Page 106 of Chasing the Wild
He’s looked me in the eye before now and told me that sometimes it doesn’t make sense why we have to be the ones to see something like this through, but maybe this is the way I can finally set things right after what my own flesh and blood did.
You’re not responsible for the sins of your grandfather.
Lost in my own thoughts, I’ve easily fed out and the cattle fall into a contented, munching rhythm in my wake. I’m back parking up the tractor and doing a quick visual check over the stock and the fencing before I know it.
They seem healthy. No injuries that I can see. Too many times mysterious things have happened to my herd, and I’ve only ever captured grainy night-time images on the cameras scattered around the ranch. Not enough concrete evidence of who was responsible, but with a gut knowing of who to lay the blame at the feet of, all the same.
Short of sitting down here every night with a shotgun, there’s not much to be done.
Lifting my ball cap off, I dig my fingers through my hair, then tug it back down, flexing the brim between my palms.
That small action immediately brings the memory from last night, of Layla wearing my hat, back into focus. Dragging me away from horrible memories—away from stomach-twisting guilt—and into a soft place that feels too good for the likes of me.
The way her green eyes lit up with a spark that I hope to fucking god meant that she understood even a tiny part of the reason why I gave it to her. Because I’m serious. It wasn’t just a stupid gesture that I’ll take back later, I meant it. It’s hers. I want her to take it with her when she leaves, and even if she never wears it again, knowing that she has my hat in her possession will somehow settle the raging unease that rushes to the surface any time I picture her not being here anymore.
I tried not to overthink it while riding up to the cabin yesterday. Ultimately, it sat right, and I’ve always trusted my instincts when something has felt like the correct kind of decision to make.
She didn’t seem to hate it, so there’s that.
As I slide into the front seat of my truck, the handset of the radio stares back at me, solemnly. It says one thing, and one thing only.Kayce.
The person who I really, really should be attempting to contact, even if he doesn’t answer, or even if he’s still off-grid and black-out drunk somewhere.
I’d be the world’s shittiest father if I didn’t at least try. If he does pick up, I don’t want to have this awkward conversation—well, awkward on my part at least—with Layla around. And if he doesn’t answer, well, then I can always try to shoot him a quick email when I get back to the house.
So, before I can talk myself out of it, I snatch up the radio and flick it to the channel that will connect up with the truck he’s got down in town. There’s a good chance he won’t answer.
Ironically, as I put out the call for him, I find myself wishing he won’t pick up.
Fuck. I really am the world’s worst father.
Every second that goes by, where I’m met with only static and no response, relief settles in my veins. Rather than being overly concerned about the reason why he’s not here on the ranch, or what he’s been doing in Crimson Ridge this whole time, I’m the fucking asshole who is breathing easier in knowing that I don’t have to face talking to my son.
My own fucking son.
The one who thinks of Layla ashis.
Christ. What the fuck I’m supposed to do about this mess of emotion I’m feeling when it comes to this girl? Because it isn’t just sex. It isn’t just about getting her under me. There are layers and layers of depth to how I feel about her, and if our circumstances were different… Jesus… I don’t know. I’d probably be thinking about all the ways I could guarantee that she understood I’d follow her around for the rest of my goddamn life, if she allowed me to.
Scrunching my eyes closed, I give the radio one final attempt. Still nothing.
The tightness in my chest eases, knowing that I don’t have to hear Kayce’s voice and get hit with wave after wave of guilt at lying to him.
Absently rubbing over my sternum with the heel of my hand, there’s an ache there, entirely connected to the beautiful girl with copper hair and green eyes.
Sticking the truck in drive, I’m pulled back toward the barn. Back toward the person who I only have all of seventy-two hours left with. Everything else feels like it stands fucking still around me. The mountains, the grass, the pine trees watching over this entire ranch.
Right now, none of that matters, and all I want to do is be within arm’s reach of her. Even if all I do for the rest of the day is muck stalls and cart horse shit around while listening to those bastards stomp and whinny and beg for Layla’s attention. I’ll gladly spend the day with her.
“So… you built this place.”
She hits me with those mossy green eyes, glinting in the light of the fire as we eat dinner. Sharing out of the same bowl, settled side by side on the floor.
“I did.” Scooping up a mouthful of reheated stew, I see the wheels turning in her mind.
“All on your own?”
I nod. Finishing chewing and letting her keep giving me those eyes. One part wonder held in them, one part disbelief. I’ve never had anyone share that kind of expression with me… I think it’s something that could be described as pride, but I don’t know for certain. My selfish fucking heart wants to believe she’s proud of this tiny, ultimately meaningless thing that I did so many years ago.
