Page 55 of Eight Second Hearts

No one says a word as the truck rolls to a stop.

Chapter 33

Tripp

Anger fills me so thoroughly, I know I wouldn’t be able to speak if I wanted to. Anger at Darla for her traitorous fucking actions. Anger that we’d had to make a detour because of her.

Anger that I’ve been forced to come home before I’m fucking ready.

I stay away from this place as much as possible, following the rodeo circuit until the season ends, and even then, I drive real slow coming back. Any excuse not to come back to this place is a worthy one. And yet here I am, back home in March when I should be chasing the fucking legacy.

I roll to a stop at the gates and throw the truck into park, not immediately reaching up to press the gate opener so they swing open. Those fucking gates haunt my nightmares. This whole place does.

Indie sits in the back silently, understanding that there’s more going on that we’re not telling her, but she doesn’t ask. I appreciate that. It must be difficult for her journalist soul to hold her tongue right now, especially since I can see the curiosity in her eyes.

Ram reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, offering comfort when I need it most. Beau does the same on my other side, silently lending his strength. Still, we sit there. It’s too late to confront anyone tonight, and honestly, I don’t know if I can. My hands are shaking, so I clench the steering wheel tighter to hide it, my father’s words trickling inside my mind despite my best effort to drown him out.

Savage men don’t show weakness. Their spines are made of steel. Is yours made of steel, boy?

When I still don’t move, Indie leans forward in her seat and slides her hand onto my shoulder beside Ram’s. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. I haven’t told her. But she understands that I don’t want to go in, and somehow, she understands that I need strength to do it.

Ironically, it’s her touch that finally fills my spine with the steel my father beat into me. I drop the truck back into gear and hit the button on the visor. The gates start to swing open without a sound, clearly well-oiled and maintained.

I’ll have to thank Ram’s mama when I see her tomorrow for taking care of things.

I take a deep breath, ease off the brake, and let the truck roll down the paved road made up of my worst memories.

Chapter 34

Indie

There’s a heaviness in the air of the truck that I don’t understand. Even Bilbo doesn’t seem excited to be here, his eyes watching through the windshield. He doesn’t wag his tail like he’s coming home. He doesn’t do that happy little butt wiggle he does when he first sees me. He just. . . watches.

Tripp had stopped at the ornate gate, his eyes staring at those twin bulls with what I could only describe as terror, but it’s a fear that’s old, like being reminded of how you were once afraid of the dark as a kid. When Ram and Beau had touched his shoulders to offer comfort, I understood that this place isn’t exactly one they want to come back to. Something had made me reach out and offer my own comfort, if only because I can understand that coming home is sometimes sort of like visiting a gravesite.

I understand this sentiment far too well.

The winding driveway is paved concrete, large groups of monkey grass planted along the sides of it. There are fences beyond the tall grass, but it’s too dark to see if there is anything in the fields right now. If the sun was shining, I’d be lookingaround excitedly, eager to see where they come from, what it’s like. After all, I don’t know what ranch life is like.

In the distance, I can make out yellow-tinted lights. As we get closer, I realize the lights are porch lanterns shining from a beautiful and massive house. It looks like a plantation house, the large white pillars standing tall and proud and. . . monstrous. The place is fucking huge and imposing. I can tell that even from here. As we draw closer, it only seems to grow more menacing, haunted even. Unease settles in my chest. What the fuck am I walking into here?

Just when I think Tripp is going to pull into the circle drive for the large Antebellum-style house, the road curves and he follows it, turning to the right and pulling away from the place.

“We’re not going to the house?” I ask, looking through the side window as we pass it, confused.

Beau doesn’t look at me. The usually smiling man is somber as he says, “we don’t stay in there anymore.”

I wanna ask, but I don’t because everyone is so tense. Clearly, something in that house happened that made them decide not to stay in it. The evidence hangs in the air with the tension. But what?

The road turns from concrete to gravel. The small dip from the change shakes the truck and then we bump along for a few minutes more, leaving the imposing house behind. The smaller house rises up out of the darkness so suddenly, it surprises me. No porch lights are lit up on this one. It’s significantly smaller, done up in a more Victorian style with a wraparound porch rather than the antebellum style of the bigger one. Instead of white, this house is painted blue. There are rocking chairs and a swing on the porch, making it look inviting even in the dark.

“Normally we’d have lights on,” Tripp offers as explanation. “But we’re not expected.”

He means that he wouldn’t normally be here this time of year. We’d come unannounced because of some issue with his sister. Not because he wanted to.

“Is this a guest house?” I ask as everyone opens their doors and gets out.

The mountain air is chilly here and I immediately wrap my arms around myself to keep warm. Even with my denim jacket on, it’s not enough to stop the wind. There’s no snow on the ground right now, the last evidence of the prior storm clearly melting in a short burst of warmer weather, but it feels like it’s coming soon. There’s a charge in the air that speaks of it.

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