only part of me that resembles the War of old.

The past few months have been… challenging. When I woke up that December morning to an empty bed, no Laramie in sight, I understood what rock bottom felt like: unemployed, estranged from my parents, needing to reconcile with my sister, and left in a cold motel with the faint memory of a whispered “I’m sorry.”

There was nothing left for me in Dallas.

In a move that would have made Laramie proud—while climbing to the top of my impulsive behavior list—I packed up my high-rise condo, sold it and most of my belongings, and hit the road.

Despite the distance between us, my sister opened her home and arms to me without question—proving again how wrong I was for the way I treated her all those years. She and her circle of friends, the family she built around herself when my parents—and I—forced her out of Dallas, have welcomed me as if I belong.

Guilt swarms my gut, souring the coffee that sits there. Another reason I can’t join Davis Designs? Idon’tbelong here. I’m a single dark cloud in an otherwise clear sky. A reminder of the life Tuesday left behind and the pain that went with it.

“I’m heading out. I was supposed to be at one of the new sites ten minutes ago,” I say, ignoring the protest that chimes around the table as I wave goodbye. The fresh mountain air slips into my lungs when I step out of the cafe, and the sun catches on the face of my watch. I frown at the timepiece, one of the few things from Dallas I couldn’t part with.

The bespoke suits, the hand-crafted Italian shoes, all the trappings of my old life—I packed them away, hiding them in the closet of the small A-frame style cabin I’m renting here in Trail Creek, everything but the watch. The Breitling was an extravagant gift from my father on my 30th birthday, but the damn thing feels like a part of me. So even though it’s a marker of my former life and doesn’t match my mood or clothing, I wear it daily.

Laramie’s assertion that I fiddled with it when I felt out of control plays in my mind, triggering memories of that night—and me wearing nothing but the watch as I made her come. “Fucking hell, War, it’s been three months. You’ve got to get over her.” I curse myself, stomping to the Bronco I purchased after selling off my sleek sports car.

Once I’m behind the wheel, my phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth, and as if it knows, it rings. I don’t know why I do it, but for the first time in twelve weeks, I hitanswer on my father’s call and brace myself for his condescension and anger.

“War? It’s about time you answered my call. I’ve been trying to reach you for months.”

“I noticed.”

“And you thought that was appropriate? To ignore me? To abandon your responsibilities? I expect this sort of behavior from Tuesday, but not you.” When I don’t respond, he blows out a long breath. “I’m, um, I’m sorry.”

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