Because all I hear are Jack’s criticisms and all I see is that taunting smirk on his handsome face. I bet he can’t wait to run back to Ginger’s Bar to tell everyone how much I’m failing or how I don’t even know how to store my feed correctly.

  My temper rages like a damn inferno within me. My insecurity about if I’m doing this right and my stress over always having bill collectors at my throat probably aren’t helping, but Jack’s criticism on something so damn simple sets me off. Gritting my teeth, I pass closed door after closed door—memories I’m not sure I want to remember or erase contained behind the slabs of wood—as I walk down the hall, push out the back door, and head toward the stable. I only have one goal, which is to prove him wrong.

  I’m out of breath when I reach it. The bales of hay are stacked neatly inside, the bags of feed dry but lying haphazardly on the floor beside them. The color-coded buckets for grain and supplements are on the floor where I threw them when I saw the text from him saying he was on his way.

  “Screw you, Jack Sutton,” I mutter as I grab the first fifty-pound bag of feed and drag it to its proper location.

  One bag after another, I do my best to stack and arrange them despite their weight and my small stature.

  There is no satisfaction in the work, no release from the pain still burning bright inside me, and no reprieve from the chaos that the upending of my world started well over a year ago.

  I do the tedious task.

  The work I never thought in a million years I’d have to carry out is my only focus.

  It’s either I do it or I lose the only thing I have left—this place. I gave up everything else already.

  I hate you, Fletcher.

  The refrain fills my mind as I force myself to ignore the sadness that comes with it. The life I thought we had versus the life we really lived. The all-encompassing truth that follows right behind it, which is that I walked into our marriage knowing what I was walking away from without ever imagining that some five-plus years later I’d be standing alone.

  Shoving away the first tear that slips down my cheek, I pretend like hell that the hole in my chest isn’t real when I swear it is. It’s been there ever since Sheriff Chatsworth rang my doorbell and said the words that will forever be etched in my mind.

  “There’s been an accident, Tate.”

  The shattering of my heart was different then, though. I was mourning the loss of my husband and best friend. Little did I know how my feelings for him would change when the truth came out. Little did I know how my world would be forever different.

  I hang my head down to try to catch my breath, shove away the anger, and I remind myself that I won’t give up, that I won’t lie down without a fight, not even when it feels like that’s all I’ve been doing for the past year. Fighting. Willing. Surviving.

  Because maybe Jack Sutton was right.

  I need help. This place needs help—more than I can give it all by myself. If I plan to keep it, I don’t have any other choice than to get some. That means I’ll have to continue to ignore the gossip in town and how the Destin twins and Jed from the feed store seem to thrive on spreading it.

  None of them know just how long it has taken me to slowly climb out of the hole Fletcher dug us into. They have no clue that it’s taken me countless hours of sweat and tears, of questioning and blaming myself, to get the ranch and its finances to where they are . . . or that it’s still nowhere near enough.

  I’m still on the verge of losing everything.

  I’m not sure that I’ll ever get back above water, but I’ll never give up.

  The part of me that walked away from her family for a man she was desperately in love with needs to prove that it wasn’t all for nothing. That I can take the dream my husband failed to attain and make it not only my own but also successful.

  That I can show the citizens of Lone Star I’m not who they say I am.

  That I can prove that I’m more than just a trophy wife.

  Another small part of me yearns for the ignorance and oblivion in which I used to live, and I shake the thought away by hefting another bag of feed that’s almost half my body weight.

  It’s hard to live in a place where there are so many things that remind me of him—his footprints in the concrete we poured outside of the stables, the fence rail that is still broken from where the horse spooked and he fell through it, our last name carved in the rail on the porch, the bed I sleep in—and not get bogged down with them all.

  Not to hate as fiercely as I thought I loved.

  Not to question my judgment when before I trusted blindly.

  I use the back of my hand to try to shove the tears off my face, but I know that, even with dry cheeks, I’ll still feel the defeat that is seated deeply in my bones.

  A horse neighs out in the paddock, and the sound forces me to move because standing here sure as hell isn’t going to fix a damn thing.

  “No rest for the weary,” I murmur as I pick up the pails and head over to the washbasin.

  Channeling all of my frustration into scrubbing the stubborn residue and grime off the buckets, I tell myself not to think of him.

