Page 55 of Wrangled Love

Briar nibbles at her bottom lip, lost in thought for a moment. “To be honest, no. Bluebell’s always been home, and the first time I stepped foot on this ranch, I wanted to build a life here.”

I look out over the open fields, the lights from the guest cabins dotting the horizon.

We were both lucky to have the Halsteads when everything else around us was crumbling. I drifted between here and my parents’ trailer, dreaming of escape and swearing I’d never set foot in this godforsaken town once I got out. Whereas Briar found a permanent home here, taking solace in the ranch, and building a life in the very place I wanted to forget.

“You’re lucky,” I say, a bitterness creeping into my voice. “Growing up, I wanted to be anywhere but here. I hated being the kid whose parents were gambling addicts, living in a shitty trailer because the bank foreclosed on their house.”

“I never asked to be the daughter of a bartender who exchanged favors with men, but somehow, we both made it through, didn’t we?” Briar offers with a small smile.

Her upbeat attitude has me returning her smile. I may harbor hard feelings about my past, but that doesn’t mean I should let negativity weigh down our conversation.

“We did,” I say. “Has your mom ever reached out since she left?”

Her shoulders slump, and the light in her expression fades as she gazes at the ground. I hate that what I thought was a harmless question immediately darkens her mood.

“No. For a while, I held on to the idea that my mom would come back for me, but after she missed my graduation, I knew she was gone for good.” Briar’s voice falters as she finishes.

After setting my mug on the porch table beside me, I turn back to her. I extend my hand to gently squeeze hers, offering what comfort I can without crossing any boundaries, unsure if she’s ready for anything more until we’ve talked.

“I’m sorry. You deserved more from your mom.”

Our parents failed us in different ways.

“Your situation didn’t turn out any better,” she says, eyes glossy with emotion.

No, it didn’t. My dad died of a heart attack five years ago. I paid for his funeral despite our nonexistent relationship. I meant to be there, but my mom called, furious I hadn’t wired her the money directly, and told me I wasn’t welcome. A year later, she died alone in some casino hotel in Mesquite, Nevada, still chasing the high that destroyed her and my dad.

“You’re a better person than me. While you grieved the loss of your mom, I was relieved when my parents passed,” I confess.

“They might have let you down, but you’ve turned that pain and suffering into something good for Caleb,” Briar states with conviction.

It’s uncanny how easy she is to talk to. She doesn’t interrupt or offer platitudes. Instead, she listens and gives me space to express my true feelings. Even from the beginning, she’s made it easy to open up to her. Maybe it’s because we come from similar backgrounds, bonded by the fact that our parents cared more about their addictions than they ever did us.

This is one of those rare times I wish Briar and I were closer in age. If we’d gone to school together, maybe we would’ve become close sooner, and I could’ve shielded her from some of the pain she had to carry for so long. She had the Halsteads, but I wish I’d been there for her too. We crossed paths almost daily at their place, but she was just a kid following Julie. I didn’t pay her much attention, since I was too buried in my own problems.

What matters is that now we’re both able to be here for Caleb.

“He deserves unconditional love, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure he never goes without it,” I say.

“That little boy is certainly spoiled.” Briar chuckles. “I still can’t believe you left him with my brothers tonight. I’m shocked that giving him cookies and watching a late-night movie was the worst they did.”

“I don’t have room to judge. Just the other day, I promised him ice cream if he ate his vegetables, and yesterday, I let him watch cartoons for two hours instead of the half-hour limit I set.”

She gasps, feigning horror. “A real tyrant.”

I smirk. “Guess I won’t be winning any Parent of the Year awards.”

Briar’s laughter fills the air, a melody I wish could play on repeat. I’m not expecting it when she leans over me to set her mug on the table. Her hair brushes against my cheek, and I freeze—the soft scent of her perfume invading my senses, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

She pulls back just enough to look at me. Our thighs are touching, and neither of us moves, waiting to see what the other will do.

“Briar,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

A soft breeze picks up, and her hair falls across her face. I brush it behind her ear, and she shivers at my touch. My hand lingers as I trace along her cheekbone with my thumb, memorizing the curves of her face.

“I went to the diner tonight to see you, but what I should have done was stop you from going altogether.” The overdue confession tumbles out, leaving me with a sense of relief and wishing I had found the courage to speak up earlier.

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