Chapter One: What Hurts the Most

Ryder

WHAT HURTS THE MOST

Performed by Rascal Flatts

When I dragged myself out ofbed, I had no idea I’d be holding a funeral for a crow before the day was over. I’d been given marching orders from my mother to stop the birds from eating the last of her crabapples. To ensure they were extra sweet, she’d waited to harvest them until after the first snow, and now the damn beasts were taunting us, feasting on the fruit as if it had appeared from thin air in the middle of our Tennessee winter.

I was late getting to the ranch due to a mess-up with the plumbing supplies I’d ordered, so even though I didn’t swing by the house, I could still practically hear Mama huffing while she watched the birds destroy the last of her fruit. Forcing aside my frustration at the morning’s delays, I stomped into the ranch’s office and grabbed my shotgun from the lockbox. I loaded it, pocketed another box of ammo, and headed out. My long stride took me past the immaculately maintained blue-and-white barn with its intricately twined metal H near the roofline. Like every other addition I’d made to the family property, it had been carefully and purposefully crafted to portray the elegance our guests looked for in a luxury resort. These days, the ranch was far removed from the dusty, worn-down farm it had once been.

As I rounded the barn, my feet ground to a halt. The view bled the last of my frustration out of me as I took a deep, cleansing breath. Nothing could beat this. Nothing. Year-round, the ranch was picturesque—worthy of a postcard even—but with a peaceful dusting of snow on the fields, it held extra magic. The bare oaks slumbered under the thin blanket of white while jade peeked from beneath the frozen layer on the evergreens. The low slope of the heather-gray mountains turned the view into a smoky watercolor painting, the pastel blue of the sky blending in with the hills.

The sun was doing its best to bring the temperatures up into the livable range, and I closed my eyes, raising my face to the timid warmth as I breathed in the ranch air I loved. The only thing I treasured more was my family. I wouldn’t give this life up for anything. Not for my long-ago dreams of architecture and design. Not for a random woman who came and went from my life in the flash of an eye. Nothing would take me from this place.

The entire morning full of annoyances left me on the next exhale. Hitching the gun over my shoulder, I strode over the field, boots crunching on the ice clinging to the sleeping grass.

The crabapple trees were just past the main pasture near the empty guest cabins. During this time of year, no smoke curled from their chimneys, and their fall-toned, craftsman-style fronts were a stark contrast to the black and white of the January landscape. Next to the ten completed cabins, two new ones sat in various stages of undress, awaiting roofs and siding.

An all-too-familiar feeling of regret attempted to worm its way in through the peace the view had settled in my veins. If I hadn’t been blinded by love, those last two cabins would have been built years ago. But they were here now and would be ready for our new season when it began in April.

Even knowing Grandfather Hatley was likely rolling over in his grave at what we’d done to the property, the transition from a cattle ranch to a dude ranch had kept the land in the Hatley name. And we’d managed to hold on to pieces of a working farm in order to give our guests the full ranch experience. We’d simply added on the outdoor resort activities they craved. Whitewater rafting, horseback riding, and hiking adventures were what drew people to us for repeated stays, along with Mama’s hearty, down-home meals to which she’d added a modern flair.

As I neared the crabapple trees, the half dozen crows feasting on the remaining fruit lifted their beaks in an unspoken dare. I’d bought a sound gun late last year that had kept the birds away from most of the crops, but the damn thing had died just before Christmas and was sitting in Willy Tate’s garage, waiting for him to fix it. Willy worked slow as molasses these days, grieving a relationship that had disappeared years ago.

I was probably the only soul in Willow Creek who understood Willy’s continued mourning. I wasn’t sure my soul would ever stop howling for what I’d lost. But dwelling on the past would do nothing except make me long to lose myself in alcohol or sex or both, and that wasn’t going to happen with a week’s worth of work piling up.

I lifted the shotgun, aiming for the tops of the trees, intending only to scare the beasts away. I’d hunted with my dad and grandfather as a kid, but I’d never quite gotten a stomach for the killing. Maybe that was why I wasn’t overly sad when we’d sold off our remaining beef cattle and stuck to a handful of dairy cows.

Just as I pulled the trigger, one of the damn birds took flight. Crap timing meant the pellets collided with the bird’s chest, and it plummeted to the earth several yards away.

A high-pitched shriek broke through the air, and I whirled around, coming face-to-face with my niece, Mila. Disappointment radiated from her hazel eyes. The dark brows that didn’t match her honey-wheat-colored hair were lifted in shock.

