26. Cassidy

Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I lean on the counter and wait for my dad to finish closing out a bar tab. With Freddy heading out, it's only Toothless George holding down his permanent spot at the end of the bar.

"Cool if I leave a bit early since it's so dead in here?"

He glances around the empty establishment and nods. "Sure, kiddo. Go get some rest."

The bitter wind hits hard, ripping down my neck and back despite my winter coat. Tugging the downy, puffy jacket up around my ears and nose, I shuffle across the ice to my car. The engine and I shiver in unison as it rumbles to life, and I grab my phone from my pocket to re-read the string of texts that prompted me to leave work early.

Denver: Whatever is going on with you and Red, can you please figure it out?

Denver: Starting to get a bit worried, honestly.

Denver: First he found out his dad's dying. Now you two are having issues. He's barely been sleeping. And he's been down at the barn by himself for hours.

Denver:I'm not the type to get involved in this shit, but I think you're the only person he might talk to about what he's got going on

Denver: Maybe give him a chance

He found out his dad's dying and he didn't tell me. The dull thud in my chest becomes complete, despairing loss as my heart falls into the pit in my stomach.

Before I put up walls and shut him out, we talked about everything. In the late night, the hazy euphoria of my bed—just after sex and just before falling asleep—we'd share our secrets. He knows all my fears of becoming my mother and of never amounting to anything. I know the origin of every scar on his body. Twenty. Twenty visible scars are a direct result of his father. There's no telling how many he carries around in his soul.

I know all that, and now I don't even get to know about something as big as his dad dying. But why would he tell me? I forcefully pushed him away the second things started feeling too real.

I stare at the phone for less than a heartbeat before tapping my frozen fingers against the screen.

Cass: Let me know if he leaves the barn. I'm on my way.

Without a second thought, I roll straight through the single stop sign in town and onto Wells Ranch Road. Thirty kilometres of rough, snowy road that I'm praying my car can manage. No music—I need to focus. My studded winter tires crunch and creak over the thick snow, climbing the hill out of town, and chasing the distant moon. The headlights bounce off snowy blankets cloaking the roadside trees as the road winds across the mountainside.

Chase made this drive nearly every single day. For me. For the baby. He busted his ass, doing manual labour and riding a horse from sunup to sundown. Drove on this bumpy, windy road to get to my house. Made dinner. Helped clean up. Gave me the best orgasms of my life. Then woke up before dawn to drive back to the ranch. Repeat. For weeks. Never complaining or asking me to come to him instead.

"I'm a fucking asshole." I smack my hand against the steering wheel. My fingers curl around the leather and grip until my knuckles turn white.

I was grateful. I knew what he was doing for me was a big deal and I wasn't trying to take any part of him for granted. But following in his footsteps—driving this distance to see him after a long day at work, and fully intending to cater to him when I get there—has me realizing how terrible I am for pushing him away.

I've never been to Wells Ranch, despite growing up in Wells Canyon. Which, obviously, shares a name with the family that built both the ranch and the town. The Wells's reach extends far beyond the sprawling cattle ranch Austin, Jackson, and Denny operate. They have extended family involved in nearly every facet of Wells Canyon, and there's always at least one Wells kid in both the elementary and high school at any given time.

My car crests a knoll, and the ranch comes into view. A swinging wooden sign hangs suspended at least twenty feet in the air and spans the width of the driveway, bearing the Wells Ranch name and brand—the same brand Chase has scarred deep into his chest. I've traced it so many times with my fingertips, I can perfectly picture the feel of his soft skin on mine.

The driveway winds past a large, white farmhouse without a single light on inside. Still decorated for Christmas, garland and twinkle lights encase each banister of the front porch railing. Then my car crawls past a two-storey, partially finished house, which must be Austin and Cecily's new place. The lights are out in every building—not surprising, given the fact it's after midnight. I'm just about ready to turn around and go home, pretend I didn't drive out here uninvited like a deranged person, when I notice an orange glow around the edges of double barn doors. I pull my car up next to Chase's truck and step out into the cold night.

With less than a dozen streetlights in Wells Canyon, we have a great view of the starry skies. Certainly better than I've seen when visiting Blair in Vancouver. But out here? Unmatched. Like God got carried away while painting the stars—flicks of white leaving little blackness in the sky. The moon's hung low, kissing snowy treetops and lighting my route to the barn.

