Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I couldn’t let you sit here, waiting for me, after everything… we’ve shared.
I breathe through my nose for a few seconds, trying to calm myself down. Then, “What I was thinkin’ is none of your fuckin’ business.”
A pause and then, in a growly voice, “Come again?”
I clutch the phone tighter. “You heard me.”
I’m about to break the heavy silence between us when he does it himself, his voice low and vibrating. “Proved me right.”
“What?”
“You,” he says. “You like to live wild. You like to live on the edge. ‘Watch out for him,’ Daddy always said. ‘He’s worse than those damn broncos he likes to ride. He’ll either end up dead or in prison’; and I fuckin’ prayed for prison. I guess you should really be careful what you wish for, huh.” He sighs. “I just didn’t know I’d have a hand in it.”
My chest tightens at his regretful tone.
Once upon a time, I worshipped my big brother. He was more like a father to me and our little brother, Axton. Our parents died in a car crash, and the responsibility of the ranch fell on Mars. He was twenty-two and was already working at the ranch, helping our dad with the business and whatever else needed doing. Still, it was a big change for him that he shouldered well. Not to mention, he got a twelve-year-old rebellious teenager and a one-year-old screaming toddler as a bonus. He was strict and somewhat aloof, but I understood that he had to be that way. He had to be authoritative because Rawhide depended on him. I and our little brother depended on him.
He’s still my big brother, but we haven’t seen eye-to-eye in a long time. Despite all that, though, I still don’t like to hear that tone.
“There are days when I regret not namin’ you my foreman. If I had, you probably would’ve been too busy to go off the rails like you did. You—”
“I didn’t go off the rails,” I growl.
“You beat a man half to death with a hot branding iron,” he growls back. “And not just some man; you beat up Hank Turner. The family we’ve been at war with for decades. The family that took our land, the land that rightfully belongs to us, to our forefathers. They’d do anything to destroy us. Anything to take us out. But instead of using your goddamn head, you went in there, guns blazin’, and handed them the ammunition to use against us. And for what?”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He doesn’t heed it and keeps going: “I told you eight years ago and I’m tellin’ you now, a girl ain’t no reason to go stupid and turn your back on your family.”
The crack inside me becomes a chasm, wide and gaping, painful and hot.
Furious.
“A girl ain’t no reason to lose eight years of your life, to lose your ability to fuckin’ think and to be doin’ whatever it was you thought you were doin’ by marrying the Turner girl. I know you loved her but—”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, cutting him off. “Fuck. You.”
I hang up and switch off my phone.
Pocketing it, I get in the car and pull out of the parking lot. All through the drive back to the motel, my body is tight and my fucking heart is pounding. The chasm inside me gets wider and wider until it feels like I’ll never be able to seal it shut again. I’ll never be able to bury all the things that crawled out from the underneath.
Bury her.
Where she’s safe, protected. Like I wanted her to be eight years ago. Like I promised.
By the time I reach my destination—the motel I’m staying at for the night—I’m shaking. Tremors are running up and down my body. The brand on my shoulder burns as hot and as brutal as it did the night I put it there. With a shivering hand, I open the door to my room, but it all stops the moment I see her in there.
The Turner girl.
The girl I’ve been seeing in my dreams for the past six months. The smart, straight-A college girl who liked to be careful and safe. Until she made the mistake of writing to a felon in prison.
Back in my six-by-eight prison cell, there was no escape from her, her words, her thoughts. I’d dream about the things she wrote, her desk, her room, the library she worked at. Her favorite tree. Her favorite books. It would piss me off, and I’d end up in fights and then get thrown in solitary. Where things would get even worse because there were no distractions except following the cracks on the cement floors and counting bricks on the wall.
Even so, I guarded her letters with my life. I kept them hidden either under the mattress or tucked inside a book. Sometimes I’d carry them in my pocket. There’s no privacy in prison, no dignity, very little respect. Didn’t matter what my last name was, and most everyone knew who I was, from guards to inmates. The only consolation was that her letters skipped the usual inspection by the guards and were delivered to me with the seal unbroken.