Sweet Home Montana Page 6

  “What?” I gape at him. “Why? You don’t want me here?”

  “Of course that’s not it.” He swallows hard. “I just … I think Tripp could use someone up there with him.” He scratches at his bearded chin. “I’m worried about him.”

  I gauge him a long moment, considering his words. I know what he’s saying. What he isn’t saying. And, although I can’t be certain my twin brother won’t stab me the second I step foot inside the front door, he’s still my brother, my blood. I can’t stand the thought of him being up there in that big house all alone.

  I sigh, nodding once. And, with a quick glance at Shelby, I manage a smile, reluctantly taking the car keys from my brother.

  ***

  The main house is silent when I walk inside with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, pulling my oversized wheelie-case behind me. Inside the great room, the fireplace is void and cold. In fact, the whole house seems frigid and dark, and heartbreakingly empty. I continue through the main foyer, to the bottom of the stairs, listening out for any sign of life. But I’m met with piercing silence. Nothing.

  “Tripp?” I call out.

  Still nothing.

  With my case weighing almost as much as I do, I begin up the stairs, cursing under my breath with every impossible step. Breathless, sweaty, and exhausted by the time I make it to the landing, I continue down the hall toward my old bedroom, which is when I’m stopped by the unexpected yet obvious sound of sniffling coming from the other side of the door to the master suite.

  I pause, standing there a moment as I consider my options. Sure I could ignore the sound of my brother, a grown man, crying. Or, I could go in there and check that he’s at least okay. Either way, I’m sure I’ll be the bad guy for whichever choice I make. Cracking my knuckles, I go over and over the two options in my head before giving up and slowly pushing open the door, entering the room without so much as knocking.

  “Tripp?” I poke my head around the door, finding my brother sitting on the edge of the big bed, hunched over, holding what appears to be one of Dad’s button-downs in his hands.

  He jumps, clearing his throat loudly before violently swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. When his eyes meet mine, they’re red-rimmed and glossy, the whites painfully bloodshot, and I wonder if he’s even slept a wink since it happened.

  I was Daddy’s girl. Cash was almost like his protégé. But Tripp … Tripp and our father never really saw eye to eye. They were always butting heads. Arguing. Fighting. I remember when we were seventeen, Cash was away at college, and Tripp and Dad got into a disagreement that turned so quickly, Colt actually had to pull the two apart. I don’t know what it was about. Like all of their quarrels. I’ve never understood the differences between them. All I know is that they each love hard, but they fight harder. Wagner men, through and through. But it’s heartbreakingly evident that the residual pain of their volatile relationship is making Dad’s passing so much more difficult for Tripp.

  “What do you want?” he asks, his voice gravelly and broken. He turns his back to me, busying himself with placing the shirt he’d been holding into the suit bag lying on the bed.

  I step tentatively over the threshold. “A-are you all right?”

  After a moment he mutters something about being fine, but I know it’s a lie. He’s anything but fine. I can see it in the way his hands tremble, the way in which his broad shoulders seem so small and frail, like the weight of the world is causing him to just about break. But at least he isn’t yelling at me.

  “You know I’m here if you need—”

  “God dammit!”

  I cower instinctively at his brash words, but then when I see him struggling with the zipper on the bag, I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize his outburst isn’t directed at me for once.

  “Here, let me,” I say, hurrying across the room.

  He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, stepping away, and I carefully fix the stuck zipper, slowly pulling it closed, taking a moment to look down at the black bag that holds the clothes my father is going to be wearing while he spends the rest of eternity buried six-feet deep in the cold ground. I release a stammering breath, emotion rearing its ugly head. But I manage to blink back my tears, maintaining what little composure I have. I turn slowly to find my brother staring down at the bag, fresh tears sliding down over his cheeks. And never before have I ever felt someone else’s pain the way I feel his right at that moment.

  Tripp looks at me, meeting my eyes just as a sob bubbles out from the back of his throat. And suddenly, as he falls apart right there in front of me, I quickly close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him close. He cries on my shoulder, sobs inconsolably, and I smooth a hand over his racking back, our differences set aside in that moment, for now at least.

