Page 122 of Braving the Storm
“Probably could have landed us in a lot of shit with your father if it ever got found, but I had a secure spot for it all.”
“Graham, a shoebox on top of the closet isnota secure location, don’t go trying to lead this girl down the garden path.” Beside him, his wife sniffles and tuts disapprovingly.
“Would you mind if I took some photos of whatever documents you have, just so I’ve got a copy I can take with me back to our lawyers? You’ll keep the originals here, of course.” I hastily tack on.
Mr. Mitchell hoists himself to his feet, then stops to look at me with a decade’s worth of distrust.
“How do we know you really are Erik’s daughter? You could bea journalist for all we know, and in that case, I’ve already told you more than I’m supposed to say out loud.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I quickly grab my wallet and pull out my driver’s license, and hand it over. As he quietly takes it, studies it, eyes flitting between the photo and my face, I use my phone to bring up an internet search; within a couple of clicks, I find a photo online that shows my sister, myself, and my father from a few years ago attending some corporate schmooze fest.
“Here.” I slide the phone his way. “There are a million reasons for you not to trust anyone or anything to do with Lane Enterprises, and I completely understand your hesitation. I can only hope this will go some small way toward rectifying things.”
Mr. Mitchell grunts, and hands the phone to his wife, who readjusts her glasses as she dabs the damp corners of her eyes.
“Thank you for coming today, Briar.”
I reach across the dining table and as she returns my phone, I take the opportunity to give her hand a squeeze.
“I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here.”
“Don’t be sorry, kiddo. Your father went to a lot of effort to keep things quiet, so I can’t imagine you would have had a hope in hell of coming to visit us while he was still alive.” The man gives his wife a kiss on the top of her head. “Now let me get you that paternity test… and I’m guessing you might be interested in the letter she left behind for us, too?”
Chapter 42
“Is there anything you miss most from your competing days? You know, being the champion rodeo starlet and all.”
“I don’t miss the injuries.” My cowboy grimaces. “Luckily, I never truly got smashed up like some of the other guys. A couple of broken ribs here and there, a few torn muscles, but there were some nights when one of the others would enter the arena expecting to win a buckle, and instead of going home after the show they ended up in intensive care.”
“Honestly, I don’t know how you did it.” Resting my head on his broad chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear is so damn reassuring.
“You don’t wish I was still that guy?” His fingers play with my hair, while I lie curled into his side, and there’s a hint of something faint and soft in that question, a tiny light cast on the complexities of Stôrmand Lane. “The guy you’re busy drooling over on those video clips you keep watching on repeat like an addict.”
The teasing in his voice doesn’t disguise the way he asks with more than a touch of sincerity.
“No way.” Tilting my head so that our eyes can lock, I reach out and brush my fingers over his lips. “I like this guy.”
Storm rubs a strand of my hair as if deep in thought, and gently kisses the pads of my fingertips.
My entire body melts into a puddle.
I love him beyond anything I ever thought possible.
“I miss the sense of family on the tour… we were a pretty tight-knit bunch. Traveling and supporting each other on the road. I’d never really had that before, and then it was all taken away virtually overnight after Tegan passed.”
As he speaks, I watch his throat move and feel the rumble of his morning voice, and I would happily stay right here forever if I could. Despite all our past hurts, we’ve somehow managed to both still be left standing even though there might have been days when it felt impossible to do so, thanks to the circumstances we found ourselves in.
“I don’t blame them.” Storm adds. “Probably the pressure from their sponsors, managers, and just the day-to-day bullshit of a pro career. I didn’t need to be dragging them down with me when the pro tour decided I no longer fit in their comfortable little box, so it was easier to vanish, fall off the map, you know.”
My heart hurts for him that the actions of someone else, someone he hardly knew, took away his career.
“I wish someone had been there for you.”
“Beau was, even when I was a dick and didn’t deserve his time. That’s why I’d do anything for him. He was one of the only ones who kept in contact, even though he had the biggest public profile out of all of us on the pro tour, and it could have all blown up in his face. Beau came to visit and slept on that god-awful couch and made sure I wasn’t sitting out here with a loaded gun and a bottle and a head full of black thoughts.”
We lie there in silence together for a while as I trace the lines of ink down the side of his neck, and he keeps playing with my hair.
“I bought pills once,” I whisper the confession I’ve never shared with anyone. “About six months after the wedding, I sat in my bathtub at three a.m. and drank half a bottle of vodka… but couldn’t go through with it. I think I swallowed like two pills, then ended up bawling and passing out.”
