My siblings loved the ranch but ranching hadn’t been their dream.
“Any thoughts on what you want to do?” I asked Mateo. Being nine years older, I often felt more like an uncle than a sibling. He came to me for advice, much like I’d done with Briggs.
“No.” He groaned, crimping a clip to hold a fresh wire to a steel fence post. “I don’t know. Not this.”
“There are other things to do on the ranch besides fencing.”
“This has always been yours.”
“It doesn’t have to be just mine.”
“I know. If I wanted to be part of it, you’d make it happen. But I just . . . don’t. And I don’t know what I want yet. So I’ll just work here and at the inn until I figure it out.”
“The offer always stands.”
“Thanks.” He nodded and stepped back from the section we’d just fixed. He looked past my shoulder as the sound of tires crunching gravel filled the air.
I turned as Briggs’s truck rolled our way. My uncle was behind the wheel and behind him, against the glass window, his gun racks were loaded with two rifles.
“Why’s he decked out in orange?” Mateo asked.
“Hell.” I shoved the top wire down to swing my leg over the fence, then walked to the road, Mateo right beside me, as Briggs pulled over.
“Hey, boys.”
“Hey, Briggs.” I leaned against his door. “What are you up to today?”
He jerked a thumb at his rifles. “Thought I’d hunt the base of Indigo Ridge. I saw a herd of mule deer yesterday. Would be good to get more jerky made before the snow flies in the next couple of weeks.”
“What the fuck?” Mateo mumbled.
I sighed, wishing like hell my father would stop ignoring this. The incidents were getting more frequent. “Briggs, it’s not quite hunting season yet.”
“It’s October.”
“It’s June.”
“No, it’s not.” He frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s October.”
“It’s June.” I dug out my phone from my back pocket, opening up my calendar for him to see.
“You know I don’t trust those goddamn phones.” He huffed. “Stop messing around, Griff.”
Christ. “You can’t go hunting right now, Briggs. It’s not the season.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do on my own ranch.” His voice rose along with the color in his face. “Damn kids. Running all over this area like you own it. How many years have I worked here? This is my place. Owned by me and my brother. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do.” I held up my hands. “Just take a look around. Does it look like October to you?”
His forehead furrowed as he faced forward, taking in the green grass and wildflowers in the meadows. “I, uh . . .”
Briggs trailed off, staring over the wheel. Then, in a flash, he brought his hand up and slammed it into the dash. “Fuck.”
I tensed.
Mateo flinched.
“Fuck!” Briggs roared again with another strike to the dash.
The outburst was so unlike him, so unlike his gentle, calm nature, that it took me a moment to react. Never in my life had I seen him shout. Not once. He and Dad were a lot alike in that way. Both had always kept a firm grip on their temper. It was the reason they were both so good with horses and kids.
This man was not my uncle.
This furious, angry man had realized that his mind was slipping.
And there wasn’t a thing to do about it.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Archery season will be here before you know it. Probably just had your days mixed up on your calendar at home. Happens to me all the time.”
He nodded, his eyes unfocused.
Mateo and I shared a look, and when he opened his mouth, I shook my head. Now was not the time for questions. Those would come later. Along with yet another conversation with my father about Briggs’s mental health.
“We’re getting thirsty and we forgot water today,” I lied. The canteen in my truck was full. “Mind if we come on up to your place for a quick drink?”
Before Briggs could answer, Mateo rounded the hood and climbed in the passenger side of our uncle’s truck. “Meet you up there.”
I nodded, waiting until they’d flipped the truck around and headed down the gravel road before returning to my side of the fence and getting into my own pickup. I caught them about halfway up the mountain to Briggs’s cabin.
When we arrived, Briggs stepped out of the truck and shed his hunter’s orange. He shook his head, like he was confused about why he’d had it on in the first place, then waved Mateo and me inside.
Whatever anger he’d had earlier seemed to have vanished.
“How are things on the mountain?” I asked as we settled into our chairs at Briggs’s round dining table.
“Good. Retirement gets monotonous. But I’ve been hiking a lot. Trying to stay in shape.”
“Which trails?” Mateo asked, taking a sip of water.
“Mostly around Indigo Ridge. It’s challenging, but you can’t beat those views from the top.”
It was the second time he’d mentioned the ridge today. Ten years ago, I probably wouldn’t have thought much of it. But now, after those three girls . . . not many of us went to Indigo Ridge.
Tragedy had its way of tarnishing beauty.
“Have you seen anyone else up there?” My question came courtesy of Winslow’s doubts.
“No. It’s always just me. Why?”
“Just curious.”
If Briggs had seen someone, would he even remember?
We finished our waters and I took the glasses to the sink, looking out over the yard.
Briggs had been busy, keeping the grass around the house trimmed. He’d put in a small raised garden bed. The beginnings of vegetables sprouted from rich, black soil. Around it was a tall deer fence, seven feet high in hopes they wouldn’t jump it and eat his crop. There was a pair of cowboy boots next to the fence, each filled with dirt and a ruby red flower.
“Love the boots, Briggs. Clever idea.”
He chuckled and stood from his seat, walking over to stand beside me. “Thought it was pretty clever myself. Pretty nice pair of boots but way too small for my big feet. Found them on a trail a while back. Felt like a waste to throw them away, so I decided to turn them into my flowerpots.”
My stomach dropped. “You found them?”
“Yeah. Was out shed hunting.”
“Where?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Some trail not far from here.”
A trail on Indigo Ridge most likely. Because there was pink stitching along the brown leather shaft. There were plenty of men’s boots with pink stitching, but the delicate square point of the toe box and the arch of the heel . . . those were women’s boots.
Winslow had been looking for Lily Green’s shoes.
The sinking feeling in my gut said I’d just found them.
“We’d better get going,” I told Mateo. “Thanks for the water, Briggs.”
“Stop by anytime. Gets lonely up here.”
I nodded, my throat thick. “Hey, do you mind if I borrow those boots for a spell? Mom might like to do something like that herself.”