associates instead of brothers.” Slamming the driver’s door behind him, Cade shifted the truck into Drive and took off.
Hurt and anger warred for dominance, an internal battle that bloodied Eli with every volley. Who the hell does Cade think he is?
The idea that he could leave this whole mess to someone else crossed his mind again. He could send a check to cover the attorney’s fees, let it be someone else’s headache. Epic temptation that it was, it would only reinforce Cade’s opinion that he didn’t care about his family.
Eli glared down the empty dirt road. He might be a lot of things, but a quitter? No. His leaving had been about survival and what was best for everyone. If Cade didn’t get that?
“Screw him.” Folding himself gingerly into the car, he winced as it gained speed and resumed rattling over the dirt road. Each jarring bump hammered every new bruise. By the time Eli reached Highway 102, he was pretty sure at least two fillings were loose.
He had no idea how he would manage staying at the ranch with Cade and Ty, but there wasn’t a decent hotel within a hundred miles. What there was would be historic—thereby archaic—and that translated to dial-up internet if he was lucky, rotary phones and curious proprietors. The ranch would at least have a rudimentary office. His brothers might not appreciate his presence, but one-third of the house was his, and he intended to put it to use before deeding it to them jointly. Breaking all ties with this place was long past due.
Eli buzzed by the ranch’s main gate. The black iron arch over the gate had the ranch’s name centered at the top arch, the family name below. Their individual brands were showcased on either side of the ranch name. His, the E-bar C, was to the right.
The battered mailbox stood weather-beaten and worn as ever. The red flag hung broken and listless, the ever-present breeze swinging it back and forth sporadically. Behind the mailbox stood the metal road sign—Road to Perdition.
He’d helped weld and post it with his old man’s help. He’d been...what? Eleven? Twelve? The irony had been lost on him at the time. Now? Now it just seemed prophetic. His mother had died two years later and cemented his understanding of perdition. Spiritual ruin. Utter destruction. Hell.
He passed under the sign and onto Covington land.
Tension built in knots across his shoulders, spreading down each side of his spine the farther down the road he went. Long-suppressed memories were close enough to the surface to shove into his consciousness. They dragged him through an entire lifetime of highs and lows that he’d lived in the measly nineteen years he’d been here. So much to remember. So much he wanted to forget. Too much to survive all over again. Shutting his thoughts out, he took in the landscape.
The range looked good. The pastures had benefited from heavier-than-usual summer rains, the black grama grass already heading out. To the west, the mountains rose in a wild spray of desert colors. Fences were tight. Windmills spun in lazy circles, pumping water in a slow but predictable push-pause, push-pause cadence. Yet for all that, something was wrong. It took him a minute to figure it out, but when he did, he felt like an idiot.
As pretty as everything appeared, the pastures were empty.
The ground around the stock tanks should have been soupy from cows stomping through the overflow. Not so.
Grass shouldn’t be thickening along livestock trails. It was.
The roads shouldn’t have been clear of cow pies and other evidence of a herd. They were.
This wasn’t the picture of a working ranch but rather an idyllic snapshot of grasslands. Postcard perfect.
His brows drew together. It was the end of the stocker/grower season. His brothers should be getting ready to ship the contracted stocker steers to the feed yards, yet there was no evidence of activity. Anywhere. Following the road toward the main house, his confusion increased when he found the fields closest to the place empty. That should’ve been where his brothers were holding the cattle and where the work was happening.
Trying to sort out what might have gone wrong, he suddenly recalled Ty’s email. His little brother had asked him to handle the estate’s “issues.” Eli had assumed his brother meant the difficulty of probating such a physically large estate without a will or, at the very least, without a sufficient will.
Then there was Reagan. She’d accused him of not being here to help his brothers.
Looking around as he pulled up to the main house, the inactivity made his skin tighten. The “issues” his youngest brother had mentioned were clearly going to be larger, much larger, than Eli had assumed.
He parked in the main house’s half-circle drive. His childhood home hadn’t changed at all, from the silver tin roof to the stone walls to the aged, wavy glass of the picture windows. The sense of familiarity sans family left him empty. Steeling himself, he stepped out of the car.
The first thing to strike him was the smell. Someone had cut hay, and recently. The rich, clean smell tickled his nose. Below that hovered the subtle, distinct aroma of ammonia that was inherent to large animals. The barn door squeaked as the breeze curled around the corner of the building to shove the door to and fro. And the sky—man, the sky was so much bigger and bluer than he remembered.
All of that he could break down and compartmentalize by sense. It was the massive quiet that demanded recognition, though, calling forward all those memories he’d been fighting to suppress. They echoed endlessly through the aching hollow of his chest.
Pocketing his keys, he dropped his bag and headed for the barn.
Somewhere nearby, a mule brayed.
Eli grinned. Before he’d left, Ty had been bottle-feeding a little jack. The thing had followed the kid around like a damn dog.
Not a kid anymore. Ty would have grown up while Eli was away. He wondered if Ty was half as big as his feet and awkwardness had forecast he’d be. A dull burn settled in his belly when he realized he might not recognize his little brother after so long.
Rubbing his abs, Eli slipped into the dim barn.
The smells of leather and horse sweat joined the mix, dragging his past forward. He’d lived out here as a kid. It had been the one place he’d been entirely comfortable, with the cowhands and the horses. Leaning into the tack room, he was surprised to see a few extra saddles. The ranch must’ve taken on more hands, but for what? With the empty fields, he couldn’t imagine there would be enough work to justify the number of saddles on pegs or money to pay them.
Several horses stuck their heads over their stall doors and peered at him, curious.
He ran a hand around the base of his skull and pulled. A cloak of unease settled around him. It had to be coming here, to the ranch. Back home.
A diesel engine rumbled into the yard and saved him from that particular train of thought. Avoiding that sentimental bullshit was beyond necessary. As it was, his life was far too close to turning into a country song full of loss and longing. Eli didn’t have room for those emotions.
And with Reagan married, he’d never chance that road again.
REAGAN PULLED UP in front of the southern corrals at the Covington