I tuck my jacket around myself, following a well-worn footpath. I'm unsure if I'll find Chase, and equally unsure what I'll say if I do. But I have to try. Giving it a tug, the metal handle on the barn door sticks to my clammy hand. It shimmies open a bit, so I pull harder. The overpowering smell of horses nearly knocks me down as the clunky door slides along the overhead rail.

Even with his back to me, I know it's him by the auburn hair and the way he leans against the stall. It's the same stance he frequently has while standing in my bedroom door frame. Popped hip, hand in his pocket, sinking all his weight into the wall. In my house, he usually wears a cocky smirk while he watches me get dressed… or undressed, depending on the time of day. But tonight I doubt he's smiling, and his voice is barely audible as he talks to a horse.

"Chase." I pull the door shut behind me.

He spins to face me with a half-hearted, wavering smile. "Hey, you."

Chase makes no move toward me, relying on the wall like it's the lone thing keeping him upright. I rush down the cement barn alley to him, then slide my arms inside his unzipped Carhartt jacket and around his waist. His hand combs through my hair, moving to grip the back of my skull and tugging me into him. A move he's done so many times before. I bury my face in his neck and allow myself a deep inhale. The smell of his skin calms me in the same way coming home does. Steadying my heart rate and removing all the weight of the day. If somebody had told me that one day I'd be driving all the way to Wells Ranch to breathe him in. That one day this man would be responsible for me feeling so many big feelings. I'd tell them they were crazy and kick them in the shin for good measure.

"You came all the way here," he says. "I thought you weren't free until Sunday."

"Of course I came. Denny told me about your dad." I rest my cheek against his collarbone. "I'm sorry. Sorry you've been dealing with it alone. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

Bullshit.

"Are you okay?" I repeat, lifting my head to look at him. "Honestly."

Eyes dropping to the floor, he draws in a long breath before speaking. "I don't know if I am. And I fucking hate that."

"It's okay not to be okay. Even though he wasn't who you deserved him to be…" Letting a hand leave the warm space inside his coat, I run my palm across the rough stubble of his jaw, begging him to look at me. "You can be angry with him and still be sad about him dying. It doesn't have to be black and white."

"Yeah, it's definitely not that." His tongue darts out, leaving his bottom lip glistening.

"Nothing ever is." I lean into him, relishing in the rise and fall of his broad chest, his hand cradling my head against him.

"Do you think I'm like him?" he whispers the words against my hair. The warmth of his breath travels down my neck with a quiver.

"No." The answer comes quickly because, no, I don't think he's like him. Not a single sliver of my heart believes he's like his dad. I wrap the fabric of his T-shirt around my fingers, wanting him closer. "Do you?"

He swallows, and I feel the bob of his Adam's apple on my temple. His voice is heavy and ragged. "I don't know. Maybe. It's not black and white."

"Why did you hit Landon Wiebe?"

He's quiet. The only sound around us is the slow snoring of sleeping horses.

"Chase, tell me. I don't want to believe you did it for the thrill of a fight. But I need to know why. I deserve to know, after all that shit. I've been struggling to give you the benefit of the doubt because you were so quick to shut me out that night. Please tell me the truth."

"He said some disgusting shit about you, us, Little Spud. I warned him, but…" His voice quakes, his breathing suddenly uneasy, as if he's reliving that god-awful moment. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I'm not sorry for hitting him because he's a motherfucker and deserved it. But I am sorry for starting a bar brawl, pissing your dad off, and leaving you to deal with my bullshit. I should've dragged his ass outside first. I shouldn't have left afterward. I acted like an asshole and a goddamn coward."

His hands wrap around my forearms, and he places them at my sides. Taking a few steps back, he leaves me alone and cold and worried it was a big mistake coming here. Maybe I waited too long to talk to him.

"Dave said some shit that might not have been entirely true, but he got into my head. And I just… I just couldn't face you right then. Maybe I'm not quite as bad as my dad—at least, not yet—but I'm not flawless." Chase shrugs half-heartedly, letting his shoulders slump even lower than they were before. He looks close to becoming one with the cement floor, his body too worn down to bother continuing to stand. I want him to let me hold him up. "If you weren't pregnant, you wouldn't take a second glance at me. Hell, even now, you could walk away and find a guy who would be perfect for you. Somebody who can give you everything you want. Somebody without a fucked up childhood and a shitty reputation. That's what you and the baby deserve. Anyone but me."

