Page 33 of The Wrong Ride Home

“My Elena.”

Fiona shook her head sadly. “We’ve been here nearly a week, and this is the first time you’vetouched me. Do you know that?”

“My father just died, Fiona. What the hell are you expecting from me?”

“I thought you didn’t give two shits about him and just wanted the ranch.”

“Hewasmy father,” I gritted out. “Now, go back to the ranch house, and I’ll be there soon.”

Right after I found Elena.

I didn’t allow myself to dwell on why I should even go looking for her. It was crazy. Wrong. Dangerous.

Elena and I couldn’t beanything. Mama would lose her shit. And…it wasn’t like Elena wanted me back in her life. She looked at me with her cold, emotionless eyes, which made me want to goad her, get a reaction, and I just had, which made me feel like a worm.

When I suggested taking a walk, I hadn’t planned to make my girlfriend come while I watched my ex right outside the stables. We were walking, and then she kissed me, and…then I saw Elena. After that, things spiraled out of control. Fiona thought we were back to the intimacy I knew she was craving. I was dreading it. Being back home was messing with my head. Seeing Elena was fucking with my heart.

Fiona shot me an irked glance before striding angrily back to the ranch house.

I made my way through the stables toward the paddocks, where I encountered Ben. He was young—barely in his early twenties—with sharp angles and arestless energy that set him apart. According to Hunt, he was one of the hardest workers around. He had that eager look common among younger ranch hands—the sort that meant he would tackle any grimy task without a single complaint if it proved his worth. He looked up to Elena, that much was evident in how he admired her like a devoted yearling.

“Hey, is Elena around?” I asked, my voice low and cautious.

Ben, reins firm in hand as he led a ranch horse back to the stables, blinked in confusion. "Uh…I’m not sure."

I exhaled sharply, scanning the yard. “I heard hoofbeats.”

He hesitated, a glance toward the empty paddock telling me more than words ever could.

“She probably went for a ride. Stormchaser should be in the paddock, but he’s not.”

“Where would she go so late?” I pressed, worry creeping into my tone.

Ben shifted, rubbing the back of his neck as if pondering a secret. “I can guess.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where?”

“Down by the river,” he replied softly. “She goes there when she needs to be alone.”

I knew where. “Can I borrow the horse?”

“Of course, sir.”

Without delay, I grabbed the reins of Whiskey Rush from Ben and hoisted myself up into the saddle.

I pressed my heels lightly into the gelding’s sides, and he responded immediately, moving into a steadylope. The night air was crisp, carrying the familiar scents of horse sweat, dry earth, and the distant bite of pine.

I nudged Whiskey forward, guiding him through the paddock and out onto the open range. The night was deep. The sky stretched wide above me, with stars scattered like dust across the black. The moon was just a sliver, half-hidden behind drifting clouds. The air was cool with the last breath of winter, carrying the scent of earth and leather and the lingering promise of rain, which, according to the weather app, would be coming later tonight and would stay through tomorrow.

What did they say about when it rains during a funeral? That the heavens were grieving? That the soul was finding peace? Or maybe, I thought cynically, it just meant the world didn’t give a damn who you were—it’d drown you all the same.

The ride wasn’t long—maybe fifteen minutes at a steady pace. Enough distance to remind me how much I’d missed this.

There was nothing like riding at night when the world went quiet, and the only sounds were the steady beat of hooves on packed dirt, the soft creak of leather, the rhythmic sway of a horse moving beneath you—muscle and instinct carrying you forward. It settled something in a man—something in me that had been restless for too damn long.

I kept Whiskey Rush at a brisk pace, cutting across the open pasture, then weaving through the line of cottonwoods as we neared the river. The sound of watercame first—a low, steady rush growing louder as I drew closer.

I got off of him and looped the reins around a low-hanging branch, giving them just enough slack so he could lower his head but not enough to wander. He flicked an ear, huffed, then settled.

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