Page 15 of When We Were Us
I’d been a massive dick to her. She’d stood there, looking fucking gorgeous, with an expectant but cautious smile on her lips, friendly and hopeful. Instead of acting like a human being, I stood there, judging her, with a permanent scowl on my face.
Dick.
I immediately felt like shit about how I’d spoken to her. Especially since she went from looking at me like she was happy to see me to looking like she could rip my head off. Then, she was almost in tears. But it was like I wasn't in control of my mouth, let alone my face.
I thought about this moment a dozen or so times over the course of the last seventeen years, thought about what it would be like to see her again and what I would say to her if I had the chance.
In the beginning, I wanted to hate her. I wanted to stay pissed at her forever andtried to for years. But eventually, I’d been able to think about her without anger. Time heals all wounds and all that shit. It didn’t hurt every time I thought about her, about the time we spent together, or the little things she’d said to make me laugh. I still missed her like crazy, but thinking about those things didn’t make me want to put my fist through a wall anymore.
That was, until I saw her again.
So, yeah, I guess I was still pissed at her. Maybe hurt a little too. But more than anything, I was pissed at myself because I was still drawn to her after all these years. Pissed that after seventeen years, one interaction with her had taken me from a grown man standing in her granddad’s garage to a devastated twenty-year-old, standing at the end of Chicory Lane, as she obliterated my heart with three simple words:It's over, Hank.
Common sense told me I should apologize because I will see her again in this small-ass town. But as far as I’m concerned, common sense can fuck all the way off. Because if past behavior indicates future behavior, then Wrenley Hardcastle isn’t going to be around long anyway. So, what is the point?
Besides, I couldn’t blame her if she never spoke to me again after the things I said to her. When I basically accused her of just being back here for her granddad’s money. She’d been on the verge of tears.
I shake my head at my stupidity and roll down my truck window to get some fresh air, then crank up the radio to Travis Tritt’s “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive."
I’m on my way to meet Hudson at our brother Hutch’s place. I've been moving cattle all day and I’m ready to relax with a medium rare steak and whatever shitty beer Hudson brings.
Time with my brothers always clears my head, and since I haven’t exactly been sleeping decently the last week, I need this. Bonus points because there isn’t much chance of running into my past out here.
Hudson, the second oldest, and my five-year-old niece, Paige, flew in from New York last night for their annual summer vacation in Timber Forge. They’ll be here for six weeks, and we’ll also be celebrating Pop's seventieth birthday while they're here. Mom’s been planning a big dinner at the ranch, and she’s already got Paige helping make colorful signs to hang around town for the Huckleberry Festival at the end of August.
With mountains and a small lake to the east, and the other three sides surrounded by towering pines, Hutch’s place is secluded and feels otherworldly. Truthfully, this whole valley does. Though Mom and Pop had tried to get Hutch to build closer to the main ranch house, the secluded lake-front piece of land on this slice of the roughly forty-thousand acres our family owns makes him more than content.
Hutch has always been pretty private, and the seclusion suits him. In the mornings, he has an incredible view of the sunrise, and at night, can see the stars for miles. All six of us siblings—minus one or two from time to time—sometimes come out here on the weekend nights to make some noise and relax.
Family is important to all of us, and while I enjoy spending time with my sisters, the three of us boys have always been super tight. With Hudson living in New York, and our younger sisters all living in town, Hutch and I probably see one another the most.
As I roll up, Oakley, Hutch’s four-year-old golden retriever, comes loping up to my door with a bark. He jumps up, plants both his paws on my open window, and licks my forearm.
“Hey, Oaks.” I throw the truck into park and climb out, crouching to scratch the dog behind his ears and pat his side.
He rolls over onto his back, his tongue lolling crazily out the side of his mouth. I give him a couple of scratches on the stomach. Tucker whines from the backseat and I stand to open the door. My six-year-old Australian shepherd jumps down with a bark, and he and Oakley tear off in the direction he’d come from.
Hudson stands in the door to the wood shop and sends a wave over his shoulder. I can hear the scream of a bandsaw, and a few seconds later, both my brothers emerge from the workshop Hutch and I built two years ago. Hutch carries a chunk of raw wood in his gloved hands.
All three of us Hayes brothers are dark-haired, with angular features, mom’s straight nose, and dad’s thick eyebrows. But that’s pretty much where the similarities stop.
As I approach them, Hudson looks like he just left the gym in a gray T-shirt and black workout pants. His short-cropped hair is pushed back off his forehead.
I smirk. Even in casual clothes, he looks like a GQ model. His aviator sunglasses hang tucked into the neck of his shirt and a stainless steel Bulova circles his left wrist. At six-foot-two, Hudson is the shortest of us brothers. I love him, but he’s the current title holder for the world’s most annoying brother and a giant pain in my ass.
Hutch sets to work gathering up tools. He’s dressed in a dark waffle knit Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, faded jeans, and work boots, the laces hanging untied and dangling as he walks. We all stay in shape, but Hutch is definitely the beefiest of us. His shoulder length hair is lighter toward the ends— ‘dipped in honey because he isso sweet,’Mom always says. If she only knew about his mouth.
People say Hutch and I look the most alike, but he’s a couple inches taller at six-foot-six and has blue eyes instead of hazel like Hudson and me.
Hudson calls him Lumberjack Fabio because he “spends all his time flipping his hair around and handling his wood.” In return, Hudson’s been dubbed Snowflake, because he’s the only one of us who doesn’t work outside in the elements all day and who feels comfortable in a slick, three-piece suit.
I don’t have a cutesy nickname like the two of them do, but they never fail to razz me about anything and everything from my clothes to my house. It’s mostly Hudson, but Hutch has been known to call me a ‘heifer fucker’ more times than I can count.
It’s true that I spend a lot of time looking at the broad side of a shit ton of cattle, and I guess that’s the most creative thing his dumbass could come up with. This past spring, when I’d found myself elbow-deep in two heifers in the middle of the night to help birth calves due to breech deliveries, he’d had a particularly good time coming up with quippy shit to call me.
I’d been working late in the barn office, and since breech deliveries weren’t that common on a ranch of our size, it had given me a shot of adrenaline. I’d gone back to my cabin tucked in the trees, feeling on top of the world.
We’d had another three the week before, and it was a ranch record. So, while there was never any heifer fucking, I did love my ranch.
