Page 255 of Things Left Unsaid

There isn’t a single bewingedporcusin the sky.

Another bawdy laugh from Tee has me glancing around at the miracle that is this BBQ.

My family. His.

Enemies.

But we ended the rancor that our ancestors wrought and while they’re rolling in their graves, we’re chatting, listening to music, and eating great food.

It’s probably the first time that a sense of belonging fills me.

Maybe it was Colt’s declaration, his admission to Cole, the presence of our families, or maybe it’s my own words to his brothers, but this is my place.

The acknowledgment flutters inside my chest, filling all the empty spaces. It sinks to my feet and grounds me.

I’m home.

And as that acceptance settles in for the long haul, of course something has to come along and take a massive dump on it.

A fancy sports car shoots down the driveway, and by the tension in Colt’s shoulders, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s behind the wheel orhow—someone on staff took a bribe to give him access through the front gate.

Clyde parks the car diagonally across the lane.

If I needed a reminder on how much of an asshole he was, I got it.

“A family BBQ without the patriarch?” he booms, tone hearty like he’s welcome here.

As if three of said family hadn’t colluded to toss him off the ranch in the first place.

Dead silence falls at his words, but despite knowing the hatred my husband has for his father, what he does still takes me aback.

In response, he calmly places the fork and tongs in his hands onto the side, turns away from the grill, then walks over to Clyde who beams at his son as if he’s the prodigal father, but his eyes widen as Colt’s fist soars forward, colliding with the asshole’s nose.

A shriek escapes Lindsay, but the triplets are soon cheering, “Get him, Colt! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

Before our eyes, Colt lights into his father, punctuating each hit with a curse or a warning.

“You tried to set me up, you asshole.”

“Told you not to come here.”

“You killed Loki.”

“You got her pregnant?!”

“You wanted them to suspect me.”

“You started the fire.”

“How dare you show up like you’re still fucking welcome.”

“You stole the ranch from me.”

“You lied about the will.”

Each snarled word seems to alleviate his outrage until, finally, Cody and Cole are the ones who drag him off their father, holding him back when Clyde, hunched on the ground, slurs, “Always did hit like a girl.”

My man roars his fury and fights his brothers’ hold. He almost succeeds too. It’s only Callan shouting, “The police are on their way, Colt!” that appears to stop him.

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