  Chapter 6

  I guess you could call me one of the unlucky ones. In my twenty-nine years on this earth, I’ve been unfortunate enough to witness firsthand the terrifying reality of death more times than a person my age should have to witness such a thing.

  When my mother died, I was eight years old. Old enough to realize, yet slightly too young to understand fully. And because of that in-between state of my mind’s maturity, Mom’s death was something that has stuck with me ever since. The sadness she felt leading up to her death still resonates with me. And the shocking details of her suicide, the bits and pieces I’ve discovered and put together over the years since, haunt me every day. Her death is something I was sheltered from, but by sheltering me from it, I think it made dealing with it as I grew up so much more difficult. I love my mother. But I also hate her for what she did. And I’m not sure I’ll ever move past that.

  My grandfather died a few years after my mom. When I was thirteen. He was old with the onset of dementia, so when he finally passed away, he was a shell of the man I’d grown up with. He wasn’t himself, and so his death was a welcome cure to the sickness that took him away long before he died.

  So, while I’ve dealt with the grief of losing people, I should be used it by now. Everyone leaves sooner or later. But Dad’s death is different. Maybe it’s because I’m older, now, and I truly understand what it means to lose someone. Maybe it’s because it was so sudden, because I didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe it’s because I feel like I missed so much time with him, like I was robbed of the years I’d spent taking for granted that he’d be around forever.

  Whatever it is, nothing could have prepared me to deal with the crippling emotion of losing my hero, of seeing him lying lifeless and cold, and so empty. And as I stand here, the silence in the cold room overwhelming, I wish I’d been a little more prepared. I never imagined I would ever see someone who was once so strong, whose strength was so all-consuming, suddenly look so hollow. Someone who was once so imposing, who could command the attention of an entire crowd without effort, suddenly not even the shell of the powerful man he once was. But that’s just it; as I look down at him so gray and still and void, I realize that it’s not my father. My father is gone and this is all that’s left.

  It’s a sobering moment, one I’m sure will stay with me for the rest of my life. I should be remembering all the good times, all the times I shared with him that brought a smile to my face. All the times he made me feel like his little princess. All the times I looked up at him like he was the hero from all the fairy tales I read as a girl. But I don’t think about the good times. As I stand there staring down at him, my heart still and barely beating, all I keep thinking about is every time I ever said or did something so unimaginably hurtful to the one man in my life I naively thought would be here forever.

  Like the time he caught me and Colt in my bedroom with the door closed. It was a hard rule. No closed doors if it was just the two of us. We were only kissing. But Dad still kicked Colt out on his ass, literally dragged him down the stairs, out the front door, and pushed him from the verandah where he landed on the grass with a thud. After that, I was forced to muck out the
stables for a whole month, and Colt and I weren’t allowed to see each other for a week. So, I did what any sullen and impulsive fifteen-year-old girl might do. I hid horseshit in every nondescript crevice in my father’s truck. For an entire week he couldn’t figure out where that stench was coming from. He ended up having to get the whole cab reupholstered, and the cost came out of my pocket money.

  When I was seventeen, Dad and I had a huge fight over colleges. He wanted me to stay close. But of course I had to apply to schools on the other side of the country because my dreams were in New York City, and Mom made me promise to chase my selfish dreams. I remember looking him dead in the eyes and telling him that I wanted to get the hell away from this town so I didn’t end up slitting my wrists like my mother.

  That was the most horrible thing I’ve ever said to him. Granted it was after I found out that Colt was staying in the Canyon. That he wasn’t coming with me to New York. That he, in fact, had zero intentions of ever leaving like we had planned all along. I was probably more upset with Colt, than my father. But the pain in Dad’s eyes was heartbreakingly obvious in the wake of my words. And the worst part of it all is that I meant what I said. I meant every last one of those words.

