Page 37 of The Wrong Ride Home

My throat burned. I swallowed the acid down.

The three of us stood there a short while until the cold started to bite and ruminated over the sorrow of the moment.

Then, without further ceremony, we finished what we started.

And then, shovel by shovel, we covered Nash Wilder the way he wanted—on his land, beneath the open sky, next to the only woman he ever really loved.

By the time the last of the dirt was settled, my hands were raw, my arms aching.

When it was done, we all stood there a moment longer.

Then, without another word, we turned and walked away.

CHAPTER 12

duke

Ifucking hated this whole funeral business—not because my father had died but because of the theater of it.

The ranch house was suffocating.

Men in tailored suits stood in clusters on the porch, talking in low voices over glasses of aged bourbon. Their expensive cigars, which emitted thick ribbons of smoke, curled toward the ceiling.

The women were dressed in polished black, silk, and diamonds. They wore tight smiles; their faces botoxed to the gills. The air was full of hushed condolences and quiet negotiations, deals whispered over the rims of crystal glasses.

The food was a catered spread—too elegant, too polished for a cowboy’s funeral. Mini crab cakes, beef tartare on crostini, fancy cheeses on a carved wooden board. Nothing like what Nash would’ve wanted. If ithad been up to him, there’d be brisket, beans, and whiskey straight from the bottle.

Nokoni stood near the fireplace. He hadn’t changed out of his jeans and boots; his only concession to the formality was a pressed white shirt instead of the chambray he usually preferred.

“Nash would hate this,” he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.

Not just Nash. I fuckin’ hate it, too, I wanted to say. Instead, I let out a slow breath. “Yeah, he would.”

He turned his gaze to me, sharp and knowing. “So why are you doing it?”

I swallowed, glancing across the room to where my mother stood, the happiest she’d ever looked.

Gloria Wilder was glowing, her black Chanel dress demur and expensive, her diamond earrings catching the light. She moved through the room like a queen among admirers, her voice warm and gracious, her hands clasping onto arms in that perfect Southern way that made people feel important.

For the first time in her life, she wasn’t the discarded wife. She wasn’t the woman Nash had left behind. She was his widow, and to her, that meant something. I had no clue why there was more dignity in being a widow than an absent wife—but then I didn’t care about societal norms as much as Mama did.

I sighed, taking a sip of whiskey. “It’s important to her.”

Nokoni scoffed, “Laying Nash to rest isnotimportant toGloria.”

“Careful, Nokoni, she’s my mother,” I warned, but he wasn’t wrong in his assessment.

Nokoni shook his head. “Yeah, well, try not to forget who your father really was”—he waved an arm around—"and he wasn’t this shit.”

I sighed. “It is what it is.”

“You have vultures here, waiting to take pieces of the land my ancestors gave to yours.”

"I don’t think they quite gave it, Nokoni," I murmured. "I think it was taken."

Nokoni’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “Damn right, it was. Your land was part of a vast stretch of the Southern Plains where my ancestors roamed freely, hunting buffalo, trading, and fiercely defending their land.”

I knew the history, it was hard not to with Nash as my father. The land that became Wilder Ranch was once Comanche territory.

---