I swallow the saliva that's been building up in my throat the entire time he was talking. His eyes are so vast and wistful and full of love. He runs a hand through his hair, then leaves it resting on the back of his neck, not breaking eye contact for a single second. And I can't remember what Joe Thompson looks like off the top of my head, but I'm confident he's never looked at anything except liquor with this much passion.

With a step toward him, I open my mouth. "You're—"

"Cass, please. I'm not done. I just…"

I nod slowly, but don't step back. The space between us is warm. Wrought with emotion. If I stumble forward slightly, I'll crash into him. If I swing my arm anxiously, our hands will touch. "Okay. Take your time, and I'll talk when you say you're done."

"I'm not drinking anymore. The night at The Horseshoe was the final nail in that fucking coffin—haven't had a single sip since then. I know it hasn't been very long yet, but I swear I'm done for good. Not because I think I'm addicted like my dad is. But I don't like how similar I am to him when I've been drinking, or when I'm in your dad's bar. I know I have a temper on the best of days, and there's something about that atmosphere—I'm unable to stop myself. I just… black out. And every time I drink, there's this little voice in my head questioning if this is it. If this is the beer that pushes me over the edge and makes me become him. If one more beer is going to make me an alcoholic like him or make me drunk enough to hurt somebody I love. And…" The corded muscles of his neck tighten and bob with a hard swallow. "I can't live with that fear anymore. I don't want Little Spud to be embarrassed by me. Definitely don't want you to be embarrassed or have to deal with my shit. None of this bothered me before. It didn't matter what anyone thought of me. I was fine being a let-down… A fuck up… A loser."

"That's not—" I start, but his narrowing glance cuts me off. I make a motion like I'm zipping my lips and nod for him to continue.

"Sorry. This shit has been running through my brain for fucking ever, and I want to say it out loud to somebody other than Heathen here." He tilts his head toward the horse in the stall next to him. After a long, shaky exhale, he continues, "It's just who I was, even though I didn't always like it. I didn't give enough of a shit to change. But then, you told me you were pregnant. Now I don't want to be those things anymore—really don't want to do anything my dad would. I'm not saying this to win you over or make you feel bad for me, by the way. I just want you to know I'm sorry and I'm trying to be better."

I press my fingers to my tear ducts, holding back the sob rising in my throat. Biting my lip to stop it from quivering, I stare at him through my eyelashes. Waiting for the gentle nod to indicate he's done.

"I didn't come here because I wanted an apology. I'm here for you. To make sure you're okay. You might think those things about yourself, but I don't. I know after the night at the bar, I didn't seem sure. Well… honestly, I wasn't sure. And that was fucked up of me because I know you—the you most other people don't bother getting to know. I should have trusted you wouldn't do that for no good reason."

"I didn't tell you the reason because it didn't matter. No excuse would make it okay that I put you in that situation. Having you hate me felt like a deserved consequence after I embarrassed you, hurt you, and then walked away."

"I wish you'd told me. Not because I think it would've made me less mad. But I deserved to know… to have you talk to me." A chill scatters over my skin.

"Really? Because you weren't talking to me either." His eyes are red and glassy when they meet mine. "Where have you been?"

"What?"

"Before the shit at the bar, you weren't around. So, sure… I guess I could've talked to you about shit when you cornered me in the parking lot, but you made it clear we didn't have that kind of relationship anymore. You went on your trip and basically fucking disappeared. I get it—you don't want to date me. Your rejection didn't come as a shock, even if it didn't feel great." His face scrunches like he's just torn open a fresh wound. "Shit, you didn't even want anyone to know we slept together until it became nearly impossible to keep a secret. But I don't blame you 'cause I know I'm not your first choice." Chase's hands fall against his sides with a resonating thud.

I swipe a tear from my jawline, continuing the path upward to massage my temple slowly. If I hadn't panicked and cut him out entirely, things would still be good. We'd be friends. We'd be having amazing sex. And I would still be painfully pretending I'm not falling in love with him.

"Just because I didn't want people to know before doesn't mean I feel the same way now. I know I should have been honest about us a lot sooner instead of making you think I was ashamed. Because I'm not."

"Can I be honest?" His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and his gaze burns clear through me. "I never wanted to be your fucking friend or your friend-with-benefits or your goddamn co-parent. But I would settle for any of those titles if it meant going back to cooking you dinner and watching crappy reality shows on your couch, and falling asleep with you. Being at your doctor's appointments, glaring at Dr. Dickhead—not getting a text message after. I want to be holding your hand when you have our baby and see your eyes light up when you hold her for the first time. I want to take care of you so you can take care of her. Hell, I even want to change a shitty diaper at two o'clock in the morning."