My heart kicked into gear. Not only because of the look she was sending me but also from the memories of her last experience with guns a mere fourteen months ago.

I took a step toward her, gentling my voice and saying, “What are you doing out here, kiddo?”

Instead of replying, she took off running for the farmhouse with her blond braids flying and her cowboy boots kicking up snow and dirt.

“Shit!” I looked back at the laughing birds before hauling my ass across the field after her.

She was faster than any six-year-old had a right to be, and I hadn’t quite caught up to her by the time she rounded the barn, passed the brick-and-ivy front of the Sweet Willow Restaurant, and banged up the steps of the wraparound porch on the farmhouse I’d grown up in. The blue siding and white trim echoed the sky above it where smoke puffed out of a pair of chimneys on opposite sides of the gray shake roof. Shiny and spiffed up these days, the home had sat in that exact spot for near on two hundred years.

I hollered out for Mila to stop once more, but she ignored me, pushing inside with me on her heels.

“Nana!” she screamed. “You have to punish Uncle Ryder!”

There was a hitch to her voice that threatened tears and made my chest squeeze tight as my mother squatted down to pull my distraught niece into her arms. Flour sifted through the air, catching in a beam of sunshine from the large windows over the farm-style sink and casting them in a hazy halo.

“Bug-a-boo, what on earth?” Mama asked, brows drawing together.

“I do not like Uncle Ryder anymore. He is mean, mean, mean!”

A sob escaped her chest that tortured me a bit more as my mama met my gaze over the top of Mila’s head. Her bright-blue eyes, the same color as mine, widened in concern. The hint of wrinkles around the corners of her mouth was more evident as she frowned at me.

I pulled my black cowboy hat off, running a hand through my thick waves the same chestnut color as my mother’s before gray had decided to weave its way into hers.

“Why was she out by the crabapples?” I asked. None of us had truly let Mila out of our sight since an asshole gang member had taken her and my sister at gunpoint, put a bullet in Sadie’s thigh, and tried to use Mila as leverage against my brother several months ago.

Mama finally caught on to what had happened as her eyes landed on my shotgun just as Mila let out another devastating sob. “He killed a bird, Nana! A beautiful black bird!”

I moved toward them, and Mila shied away from me, causing my heart to twist a bit more.

“I thought we were just scaring the crows off?” Mama asked.

“Scaring them was the plan. I can’t help that one of them flew right into the shot.”

“You’re awful, Uncle Ryder! You killed a poor, hopeless little birdie!”

“I think you mean helpless,” Mama responded, her lips twitching as she realized what had happened.

I squatted down, eyes meeting Mila’s tear-filled ones. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him, kiddo. The sound gun that’s been scaring them off is broken, and I was just trying to make a loud noise. What happened was an accident.”

“It was?”

I dragged a hand over the scruff that was turning into a beard I kept meaning to shave off and said, “Sure was.”

“His family is going to miss him. You need to apologize to them.”

“Well, the crows weren’t supposed to be eating Nana’s crabapples to begin with. This is like…your dad arresting someone for breaking the law.”

“Daddy doesn’t kill people!”

I met my mama’s gaze, and neither of us mentioned the man who’d taken Mila and who’d been shot in the ravine before dying at the hospital.

“What do you think Uncle Ryder should do to make amends?” Mama asked.

I groaned internally. Knowing Mila, she was going to come up with a harebrained scheme involving rainbows and unicorns. Maybe even pixie dust. Something nearly impossible.

My niece stepped toward me, her gaze still sad but determined as she patted my arm. “You need to have a funeral for him so his family can say goodbye.”

I looked up at Mama to see her eyes twinkling with humor just as my brother walked into the room, demanding to know what was going on. As Mama explained what had happened, his blue eyes crinkled, and he chuckled, making me want to punch him in the nose and add another crook to the one I’d given him when we were younger.

“Let me go dig a hole.” I sighed. “Maybe you and Nana can come up with some words to say.” Maddox let out a half-laugh, half-cough, and I gave him a one-fingered wave over the top of the women’s heads. “Just for that, you can help dig the hole.”

Maddox pointed to the bronze star glowing on his chest. “I’m on duty. Was just dropping Mila off for the day.”

“You’re the sheriff. No one is going to give you a lecture if you’re a few minutes late.”

“Gotta set a good example for my team.”

