“And how would you know? You’ve never even taken a second to try to get to know him!”
He shakes his head, the disappointment rolling off him in waves and slamming into my own disbelief doing the same. “I don’t have to.”
“Just like I don’t have to get your approval on who I date.”
“Fine.” That one word is like absolution and motivation at the same time. “Then go, Tate. Walk out that door and away from us. Find whatever it is you think we’re holding you back from, but we won’t be here to rescue you when it goes to shit or to shovel money your way when he’s used it all up. It’s your decision. Us or him.”
My eyes flicker between my mother and him as I try to process why it has to be this way. As I try to understand why I have to choose in the first place. Why can’t I live my life the way I want and still be their daughter? Why can’t I spread my wings but know I have their nest to land in should I need to come back home?
But I know I don’t have a choice.
If I stay here, they’ll never accept this baby.
If I leave, I know I’ll be loved without restrictions.
Hell, if they don’t accept Fletcher now, they sure as hell aren’t going to once they know I’m pregnant.
“Don’t you have anything to say, Mom?”
She opens her mouth and then closes it as my heart breaks in two. Her eyes tell me she’s sorry, but the subtle shake of her head tells me she isn’t going to stand up for me.
I look one last time around the home I grew up in. The big oak tree out front that used to be perfect for climbing. The granny flat out back they expected me to live in. The rolling green lawn I used to spend hours staging photography sessions on but that now seems so small. A house filled with an overabundance of rules and loyalty but still loaded with love and warmth.
Unlike it is right now.
My father lifts his eyebrows as if to ask me if I’ve made my choice.
Swallowing over the emotion clogging my throat, I take a moment in the stifling silence of our house and nod. “I’m sorry you’re being this way.” I bite back the sob restricting my throat. “I’m sorry you’re making me choose. I’m sorry you refuse to love me when I don’t follow your rules.”
“This isn’t about love, Tate.”
“Yes, it is.” I think of the baby I already love even though I’ve never seen him or her.
“You’re making a mistake that I won’t be able to fix,” he says.
“I’m no longer yours to fix.” Tears course down my cheeks as I take a few steps to the door before looking over my shoulder at them. The people who used to be my whole world and who are now telling me love comes with conditions. “Bye.”
It’s all but a whisper.
The screen door shutting behind me is ten times louder.
But it feels like a sonic boom in my heart and head.
It feels as if I just made the worst mistake and best decision all at once.
And when I cross the driveway and climb into the truck beside Fletcher, I can’t look at him. I can barely breathe let alone think, so I say the one thing I can, “Drive.”
1
JACK
Six years later
It’s pretty enough.
That’s my first thought when I sit on the initial stretch of gravel driveway and stare at the expanse of ranch in front of me. The split rail fence stretches farther than I can see on both sides of me. The main house has a worn brick exterior, pitched roofline, and a covered verandah that wraps around its front. The pastures are green, and the stables large enough, but where the house looks worn, they feel more neglected than they look.
Drive the car, Sutton. Walk the walk, and talk the talk. Fulfill the promise you made, and then get the hell out of Dodge with a clear conscience and maybe a few months of vacation before you have to step into shoes you never expected to fill.
I glance up at the entrance, take in the sign hanging from the wood arch that says Knox Ranch, and notice the broken hinge of the opened gate in front of me. There are two cameras with frayed electrical cords and cracked lenses positioned on either side of the structure that tell me they’ve definitely seen better days.
It seems this place has too.
Easing off the brakes, I head toward the house with my chuckle of disbelief riding on the breeze as it blows in the rolled down window.
Beyond the split rail is a field of long, golden, prairie grass that runs into trees billowing at its edges. There are just a few horses milling inside the fences, but there aren’t any ranch hands working, no other trucks taking up space in the driveway, no one sitting in the shade to take a respite from the heat.
I take my time unfolding myself out of my truck and ambling up the walkway while I wait to feel something.
Anything.
But there’s nothing more than impatience, resentment, and a sense of duty to fulfill a promise I never should have made.
“Who’re you?”
I hear her voice before I see her. Contempt paints its edges in a way that matches how I feel most days lately.
It should be my warning to walk away. That keeping my word isn’t worth the damn trouble. That my hunch about what type of person she is, is dead on.
Since when do I listen to warnings, though?
“I’m here for the job.”
I don’t know what I expected Tatum Knox to look like, but when she steps into the open doorway of the house, it definitely isn’t this: petite, wary . . . goddamn gorgeous.
Her spine straightens so that all five foot nothing of her stands proud while her eyes, those light-gray eyes narrow and look me up and down. They also tell me to go to hell.
“You wouldn’t last a week here. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Her words are a lie. She knows it. I know it. The callouses on my hands and my more-than-impressive resume prove I’m a hard worker and know what I’m doing, but fuck if I’m going to call her on it when I really don’t care.
I’m here to follow through on the impulsive phone call I made after one too many beers and to say I made a concerted effort.
That, and to satisfy my curiosity about the type of person she is.
“Tatum Knox, I presume?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Humph.” I laugh the sound without any amusement. Wisps of her caramel-color hair have fallen from her ponytail and move with the breeze around her face. Her high-cut cheekbones, button nose, and heart-shaped mouth are delicate, but her eyes scream distrust and dislike.
Seems we have something in common then.
“Jack Sutton.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why’d you ask who I was?” I snort in dismay. “I assume you remembered that you’re the one who asked me to come, right?”
She takes her time moving her hand to her waist and leaning her other hip against the doorframe that dwarfs her. Her eyes home in on me and judge and dismiss.
“Yeah, well, chalk it up to a rare moment of weakness. I won’t let it happen again.” The way she wears her clothes—denim and flannel—might look the part in Texas, but the posture beneath them and the hint of New England accent scream affluence.
So does the way she looks down at me as if I’m not worthy of breathing the same air as her. I shouldn’t be surprised.