Page 12 of Rip Ryder's Second Chance

“Cancer. He passed peacefully.” Rip swallowed against the ache in his throat. Although years had passed since she saw Tuck, he could see the pain reflected in her expression. Rip couldn’t understand why people didn’t make time for their loved ones when it counted.

“I hate to hear that. I haven’t seen him in a long time—too long—but he still held a big place in my heart. He was a good man.”

Rip nodded. There was more to the story than she even knew and it wasn’t easy to voice. He’d let the letter explain the details but he needed to broach the subject sooner rather than later. “Yeah, he was and a good friend as well. I had the pleasure of staying out at Bluebird the last few months, helping him out.” He held his hat against his chest.

“I’m sure he appreciated that.” Her tongue came out to sweep across her bottom lip. “Is there something you’re not telling me? I’m confused as to why you’re here.”

Just tell her, Rip.

“Derry Lutz, remember him?” With her nod, he continued. “He’s an attorney now—Tuck’s attorney—and he met with me yesterday to give me a head’s up on the will. It appears he left me part of his property and his livestock.”

So far, she seemed unaffected by the news. “Congratulations. It’s a beautiful place.”

“And he left you the farmhouse, some acreage and his prized Highlanders.”

One brow lifted over her wide eyes. “Me?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Memories of the past bombarded him. He’d loved her so deeply and he guessed that type of love never truly left a person’s heart, no matter if the love was unrequited. He’d held onto the hope for nearly two years after she left that she’d change her mind and come back to him, but the call never came. Then he went on a wild ride, drinking too much, having too many one-night stands with random women, until he had a wakeup call. A sign that he couldn’t continue barreling through his life leaving a trail of broken hearts and broken barstools because he was scorned over a woman who didn’t love him.

After a while, he got himself in a good place again. Memories of Noelle were hidden under steel layers in his mind. When anyone asked about her, he’d pretend he could barely remember her name. After all, sometimes pride was the only thing a man had to hold onto.

Apparently, she’d moved on, had a family, and Rip didn’t hate that. He wanted her to be happy but he couldn’t deny that she should have been his. Oliver should have been their child together. After all, she’d named the little guy after him. He’d almost jumped out of his boots when she said the name.

The pain came to a ragged crest in his chest. Too painful to ignore. As fresh as the day she left.

He’d believed he’d moved on, leaving all the broken emotions behind him. He thought coming here would be a good move. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

He reached inside his pocket and took out the envelope. “Tuck wrote you a letter. He wanted me to deliver it to you.”

She stared at his hand as if it held a poisonous snake. She reached for the envelope, her hand noticeably shaking. “I-I don’t understand why he’d leave his home to me?”

Rip didn’t want to tell her. It wasn’t his place and that was why Tuck had written the letter. “Tuck always thought highly of you. Even after you left.” Rip hated that the words felt like acid on his tongue.

Get a grip, he told himself.

Her lips pursed slightly. “But…I left.”

“I’m sure he’ll explain everything in the letter.”

Rip could see her absorbing his words.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” she said softly.

He could ignore her vanilla scent. The plushness of her bottom lip that puckered ever so slightly. Control his pulse when listening to the velvety tones of her husky voice. Rip could even ignore the fact that she caused an upheaval of sensations in his midsection. But what made him lose control was the unshed tears that lingered in her eyes. Obviously, she still cared deeply for Tuck, the man who’d practically raised her, but now it all made sense.

She and her mother had moved to Bluebird when Tuck had “hired” Patricia to help cook and clean because his wife, Cybal, was bedridden after a nearly fatal stroke. For years she couldn’t talk, walk, or communicate.

“Read the letter, Noelle,” Rip urged. “I’m sure you’ll want to speak to your husband—”

“I’m not married,” she blurted.

Was that relief spiraling through his veins? “Sorry, I just assumed.” He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until she answered.

“Most people do.”

He slapped his Stetson back on his head. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

---