Page 3 of Wilder Heart

He could never go back and be that kid again. He wasn’t sure he’d even want to.

It was ten miles from the bus stop to the ranch. On the phone with Lain, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask for a ride. It felt like enough charity that Lain was giving him a job. He could walk ten miles. Hell, he’d been cooped up in prison for so long, maybe the fresh air would do him good.

The town itself was a little livelier than he remembered. There were restaurants and stores he didn’t remember being there. Roselake had thrived in his absence. He’d try not to take it personally.

As he left the city proper, the road stretched out before him. A barbed wire fence ran alongside it, and a herd of black cattle grazed in the tall grass beyond. Wilder wondered if they were Blackwood cattle. A few of them raised their heads to watch him pass, jaws moving back and forth as they chewed.

Out here, anything was possible. He could walk off into one of the fields and disappear forever, parole responsibilities be damned. His brother never had to see him. His parole officer wouldn’t know how to find him. He could go somewhere new, with a new name and make a new life for himself. There would be no need to face the ghosts of his past if he disappeared into the horizon.

But he wouldn’t. He might not have much, but he had this. His history, and his pride. He’d see this through, and if it was a disaster, then at least he’d know. At least he’d have a clear conscience. He’d always tried to do right by his brother, and he had no regrets about the choices he’d made.

The moment he reached the old property, it hit him again how different things were now. A rustic wooden sign hung over the main gate, declaring itBlackwood Ranchin carefully carved script. He stared at it and the big metal gate for a long moment. Neither had been there the last time he was here. Beyond it, the house was no longer dilapidated and failing. It stood tall and proud, with sharp white siding and black shutters, haloed in the golden light of the evening. A flag waved gently in the breeze on the front porch. Multiple buildings stood around the house that hadn’t been there before. The old barn had been restored and painted to match the house. A much larger barn, larger than the house, stood on the right, connected to a paddock and round pen for working horses. Another building on the left reminded Wilder of a small motel. There were multiple doors facing the same direction, each with an identical window beside it. Each door even had its own porch light.

He’d kept the memories of that night locked away firmly for eight long years, and now, faced with the place where his whole life came crashing down around his ears, they rushed back with a vengeance.

His hands weresticky with blood, and the handcuffs were too tight around his wrists as the police led him from the house. The night beyond the chaotic bubble of the house was quiet. It seemed surreal that the rest of the world wasn’t quaking with the night’s events along with him.

He glanced over his shoulder as the police pushed him into the backseat of the squad car. Lain was standing on the front porch, silhouetted in the light spilling from the open door. The phone was still clutched in his trembling hands, and tears tracked down his bruised face. Wilder had seen him cry many times over the years because of their father.Wilderhad never been the cause of it, though. A sick knot settled in his gut at the sight. Was he as bad as their father after all? Worse? Their father never killed a man.

He opened his mouth to speak, to call outsomethingthat might help dry Lain’s tears, but the cop slammed the door shut before he could.

“No, wait.” His voice was ragged with emotion. He needed to say goodbye to his brother. He needed to explain. He pressed up against the door, and Lain turned away. “Lain, wait. Please!”

Lain couldn’t hear him.

The cops sat down in the front seats, and the engine rumbled to life. Wilder turned to look out the rear window as the car trundled down the long driveway. The ranch didn’t look like much these days with its crooked front porch and collapsing barn, but it wastheirs. It was all they had. How long would it be before he could see it again? What would Lain do now that he was alone? What wouldWilderdo?

Shaking off the barbed memory,he unlatched the gate and slipped through it, pulling it shut behind him. The driveway was no longer a dirt track but smooth, black pavement. His prison-issued canvas sneakers weren’t ideal for long walks, and his feet ached, but the pain was an afterthought as he took in the new ranch. In the paddock nearby, a horse snorted. The familiar scents hit him, hay and animal fur and leather, a visceral reminder of everything he’d lost. Even before that final night, before he’d changed everything, Dad had steadily lost everything they owned because of his drinking. The horses, the cattle, the equipment. He sold it all off to keep the property and buy his liquor. They would’ve lost the ranch eventually, too, but somehow Lain had found a way to turn it around.

He slowed to a stop in the circular drive, uncertain where to go. Was Lain in the house? Should he knock?

It was decided for him when the front door opened. He sucked in a breath at the sight of his brother standing on the front porch, just like he did that final night. Lain looked like he’d seen a ghost, his face slack with shock. Wilder wondered what his brother saw.

His commissary sweats and T-shirt were as basic as they came. His face was stubbled, his dark hair faded on the sides, shorter altogether than Lain’s. Tattooed and lean, Wilder probably looked every inch the ex-con he was. Would Lain regret letting him come here? Would seeing him bring all those tangled emotions back to the surface and cause him to change his mind? Wilder had no idea where he would go if Lain decided he didn’t want him here. He probably didn’t even have enough money for a hotel room for the night.

“Lain,” he rasped, risking a step closer to the porch. He was still on the blacktop, and there was a line of carefully laid flagstones between him and the porch steps.

Lain’s throat bobbed. “Wilder. You look…” He frowned, and it was just as well. Wilder wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what Lain thought about how he looked. Lain lookedgood. His jeans were crisp and clean. His pearl snap-button shirt was smooth and bright, a cream and blue pattern that seemed to bring out the blue of his eyes. He was freshly shaven, his hair smoothed back, more put-together than Wilder had ever felt in hislife.

Maybe he really didn’t belong here anymore. It might’ve been home a long time ago, but he wasn’t that kid anymore. Neither of them were, and Lain had obviously grown up and moved on, built a life for himself right here on the wreckage of the past, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Lain’s eyes wandered up and down Wilder, taking him in, and then drifted behind him, down the driveway, and his brow furrowed. “How’d you get here?”

“I… walked,” he said haltingly.

“From the bus stop? That’s like…” He stopped, shaking his head.

Wilder shrugged, not wanting to say how many actual miles it was. “It’s fine. The fresh air was nice.”

“You could’ve called me. I could’ve come and picked you up, or at least sent someone.”

Wilder lifted one shoulder. “It’s really fine. I’m here now, and nobody had to go out of their way.”

“Well, uh.” Lain tucked his hands in his pockets, then nodded toward the barn beside the house. “I’ve got some paperwork for you to sign. Do you want to go ahead and get that out of the way? Then I can show you where you’ll be staying.”

“Yeah, course.”

The paperwork was in the barn? He followed sedately as Lain hopped off the front porch and led him to the restored building. It was easily the smallest barn on the property now, and when Lain opened the door, he realized the inside had been completely redone, too. The sagging loft they used to hide in had been rebuilt. There were big windows on the wall above it, letting warm evening light in. The walls were decorated with old memorabilia from the ranch. The tin ‘Blackwood Ranch’ sign Dad used to have staked beside the mailbox. Their first BB guns. The old American flag that used to hang on the porch, now slightly tattered on the edges and bleached by the sun.

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