I blink down, letting tears splatter on the dusty floor.

"And it fucking sucks to know I maybe had all of that before I opened my mouth and suggested something as laughable as—" His voice falters with a flustered, sharp inhale. A fist comes up to cover his mouth, and he exhales hard through his nose.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you. I was trying not to muddy things more than we already did. And to get back to the way we were before we started sleeping together."

"If that were the case, I could deal with not having things work out the way I wanted. Like I said, I didn't expect you to agree to more in the first place. But we haven't been friends. Haven't even been fucking co-parents, honestly. You texted me an ‘all's good' after your doctor's appointment and that was pretty much it."

I'm chewing the inside of my cheek to shreds, fighting with myself over what to tell him. Considering I've had multiple days alone—and an hour-long drive to the ranch—to think about it, I should have a vague idea of what I want to say.

Instead, I'm still sitting on a jagged, splintering, wobbly fence. No way of knowing which way I'll jump or fall. Whether he'll catch me, or I'll crack my head open humpty-dumpty–style on the concrete.

"I'm sorry," I finally croak in the nick of time before the tears spill. I wipe frantically at my eyes, smearing black mascara across my hands and, likely, my face.

Before the fence crumbles beneath me, I leap to the side that feels right. Where there's a reasonable probability of landing safely. Comfortably. And in his arms.

"I don't want to be friends. I want…" A fluttering breath rattles my chest. "All the same things you do. I said I needed boundaries because I like you, and it scared me. When you mentioned being together, I panicked when I should've talked to you. But I was so worried I only liked you because of the pregnancy hormones, or you were being nice to me because I'm carrying your baby. Or we're forced together by circumstance and like each other because we're stuck together. I didn't want Little Spud to be the sole reason behind us being together. After the bar fight, I was scared—not of you. Scared I would need to keep those boundaries up forever because, God, I didn't want to. I just needed time to sort out all my emotions and determine if my fears were unfounded. And they are… aren't they?"

The seconds between when I finish my sentence and he opens his mouth are a free fall. I've never been sky-diving, but I imagine this stomach in your throat, whirlwind in your skull, and panic in your chest are what you feel while plummeting to the Earth.

He sucks on his teeth. "You tell me."

"I think we wouldn't have ended up here if it weren't for Little Spud, but that's not why I have feelings for you now. We work and make sense and fit in a way I've never experienced. You're my first choice. You're good enough, Chase."

My eyes drop from his for a fraction of a second. Then his hand's on my jaw, pulling my chin upward with a sharp movement. Begging me to look at him. "Maybe you are just hormonal as fuck, because I think every single person we know would agree I'm not good enough for you."

"Why does it matter what anybody thinks outside of you and me? I wish I'd gotten to know who you really are sooner. I'm sorry for that."

He shakes his head skeptically. "I don't even know if I'm capable of being a good man. I've never given a fuck about much… until you. But I want to do better for my girls. One day I want to be deserving of you."

His words make my heart race until I'm unable to stop my body from moving into his. My belly hits first, and I cringe, preparing for it to ruin the moment. With a contented sigh, Chase leans into it, spreading a hand across my lower back to keep me close.

His eyes shutter, holding back whatever thoughts are running through his mind. Vapour from our breaths fills the quickly narrowing space between us and, despite that, I don't feel cold in the slightest. Hot embers spread under my skin, ignited by his touch and growing hotter by the second. When he leans down, my arms instinctively swing around his neck, pulling him the rest of the way.

His mouth hovers over mine, stopping fractions of a centimetre short. "The kissing ban needs to end."

"Mhm." My brain may be screaming kiss him, but my body's moving in slow motion. His close proximity has me paralyzed, wrought with overwhelming emotion and need.

"It was a stupid fucking rule to begin with." Slow and with attention to detail, his lips brush mine like watercolour, further blurring the harsh lines—the boundaries I was sure we needed.

"Agr—" Before I can get it out, he swallows the word with a passionate, knee-buckling kiss. A soft moan escapes my throat and his fingers tighten against my back. It's nothing similar to the awkward kiss on the rodeo dance floor. Or the torrid, rough kiss on the car hood. This time, it's full of care—a kiss we've been envisioning, waiting too long for. Tonight, we're both committed to doing this moment right.