Page 70 of Untruly With You

“What the hell happened to you?” Frankie almost shouts when she sees me, scrambling up from her seat on the couch. “Is that a black eye?”

“He knows, Frank,” Wells says, coming in from the kitchen. His words are so quick I’m sure he’s been waiting to say them all morning. “Sutton knows.”

Frankie’s brilliant smile drops, and it’s like she sheds a mask. Immediately, her brown eyes—mybrown eyes—shine with tears, and her nose wrinkles, wiggling her freckles. She squeezes her eyes shut. “You know about…” She can’t get the words out.

I nod, willing my lungs to fill as normal, despite the pressing weight against them. “Dad told me.”

Frankie catapults toward me, crashing against my chest in a bear hug. Her ragged sob heaves against me, tears soaking into my shirt. She’s nearly six feet tall, with a strong, built frame, but with her head tucked under my chin, she feels like the young little sister I remember.

“I wanted to tell you. But Dad—Dad didn’t want anyone to.”

“I know,” I hum, rubbing her shoulder.

After a few minutes of crying, Frankie lifts her head just enough to look at Wells. He watches us from the corner of the room. “Get over here, idiot,” she says, trying to laugh as she holds an arm out for him. Wells falters but eventually gives in. As soon as he’s close enough, Frankie grabs him by the torso, sandwiching herself between us.

All our breaths come out uneven, and each of us sheds some tears. Wells tries to hide his by wiping his cheek against Frankie’s blonde curls, but some catch in his beard, glistening. It could be minutes or hours that we stand, clinging to each other. The three remaining Davis siblings.

And it hits me—we never had this when Duke passed. Mom cried constantly that entire week I was home, and probably well beyond that, I’d bet. Frankie cried during the funeral. Wells’ stone-cold demeanor broke only during the burial. Meanwhile, I felt too ashamed to let them see my tears and only let them loose in the sanctuary of my room. It felt like I wasn’t worthy of mourning a brother that I, by my father’s measure, abandoned. And while our crying today may have started as pre-grieving for our father, it is equally our long-overdue grieving for our brother.

“We’re going to get through it,” Wells promises. And that look, that strong determination, makes me almost believe it.

Eventually, we gain some semblance of composure, painting our masks on. Wells squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. Frankie gives a wide smile. And I grow quiet.

“Have you guys seen Laine around?” I ask. “I need to talk to her.” Really, I need to apologize.

“I thought she was with you,” Frankie says.

“You didn’t see her come inside, maybe an hour ago?”

Frankie shakes her head, her mouth straining as she tries to keep from frowning.

“Wells? Anything?”

“No, but I was about to go check on the guys. I can ask if they’ve seen her.”

“I’ll join you outside. Just…just let me check upstairs.” It takes all my will to not sprint to the guest room. The door to it is wide open. Inside, I find the bed hastily made, the sheets untucked and the pillows askew. But what’s more important is what Idon’tsee.

There’s no sign of Laine. No suitcase. No clothes.

Though I know what I’ll find—or won’t find—I go to the bathroom. The counter is empty, aside from my toiletries all in an organized line on one side. I push my hands through my hair. My eyes fall to the ground where, just barely peeking out from under the vanity, a tube of lipstick must have fallen. I pick it up gingerly.

With Laine’s lipstick gripped in my palm, I follow Wells outside and to the barn. He assigned tasks early this morning, so most of the cowboys are already out. A few, though, are working at the barn and corral today. Each of them looks at me from the corner of their eye before averting their gaze in the opposite direction.

“I’m going to check…” I say, already walking away from Wells and through the barn without finishing my sentence.

No sign of her.

I walk through the bunkhouse. Around the outbuildings. By the sheds.

Nothing.

My knuckles are white around the lipstick tube. With myfree hand, I pull my phone out, clicking on Laine’s name from my favorites list. The call rings once. Twice. Voicemail. I try again.

Once. Twice. Voicemail.

My pulse races, and I let a quick breath out, striding to Wells and Bill. The latter frowns at me from under his long, horseshoe-shaped mustache.

“Still nothing?” Wells asks, already knowing the answer.

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