  Over the years I said and did some unforgivable things to my father. I was young and stubborn, and ever since my mother’s passing, I was living with a crippling pain I’d never dealt with. But I was also taking advantage of him because I knew I could get away with it. I knew, no matter what, Dad would still love me, in spite of what I said or what I did, and he would always be there for me, always on my side. But now he’s gone. He’s not here. And all those mean, horrible, downright nasty things I said to him when I was an ignorant, arrogant little girl, I can’t take back. But that’s the thing about fathers; you expect them to be around forever. But now he isn’t here and I can’t apologize, and he can’t accept that I truly am so sorry from the bottom of my heart for everything I ever put him through. And that may be the saddest part in all of this.

  A single tear trails down my cheek, and I sniffle, the sound echoing throughout the silence. I lift a trembling hand, hesitating momentarily before tentatively placing it against my father’s chest. He’s cold. Stiff. Empty. Blinking hard, I heave a heavy breath, searching the face that is so familiar yet so unlike the face of my father.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, gently patting the white sheet covering his naked torso.

  And I am sorry. For everything. Sorry I didn’t stay. Sorry I never came back. Sorry that I left him without ever even considering that it may very well be the last time I saw him.

  I’m sorry.

  I always will be.

  For everything.

  ***

  “You okay?”

  I startle from where my head is resting against the window, tearing my blank gaze away from the side of the road as it whizzes by in a blur. I meet Cash’s dark eyes in the reflection of the rearview, managing a nod. I can’t trust my own voice. The emotion threatening to break me is far too real. I’m not okay. In fact, I’m far from it. I keep seeing my father lying there, dead. I keep imagining what his final thoughts may have been. I know the coroner said he was most likely dead before he hit the ground, but what if he wasn’t? What if he was just lying there, so scared, realizing he was never going to see me or my brothers ever again?

  I keep thinking that I’m never going to see his name flash up on the screen of my cell phone. Calling me at the most inconvenient time, like he always did. But I would smile regardless, while I eagerly hitting the answer button. But I won’t have that again. His name won’t ever grace the screen of my cell again. He’s gone. And he’s never coming back. So, no. In answer to my brother’s question, I’m definitely not okay.

  “What about you?” Cash glances at Tripp in the passenger seat. “You all right, little brother?”

  Tripp says nothing, offering a noncommittal shrug, and I go back to watching the sky-high fir trees whizz past, trying so hard to rid the vision of my cold, gray father from my deeply conflicted mind.

  “I need you guys to sign a few papers with me. The lawyers are stopping by in the morning,” Cash continues, but I’m not really paying attention. “Quinn, are you available at nine?”

  Like I have anything else to do.

  I nod, but then my ears prick when I hear Tripp murmur, “It’s got nothing to do with her.”

  My brows knit together as I glare at the back of my brother’s head. “What’s got nothing to do with me?”

  “The ranch.” Tripp throws a scornful glance over his shoulder, and I assume the moment we shared earlier in our father’s bedroom where he literally cried on my shoulder for five minutes, is long forgotten.

  “It’s my home!” I guffaw because, quite frankly, he’s deluded if he thinks the ranch has nothing to do with me.

  “Your home!” He laughs a derisive laugh, shaking his head at me. “The place you left ten years ago? The place you never even bothered coming back to visit? The place where Cash and I have been working our asses off since the day you were still playing with your damn dolls?”

  I stare at him, blinking once.

  “The ranch ain’t none of your damn business, Quinny. You can get that thought right outta that pretty little head of yours.”

  I know he’s just upset. And I should let it go, let him think whatever it is he wants to think if it makes him feel any better. We can talk about it when he’s calm. But screw him. “The ranch is my business just as much as it’s yours and Cash’s!”

  “Like hell it is!” Tripp’s voice booms, reverberating through the silence of the cab. “Your name may be on the deed, but that’s all you got. You stay the hell out of this!” He turns back around, and, just like that, I’m supposed to accept that the conversation is over. He’s so much like our father, it’s uncanny.