  The problem is that I’m not sure which him I’m referring to: Fletcher, who brought me to Lone Star and lived a lie with me, or Jack, who thinks he can just show up and tell me what to do and how to run this place.

  “Christ, Tate. You are losing your mind,” I say with a laugh because I know Jack said none of that.

  None at all.

  And yet, that’s what I heard in every single nuance of his tone, in just that lone lift of his eyebrow.

  Jack wins, and my thoughts, the brunt of my temper, and the obstinance that goes hand in hand with my pride turn their focus to him.

  Screw you, Jack Sutton.

  I can do this by myself.

  I have been.

  So, I scrub until my arms ache and my hands hurt, and when I’m done, I feel no better for the time put in. Hell, the damn horses aren’t going to care if there’s a stubborn speck of mud on the inside of their pail. They aren’t going to care if the water I add to bind the supplements to their feed is lukewarm or cold.

  They aren’t going to care about any of it.

  And that’s when it hits me. How could Jack have seen any of this when it’s all inside the stable? How could he pass judgment on how my feed is stored when he never ventured this way in the first place?

  I watched his every step from the moment he stepped out of his truck.

  All six foot plus of him with that dirty-blond hair that curled at the back of his neck and the swagger he walked with. My eyes were on him until he strode up to my porch and set those chocolate-brown eyes on me.

  And I thought I was in control of this situation right up until he played me like a damn fiddle.

  “The feed isn’t stored properly, my ass,” I mutter.

  I was firing him, and he was arguing with me, and hell if he didn’t work me up so much that I fell for his bullshit accusation.

  Hell, he’s probably sitting in Ginger’s right now, telling them all how he put me in my place and I didn’t even know it. They’re probably laughing at how I’m running around the ranch like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to fix all the things he mentioned so that no one knows.

  Screw you, Jack Sutton.

  I hang my head and laugh with only the horses to hear. I laugh until tears fill my eyes and my stomach hurts because isn’t this par for the course? Isn’t this how I’ve felt since Fletcher died? Like I have everything under control when someone else is there to remind me that I don’t?

  If I didn’t think I’d gone crazy before, now I certainly do. Laughing and crying and hating and regretting.

  I shake my head. Well played, Jack. Even though I hate him, I still have to admire him for having the last word.

  3

  TATE

  “It’s time to sell her.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes at the sound of my accountant’s voice on the phone at my ear.

  The day is hot, and my quick respite inside doesn’t offer much reprieve from it.

  “Have we come to that?” I whisper, already knowing the answer.

  “I’m sorry, Tate. I’ve held off calling you for as long as I could, but yes, it’s come to that.”

  “Fuck.” The word is more for me than for her, but I say it anyway.

  “Pretty much,” she agrees. “I’ve been making calls left and right, trying to have the mortgage company get you another extension, but you’ve already had one and so they’re not too keen on it even after that last chunk you paid.”

  “That last chunk came from the sale of a yearling. I won’t have any new foals for a few months.” I withhold the groan because there’s nothing I can do.

  “The plus side is that, even if they technically start the foreclosure process, you have about six months to figure out what’s next.”

  I hear her but shake my head as I walk down the hallway, my feet needing to move. “There is no what’s next for me. You know I put all my eggs in one basket.” But my gorgeous Ruby flickers in my mind. She’s my derby horse, which really has no business being here on my quarter horse farm, but I love her with all my heart.

  “How’d that new guy turn out? Maybe he can help you turn the place around.”

  A nervous chuckle falls from my lips. “Don’t ask.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Does it matter? I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.” I bite the inside of my lip, and I’m more than grateful that she remains silent so I can work through everything in my head. “I need him to help me here so that I can ensure a successful breeding season, but I can’t afford to pay him a salary.”

  “You have to spend money to make money,” she murmurs.

  “This coming from an accountant who’s calling to tell me I need to sell my derby horse or risk losing my ranch because I can’t pay my mortgage.” I’ll lose my house. The only things I have left to my name. “That’s rich.”

  “You could always swallow your pride and . . .”

  “And what?” I ask. “Sell off the equipment I need but that isn’t a necessity? Done that. Pawn my jewelry? Did that months ago. You already know this. I just—”

  “I know. I admire you and your damn stubbornness more than you could ever know.” The line falls quiet, and I hate that I steel myself for what I know is coming next. “I meant you could call them. You’re their daughter. Words said in the heat of the moment are never truly meant.”

