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 know she’s lying.
Ax and the pretty cowboy interject at certain points as well, but the gist of it all remains the same: Peyton and I will cooperate.
He pushes off the wall and unfolds his arms. He brings the brim of the hat low as if he’s about to step into the Montana sun, hiding his eyes from view as he concludes, “You go along with my plan and help me get the land and in three weeks, you and your friend can go free.”
I KNOW EXACTLY where he is.
Even though I’m not looking at him. Instead, I’m staring at the bonfire that’s set up in the center of the large rolling field behind the Grayson mansion. It’s for a party. If someone had said to me a few days ago, or even yesterday when I arrived at the ranch, that tonight I’d be attending a party at Rawhide, I probably would’ve called them crazy. But it doesn’t seem too crazy now. Because it’s a homecoming party.
His homecoming party.
Even though I’m staring at the flames, I know he’s all the way across from where I am standing, and he has a group of guys—all ranch hands I think—around him. His back is to the field beyond and I know he’s tensed.
He’s uncomfortable.
His stance is wide, and his shoulders are unusually rigid. And his Stetson sits low on his head, hiding his eyes. I think that’s the sign, his brim being too low, of his discomfort. When he doesn’t want anyone to see his eyes or gauge his thoughts.
I know he hates this. He hates all these people around him. He hated when one of them wanted to hug him. He backed off and offered his hand. Probably because he can’t stand being touched after being imprisoned for eight years. Just like he can’t find sleep easily. He hates that they’re all flocking around him, and he hasn’t had a moment’s peace since this thing started. He hates the music, too, cowboys playing guitars around the fire. He hates that it doesn’t look like this is going to end any time soon so he can be alone.
I don’t want to feel sympathy for him, but I do. I also want to go over there and punch him in the face. Then I want to fist that denim shirt of his and demand that he call me by my name. He did that on purpose, didn’t he? He called me friend on purpose. Probably to take revenge on the fact that I didn’t call him by his name for so long. Because he’s that twisted. Because that’s all he thinks about: revenge and getting even and everything that’s evil.
“What’s his name?”
Peyton’s voice gets me out of my musings, and I come back to the moment. She’s asked this question of Haven, who’s following her orders and keeping an eye on us. Axton is around, too, somewhere, keeping us all in his line of vision, even though from what I saw before he has some friends from his school attending the party. Apparently, he’ll be a senior in high school when they open after summer and is quite popular from what Haven’s been telling us; Peyton asked.
Right now, though, Peyton’s focused on the group over to our left that consists of Marsden, a bunch of suit-wearing, important-looking men, and that pretty cowboy. To be specific, though, she’s solely focused on the pretty cowboy, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.
Haven follows her gaze and smiles. “Radisson. Radisson King. But everyone calls him Rad.”
Peyton takes a sip of her beer. “Does he work for you all?”
“Well, he is the foreman but he’s family,” Haven explains. “He’s their aunt’s son. They all grew up together.”
“Why doesn’t he talk to me?” Peyton asks next.
Haven chuckles. “Because he doesn’t talk to anyone. Well…”
She trails off because at that very moment, he does begin speaking, and I think he talks for about half a minute if not more, with all of us watching him. Which, thank God, he doesn’t notice because it would make anyone uncomfortable.
When he’s done, Haven continues, “He was in a car accident when he was young. Hit his head really bad and suffered from TBI. Traumatic brain injury. It affected his speech. Took him a really long time to be able to talk again, a couple of years at least and… They were hard, those years. He struggled a lot. The bullying in town, at school…” She shakes her head. “You know how kids are. They can be so cruel. Plus his scar didn’t help either. He was the town’s monster, a beast. He still is to some and he just… I guess, he got used to not talking.”
Peyton swallows thickly, her features stricken and eyes misty. I probably look the same. Because when he told me about the Quiet Mustang, he didn’t put it this way. I know he brought him up to scare me—and I did get scared—but I couldn’t have imagined, not even in my wildest nightmares, that Radisson’s story would be so tragic. It’s their parents’ death all over again. It was just a simple fact to me until I got a glimpse behind the curtain.