I wanted to grab him, put him in a headlock, rub his dark-blond hair noogie-style, and mess up his perfectly ironed, khaki-colored shirt and green pants.

He picked up his Winter County Sheriff”s hat from the coat rack. “I’ll see you tonight, Bug-a-boo. Don’t give Nana too hard of a time, but make sure Uncle Ryder follows your instructions about the funeral to a T.”

I grunted in protest, following him out the door.

Once outside, I slammed my fist into his shoulder. “Damn you.”

“Don’t blame me. You’re the crap shot who took out a bird.”

“The bird flew into the shot!”

He chuckled, heading for his truck. He glanced at my step-side pickup glistening like root beer on ice sitting next to it. “I hate to admit it, because it’s a Chevy, but Willy did a great job fixing the C10 up. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to with all the bullet holes riddling it.”

The truck had been shot up after a woman tailing a U.S. Secret Service agent and his rockstar protectee had caught up to them while they’d been staying at the ranch. The agent had handed me the registration as a way of apologizing for destroying a whole section of the fence he’d run through in his attempt to get away. We’d seen a bit too much action at the ranch in the last couple of years. We were due some peace and quiet.

“Where’s McK today?” I asked.

“She took a shift at the hospital for another doctor.”

When McKenna had shown up months ago, I hadn’t thought it would end well for Maddox. I hadn’t expected her to give up her life in California to finish her residency in the one state she’d run from as a teen. Seeing the love bloom between them again had opened old wounds in my chest.

I couldn’t—wouldn’t—be like my brother, who’d gone from swearing off anything serious to falling right back head-over-heels for the one woman who’d wounded him to begin with. I’d never forgive Ravyn for what she’d done to me and my family, and I didn’t plan on getting hooked up with anyone again. While I saw nothing wrong with losing myself in the scent and feel of soft curves for a few hours, I wasn’t getting roped into thoughts of forever after.

My brother got in his truck, tooted the horn as a goodbye, and I strode back to the barn to find what I needed to bury a damn bird. After replacing the shotgun with a shovel, I grabbed an empty feed sack and went back to the crabapple trees. I about destroyed my hands and shoulders digging a hole in the frozen earth for a damned crow.

I picked up the dead bird with a gloved hand, dropped it into the sack, and stuck the bag in the ground. Last thing I needed was for Mila to see the bloody bird and burst into tears all over again. By the time I was done, I was sweaty and cussing the crows all over again as a line of the black beasts watched me from the trees.

I could almost hear them cackling.

When I looked back at the barn, Mila and Mama were making their way across the field. My niece had her two rainbow unicorns tucked in her armpits and a leftover poinsettia plant from the holidays in her hands.

When they reached me, my mama handed me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Last rites.”

Her eyes were glittering with laughter. Had it really only been an hour or so ago that I’d been looking at the ranch and thinking how much I loved my family?

Mama hit play on her phone, and Irish funeral music streamed out of it. I nearly choked out a curse before looking down at Mila’s wide, innocent eyes. Gritting my teeth, I ripped the paper from my mother’s hands.

I silently read what they’d come up with, grinding my teeth over the sweet words for a pest who shouldn’t have been in the trees to begin with.

“To the damn bird I accidentally killed,” I growled out, and Mila interrupted me with a huff.

“You owe a dollar for the swear jar, Uncle Ryder. And you don’t sound sorry at all. You have to feel it”—she reached up and patted my chest—“in here.”

I met my mama’s gaze with a glower that promised retribution. She hid her smile behind her hand. I cleared my throat, looked skyward for help that wouldn’t come, and then started over. “To the sweet crow that was ripped from his life too soon by an evil shot by a careless human.”

I somehow got through the rest of it to Mila’s satisfaction and helped her stuff a little cross in the ground supported by the poinsettia while Mama held her unicorns. When we stood back up, Mila looked at me with her hands on her hips and said, “Now promise you’ll never kill another living thing again, Uncle Ryder.”

My stomach turned. We lived on a ranch. Animals sometimes needed to be put down. It was part of the cycle, but as I looked into her innocent face, I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell her no. It would cost me a pretty penny to keep that promise if I had to hire someone to do the work for me. Still, I sighed and said, “All right, Bug-a-boo. No animal will be harmed by these hands again.”

She stuck out her little finger. “Pinky promise?”

When my large finger twined with her tiny one, my chest filled with an unexpected ache. An ache for something I’d once thought I’d have but had lost. Something I’d sworn to never let into my life again―a wife and a child.