The bunkhouse is lit up like Christmas when I walk into it. The space is nothing fancy, with four bedrooms that branch off the common area. The kitchen is in the middle with a large table where I have binders that detail the history of each of our forty horses laid out. Old-school rodeo posters are framed and hung on the walls, and a television sits on the far side in front of a worn couch.
The binders are a visual reminder of what lies ahead of us in this coming month. All the hard work we’ll have to put in and the schmoozing along with it to make someone believe in us enough to give us the contract.
I walk from room to room, looking for Tate. There’s mine with my stuff strewn about the small space. The beds in the others are still unmade, but the fresh sheets sit folded atop of them.
“Tate?” I call out as I move about looking for her.
“She ran up to the house,” Will says when I poke my head into the stable. He and Sylvester are sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, and a beer in their hand.
They look as exhausted as I feel.
“Pizza’s on the table,” I say. “I’m going to go bring Tate hers.”
The house is quiet when I enter. Tate’s boots are by the door, clumps of dried mud scattered around them.
“Tate?”
Gracie’s tail thumps somewhere, and when I step into the hall, I see her lying on the floor, looking at me with her head cocked, her eyes eager.
“Hi, girl,” I say as I walk toward her and am just about to call out for Tate again when she comes into view.
She’s sitting on her couch, arm propped on the side, hand under her chin, and completely sound asleep.
And fuck if my chest doesn’t constrict at the sight of her.
The dark fan of her lashes on her dirt-smudged cheeks. The curls of hair that have fallen out of her ponytail. Her full lips just slightly parted.
She’s busted her ass the past few days.
When I first showed up here, I wondered how this place had stayed afloat. I questioned how this pixie-sized woman could be the one doing it.
Now I know she can.
Now I know she has the determination of a giant and the grit of a titan.
I’m not sure how long I stand watching her before I set the food down on the table. With her soft snores filling the house, I get Gracie some food and fresh water and take her out. I pick up the kitchen some and wash our coffee cups that were still sitting on the table from when we went over what was left to do before the delegation gets here.
Since when do I have cups of coffee with Tate as if we are a couple? When did that happen?
When I started spending most nights here, that’s when.
“Convenience,” I murmur, denying the truth to myself as well as the air around me.
It’s only when I go to let Gracie back in that I see Tate’s camera sitting on the table by the front door. I pick up the expensive piece of equipment with no other purpose than to put it in her studio so it doesn’t get knocked off by a rambunctious Gracie.
But when I walk into her office and set it next to its case, I’m stopped by the stack of black-and-white images sitting atop the workstation.
Fletcher’s face greets mine. His smile is wide, and his eyes are clear. There is a subtle dusting of freckles across his nose, and faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
The photo hits me like a sucker punch. The man who started all of this stares back at me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, about him.
That’s a lie.
I feel in droves: hate, uncertainty, spite, jealousy that he had Tate first. So many emotions and yet I want to feel absolutely none of them.
Bastard.
I can’t bring myself to look away for the longest of times as I sort through them all and know it won’t do a damn bit of good to me if I do.
Liar.
None. Because I can’t confront him over what he’s done and I can’t make amends for the trail of hurt he left behind.
Cheat.
When my eyes blur from the rage, I force myself to flip to the photos beneath it. The ring finger on Fletcher’s left hand and the light mark where a ring should be. At one of him from behind, just his cowboy hat and his hair curling over his collar. At another one of just his eyes staring straight at me, telling me to back the fuck off.
Telling me to leave while I can before I hurt her any further.
The pictures allow me to see him through Tate’s eyes. The little details only someone you’re with might notice like the nuance in your posture or the laughter dancing in someone’s eyes when they don’t think anyone is watching.
It fucking kills me to know he loved her first.
It’s stupid to expect her to get rid of them just because she’s with me. It’s ridiculous to want her to throw away memories of her old life—even when that old life was based on lies and mistruths.
They were married for years. She was going to have his baby.
The lead weight in my stomach weighs heavily and forces me to take a step back. I’m invading her privacy just by lingering in here.
“Fuck,” I mutter, forcing myself to leave the images where they are instead of trashing them like I want to and walk from the room before shutting the door softly behind me.
Gracie’s tail thumps again, but she doesn’t move from her spot beside Tate.
I should leave.
I should head to the bunkhouse and finish shit up for tomorrow’s impending arrival.
I should go take a shower.
Instead, I sink down on the couch next to Tate. When I put my arm around her shoulders, she turns into me as if it’s as natural as breathing, to rest her head against my chest.
“I love you,” she murmurs so softly I almost don’t hear it.
Almost.
“I know,” I murmur into the top of her head before I press a kiss there, knowing full well it’s her sleep talking.
It’s her dreams murmuring.
It’s her wild speaking.
37
TATE
“You sure you’ve been here this whole time?” the head guy from Steely Brothers asks as he walks toward me.
I nod slowly, still playing the game. “Yes. We’ve been here almost seven years, Pete. I understand Hickman is more established, but I think our horses can offer the same, if not better, quality foals than what they’re providing you,” I say, hoping I’m saying the right things.
Be confident but not arrogant. That is how Jack told me I needed to be when I was speaking to these men.
“And, hopefully, some circuit winners in there too.” He laughs.
“I only provide the quality,” I tease. “It’s up to you to train the rest.”
His laugh rings out as he steps into the stable to look around and I hang back.
“Let them look without being their shadow.”
He warned me that if I hover, they might think I’m trying to hide things.
I argued that he should be the one doing this, but he just reminded me that I was the owner so it had to be me escorting Pete around the property. It should be me selling the merits of my ranch, not my employee.
“It’s the personal touch they are looking for. You doing this will give that to them.”
The two monolith-sized horse trailers look so out of place and, yet, so perfect parked in the drive. I watch Jack and Will assist Pete’s employees unload the horses and bring them to the stables opposite of our mares.