Page 3 of The Tryst

I’m not so sure about that. She had zero relationship with her alcoholic father and a not much better one with her doormat of a mother.

But I find myself silently hoping she does. I’m not sure what I’d say, or even if she’d want to see me, but part of me needs to know how she’s been doing. I mean, the entire Blackburn family will gather round her in support. We’ll all be at the funeral and she’ll be welcomed back with open arms. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see her somewhat adoptive family, given the amount of time she spent on our farm.

Well, she’ll want to see most of us.

I’m sure I’m the exception to that.

Joe turns to talk to the man next to him and Wade leans toward me. “It’s weird to think Holland may come into town. I mean… it’s been what? Eleven years?”

“Yeah,” I say vaguely, staring into my coffee.

“Hey Trey,” my brother says, and I turn to look at him. “Remember that time after I graduated high school and I had the biggest crush on Holland? But then she left and never came back.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up in a smile. “Yeah… I remember.”

Wade shakes his head, his eyes warm with fond memories. “She was definitely the one that got away.”

Yes, she was.

CHAPTER 2

Holland

It’s been nearlyeighteen hours since I left Zurich, with layovers that felt longer each time. The exhaustion clings to me like a second skin, the desire for a hot shower and a decent meal growing with every minute. Luckily the process to pick up my rental car was fairly easy and the exit out of the city was well before rush hour, so traffic isn’t bad.

My mind drifts as I take in the lush green expanse of the Kentucky hills welcoming me home. It’s been so long and though I now live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, I can’t deny that the rolling pastures and neatly fenced horse farms tighten my chest with nostalgia. Despite having left all this behind years ago, a lump forms in my throat as the familiar beauty tugs at something deep within. I haven’t missed it, not consciously, but there’s an undeniable pull now that I’m back.

My phone rings through the car’s Bluetooth, the screen flashing a Zurich number. It’s Annika, one of my team members back at Global Strategies Ltd., where I work as a senior business consultant. “Holland, sorry for the early call, but we’ve got a slight hiccup with the Milan project.” Her voice is crisp, tinged with urgency. She’s a Brit who just moved to Zurich last year.

I switch to autopilot, the business part of my brain kicking in despite the jet lag. “What’s the issue?”

“There’s a discrepancy in the projected budgets versus the actuals. The variance is outside acceptable limits, and the client is questioning our oversight.”

“Run a full audit on last quarter’s entries,” I suggest, navigating the winding roads that lead deeper into Shelby County. “Flag any outliers for review and schedule a Zoom meeting for us to go over everything. I’ll make myself available anytime tomorrow.”

“Will do. Cheers, Holland.”

Annika disconnects without another sentiment and I love her for it. She’s the most efficient assistant I’ve ever had and I’m not sure I would have actually come home if it weren’t for my confidence that she will keep my office running while I’m gone.

I settle back into the car’s silence, broken only by the soft hum of the engine when I accelerate. I don’t bother with music, wanting to drink in every green blade of grass and inch of blue sky before me. I want to lie under a sprawling shade tree, and it’s then that I realize I’m driving past Blackburn Farms.

The sight of the expansive estate, with its majestic barns and the historic house peeking through the oak trees, sends a rush of yearning through me. I remember days spent running through these fields, the laughter of the Blackburn kids—my forever friends—echoing around me, the safety and warmth of a family that wasn’t my own.

My first ride on a horse was here, a gentle saddlebred that seemed as tall as a mountain to a frightened girl from a troubled home. Riding became my escape, a passion that got me through the toughest times.

A flood of sharp, clear memories hits me so strongly it robs me of my breath. Tears prick my eyes for the loss of all that happiness when I left. I try never to think of those times and yet I can’t seem to stop myself from spiraling down into a memory rabbit hole.

The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rolling pastures of Blackburn Farms as I sat tall on the chestnutgelding. I’d been riding here for the past four years and this particular horse Tommy Blackburn put me on was being a little difficult. But the smell of fresh hay and leather filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the horse beneath me, and I knew there was no place I’d rather be. Mr. Blackburn, with his kind, patient eyes, watched me intently as I guided the horse through the last few minutes of my lesson.

“That’s it, Holland. Keep your heels down and your hands up,” he instructed, his voice firm but encouraging. I adjusted my posture and felt the horse respond to the subtle changes in my body language, doing exactly what I asked of him.

As I approached the large gate that led outside, I saw Kat Blackburn. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy ponytail and she had dirt smudged on her cheek. She stood on the fence, leaned over it, her green eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Come on, Holland! Hurry up, everyone’s waiting!”

My head twisted to see Mr. Blackburn, hoping he wouldn’t be mad at the interference. I was on lesson time and that meant my time was with him, but he merely chuckled as he shook his head at his oldest twin daughter.

“All right,” he said as I halted the horse next to him. “Good job today. You’re getting better with each lesson.”

“Thanks, Mr. Blackburn,” I replied as pride swelled in my chest. My parents never complimented me on anything. I swung my leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. Even though I just turned ten, it was still a long drop for my short legs, and I was always proud when I stuck the landing.

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