Page 122 of The Mountain Echoes
Vera comes in from the front hallway onto the porch. “They’re here,” she states unnecessarily.
She hands me an iced tea. I drink it down. “Yeah.”
Celine floats up the stairs onto the porch, sunglasses perched on her head, her lipstick perfect for someone who’s been on the road all the way from Aspen.
She’s in spotless white, tight jeans and a gauzy blouse that somehow doesn’t get dirty like everyone else’s clothes around here.
“Aria,” she says with sugar in her voice, “you look…industrious.”
I arch a brow but don’t respond.
She tosses her bag on the bench by the front door and glances around, eyes sweeping around like she’s taking inventory.
She’s looking for Maverick. I know it.
This is Wildflower Canyon—gossip moves faster than spring runoff. Word’s out about me and him. People have seen us together.
Is that why she’s back? To take him from me?
Stop being so damn insecure, Aria.
Hudson walks past us, not even bothering to greet me, which I’m fine with. He’s scowling. Angry. “Vera, can you and Tomas bring our bags in?”
I bristle. The entitlement on this son of a bitch!
“No,” I reply before Vera can say a word. “Vera is on her way home to Benji, and Tomas is busy getting the herd prepped. Carry your own bags.”
Hudson glares at me. “Tomas doesn’t just work for you. He works forus.”
I fold my arms, give him the once over, surprised—again—that I ever loved this man. This weak, petty, snot-nosed man.
Compared to Maverick? Hell, he’s not even in the same league. He’s a boy playing dress-up in a man’s world.
“No, he doesn’t. Tomas works for the ranch and therefore for me.”
“God!” Celine drops into one of the chairs with a dramatic sigh. “Hudson, just take the bags in, will you? Vera, can you fix me a drink?”
Vera glances at me. I give her a nod, and she heads inside.
“I just told you Vera’s on her way home,” I say evenly. “And yet you ask her to make you a drink? That a power play, Celine?”
She smirks, all gloss and poison. “No, honey. What you’re doing is a power play—telling Hudson off, standing there in your old boots and wearing your dust like it’s pride.”
“Christ, Celine.” I laugh without humor. “Didn’t you used to say that exact line back when we were teenagers? All these years and you never picked up any new material?”
Celine groans. “Why do you have your panties in such a bunch?”
Hudson makes a show of carrying their bags in. We both ignore him.
This is what he’s been reduced to—luggage boy,errand man, a shadow of importance clinging to scraps of pride.
He tries to show off, but Celine quickly corrals him with a look, a word.
For a brief second, I feel a flicker of sorrow for the man he might’ve been. Instead, he stayed behind, tethered to Longhorn like a dog on a short leash—became the son-in-law, the drunk husband, the man who never grew up.
“I ran into Bree in Aspen,” Celine murmurs as she looks at her nails. They’re painted pink. “She mentioned you’ve been…busy.”
“And how would she know?”