  I catch Cash’s eyes in the mirror once again, and I can see a desperate pleading within his stare. He’s begging me to leave it. To let it go for now. But the thing is, I’m like my father, too. And I can’t let it go.

  “You really do think I’m only here for my inheritance, don’t you?” I scoot forward on the back seat, poking my head through the break in the front seats, and I’m so close I can see Tripp’s jaw tighten, despite his passive exterior. “You know, it might come as a surprise to you that I’ve actually done quite well for myself in New York. I’m one of the top-ten real-estate brokers in the whole city. I own a three-million-dollar apartment. I’ve got money. Hell, if it came down to it, I wouldn’t even need my inheritance.”

  Tripp scoffs with a dramatic roll of his eyes, still staring out through the windshield. “Fine, then sign your share over to me and Cash.”

  Cash chuckles lightly at that and I throw him a warning glance before zeroing back in on Tripp. “No, I won’t.” I shake my head. “I won’t do that, because as much as you care to disagree, this ranch is my home, too. And, whether you like it or not, I’m … I’m staying.”

  “You’re stayin’?” Cash suddenly pipes up, looking at me briefly, his brows climbing higher in surprise. And to be honest, I’m almost as surprised as he is at my declaration. “For how long?”

  Tripp shifts in his seat, turning to look at me, his eyes dark and narrowed, and I meet his hard stare with one of my own, shrugging one shoulder. “I haven’t decided yet …”

  “Why?” Tripp quirks a dubious brow, a malevolent smirk pulling at his lips, one void of anything but menace. “Are you looking to fool some other poor sucker into falling for you just so you can leave him at the altar, too?”

  My jaw drops of its own accord as a heavy silence thick with tension settles in the wake of his words.

  Cash clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in the driver’s seat, his grip on the steering wheel a little tighter.

  Tripp sniggers to himself, a look of satisfaction in his eyes as he turns to focus back out on the road ahead.

  I just sit there, gawping at him, in some kind of shock. I’d like to think he didn
’t just say that, that I was imagining it. But I’d just be fooling myself. Whoever said sticks and stones might break my bones but words will never hurt me is a damn liar. Tripp’s words are like weapons and he knows exactly how to inflict the worst possible pain on a person with the vitriol that spills out of his mouth.

  “Cash, stop the truck.”

  Tripp’s smirk morphs into a smug, cocky grin. He knows he’s beaten me. He knows he’s just cut me deep down with those words. And I hate that he can affect me so easily. But I remain impassive, my threatening gaze like daggers as I continue staring at his smug profile.

  “I’m not gonna stop the damn truck—we’re miles from the house,” Cash says with a bored tone.

  I glance furtively at the rifle secured into the rack above the passenger door, and I briefly consider pulling it down, and taking off the safety, to show him just how serious I am. But I don’t. “Cash, stop the damn truck or I swear to God …” My shrill voice echoes throughout the cab, but I trail off because I don’t want to admit out loud that I’m seriously about to stab my brother with my nail file moments after seeing our dead father.

  Cash quickly veers off the gravel road, pulling up to the side of the ditch that lines it. Before we even come to a complete stop, I have my door open, and I jump out, landing with an unsteady stumble. I’m quick to compose myself enough when my brothers turn to look at me through Cash’s open window.

  “You’re really gonna walk?” Cash asks, looking down at me with a quirked brow.

  “Just leave her ass,” Tripp mutters, that infuriating smirk still lingering on his lips.

  “Shut up, idiot,” Cash chastises his little brother.

  I flash Tripp my middle finger, turning my back as the truck pulls away, its tires skidding in the gravel, leaving a cloud of dust circling around me. I glance briefly over my shoulder, watching as they disappear around the tree-lined bend, and I release a heavy breath of frustration.

  I carefully skid down the ditch, climbing through the gap in the wire fence. Fighting my way through the waist-high grass, I continue through the field and far away from the makeshift road, heading down toward the river that runs through the middle of the ranch, the river that leads the way back to the main house. It might take me an hour or two, maybe even more, but I guess I could use the time to cool down or else I seriously might murder my twin brother.