Page 43 of Edge of Unbroken

“I’ll try. But I’ll still tell Ran that I kept the vultures away,” he says with a chuckle.

I roll my eyes exaggeratedly. “Whatever you need to do,” I say as Shane drapes his arm over my shoulder and leads me back out to the deck.

Wednesday, January 5th

Ronan

“Ran, why don’t you take the truck into town and pick up our new guests?” my grandfather says while we sit around the large wooden table, eating lunch.

We do this every day; my grandmother prepares enough lunch and dinner to feed not only me and my grandparents, but my aunt, her husband, their kids, Thomas, Elias, and any guests staying at the ranch.

She’ll ring the literal lunch or dinner bell—or call everyone over their radios if we’re dispersed across the ranch—and we’ll gather in the main house at noon to eat, catch up, and discuss things that need to be done in the afternoon.

Even though everyone lives on the same ranch, it’s easy to lose sight of each other because the ranch is so big and there’s always work that needs to be done.

At this exact moment, the table is surrounded by my grandparents—my grandpa sitting at the head of the table and my grandmother to the right of him—me, Elias, and Thomas. My aunt, Martin, Colin, and Riley sit to the left of my grandfather.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to head into town to get them?” Thomas asks my grandfather.

My grandpa just waves him off. “I think Ran’s about due for a little escape from this place.” He chuckles and looks at me, his eyes crinkly at the corners.

He’s right. I haven’t left the ranch since I got here over two months ago. I’ve become a little stir-crazy lately, even though the ranch is huge and I’m always outdoors now. It’s just so vastly different from living in New York where I could go wherever whenever. The hustle and bustle kept me sufficiently distracted from thinking about the unpleasant things ruling my life.

Montana’s beautiful, and I recognize that being here gives me distance and perspective, but I can’t deny how much I miss home, and especially my friends and Cat. I’m so isolated out here, never knowing what’s going on, what everyone’s up to until I get to talk to Cat on Sundays. That one hour after lunch on Sundays is what I look forward to the most, and it’s definitely provided an added incentive for me to polish off my lunch as quickly as possible—to my grandma’s delight—so I can retreat into my bedroom and talk to the most perfect girl in this world. Talking with her, hearing her voice, her laugh, the words “I love you” is the most calming, yet most painful thing at the same time. I miss her so fucking much, but I’ll take whatever I can get of her right now.

“What do you say, kid?” my grandfather asks.

I hastily swallow my sip of water before nodding. “Sure, what time are they coming in?”

“You’ll need to get them at the train station at one-fifty,” my grandmother chimes in while she gets up from her chair. It scrapes against the wooden floorboards. “But Perry, didn’t you mention last night you needed some supplies from the tack store? Maybe Ran could take care of that errand for you while he’s in town.” She sweetly pats my cheek.

I’m pretty sure I would’ve never known even one moment of pain if I had been raised by my grandparents.

She collects my plate and then wanders into the kitchen with a stack of dishes.

“That’s a good idea,” my grandfather nods. “I have a list, Ran. You better head out now, though. The roads might be tricky.” He’s referring to the fresh snow we got last night. There’s really no such thing as having your roads cleared when you live on a ranch out in the middle of nowhere.

I get up from the table and head to the mudroom to slip into my boots before grabbing my jacket and ballcap.

My grandmother walks in with a smile on her face. “Our guests are newlyweds. This will be their honeymoon. When I spoke with the gal on the phone, she told me she and her newly minted husband are outdoorsy. Their names are Tensley and Devin Foley. I think they’re really young—early twenties.” She hands me a laminated sheet of paper with “Mr. & Mrs. Foley” printed on it.

I look at the paper and grin. “Would you like me to wear a tux and chauffeur’s hat when I pick them up?”

“I like it when you’re feisty,” she says. “I’ve missed that side of you. Drive safely, baby boy.”

I trudge out of the house, silently cursing my right knee, which aches from the strain I have to put on it maneuvering through the sticky snow to the shiny black Ford F-250 parked just by the barn.

Driving the truck took some getting used to. I’m so accustomed to my Mustang and its quick acceleration. It’s a zippy car and I miss it. I miss a lot of things… and people. Others not so much.

The truck, on the other hand, is a fucking beast. It’s huge and has a powerful engine made to haul heavy loads like horse trailers and bales of hay. It takes a moment to get it up to speed, but I can’t help but feel safe whenever I drive it. I’m pretty certain I’d survive just about any collision short of a head-on with a semi.

The truck maneuvers the fresh snow easily, and I make it into town in under an hour as the roads are empty today. I decide to take care of getting the supplies my grandfather listed before picking up these newlyweds from the train station.

The tack store is located right on the main road leading through Redtail Ridge. It’s easily one of the largest buildings, outsizing even the grocery store. That’s probably because just about everyone who has reason to visit the small town—population: under a thousand, where everyone knows everyone and each other’s business—is a rancher and requires materials only available at the tack store. It carries everything from feed to saddles to vet supplies. A lot of ranchers do their own basic vet care.

The store, too, is empty today and I stand in the entryway, perusing the list of things my grandfather needs. He apparently put in a large order of dewormer for the livestock. I decide to head to the counter to let someone know that I’m here to pick it up, since that stuff would likely be stored on a pallet in the back.

“How can I help?” an older man in his early sixties asks me, not looking up from his stack of papers, his reading glasses sitting low on his nose.

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