  Emotions clog in my throat as I think of the one time I did call. How the phone was hung up on me. How I was reminded, without so much as a word being spoken, of how I made a choice . . . and it wasn’t them. Of the disgrace I brought to the Valor name by running off and marrying the country club’s hired help.

  “Not an option.” My voice is resolute even if my feelings aren’t.

  “Okay. Then since Ruby’s your biggest asset besides your physical property, which you’ve told me you won’t sell off, then you have to consider selling her. It will give you enough money to get by until the new foals are ready to be sold.”

  “I can’t just put a for sale sign on her and parade her around town.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  I sigh deeply and lean my head back against the wall behind me. “Because I don’t want them to know.”

  “Who to know? The town? Screw them, Tate. They haven’t once been concerned about you so why are you suddenly worried about what they think of you?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Thoughts collide and emotions whirl, and I feel stupid even giving them a voice. “The last thing they need is something else to gossip about. Between the increased prices I’m charged on supplies and bogus complaints lodged with the sheriff’s office and ASPCA about my treatment of the horses, they have enough. All I can think is that the Destin twins are either trying to push me off this land with their bullying or they’re trying to devalue everything I have with rumors so that when prospective buyers come to town, all they hear is great stuff about Hickman Ranch and shitty stuff about mine.” I shift my feet and shake my head. “That’s why I don’t trust anyone to know what’s going on.”

  “Wouldn’t it just be better to cut your losses and leave, Tate? Sell it to the damn Destin assholes and get the fuck out of that town that sounds like misery inside a sinkhole?”

  “Misery inside a sinkhole?” I laugh the words out and appreciate her humor.

  “Well, not the actual place, per se, more the shitheads in town.”

  “Would it be the easiest thing? Sure, but . . . this is all I have left. There are no savings. There is nothing. And deep down, a part of me wants to make it work so I can give the ultimate fuck you to Fletcher for what he did to me.”

  “He’s dead, honey. He’ll never know.” Her chuckle is soft.

  “But I’ll know.” My voice is soft, and my eyes burn with tears. “I let him manipulate me for years, Sheryl. I let him take everything I have, including my money, my trust, and my sense of self. I need to get that back. If by making this place succeed, I’m able to find a bit of the old me again, then it’s worth all of this.” I look to my left as Ruby neighs out in the pasture. “Besides, it isn’t as if I have anywhere else to go. If I sell this place, every penny I’d make on it would go right to the bank. Then what? I’m homeless and broke? If I stay, then at least I have a roof over my head a little longer and something to actually try to make this work.”

  “Tate.” My name is a warning at best.

  “I know, I know. It hasn’t worked this far . . . but it’s been better than it was. It’s taken me almost a year, but I finally dug out of all the holes he put me in other than the mortgage and home equity line. That’s my last hurdle to jump before I can be out of the proverbial red.”

  “Selling Ruby will help with that.” Her voice is quiet, and her words settle like a lead weight in my stomach. I wish I could shut out every single one of them, but know I can’t.

  This is my reality.

  This is my robbing Peter to pay Paul.

  This is what Fletcher has reduced me to.

  “Fine. Yes. I know,” I utter. “I have to go.”

  And when I set the phone on the bathroom counter, I sink down onto the closed toilet seat and shut my eyes.

  Ruby. There is so much history with her. She is what helped to pull me out of my darkest depths I sank to after I found out what Fletcher had done. She has been my only friend here in Lone Star for so long, and now I feel like I’m betraying her by even talking about selling her.

  I stand, and when I pass by the mirror, I force myself to look at it. To look at myself.

  “How much longer are you going to do this, Tee?” I ask. How much longer can I hold on? Do I even want to?

  I don’t allow myself to look away from my reflection, from the doubt and exhaustion in my eyes. Or to deny the grit and determination that lingers at their edges.

  “One year. Give it one more year.”

  I’m not sure why tears well in my eyes. Maybe it’s because I’m so damn exhausted that I can’t figure out how I’m going to do this alone for another year. Or maybe it’s because I need to. The drive in me to prove that I didn’t give everything up—my family, my passion, years of my life—only to end up with an empty bank account, bad credit, and a guarded heart.

  Regardless, I mean it when I make the promise to myself. If my word is not good with myself, then who in the hell would it be good with?

  Gravel crunches on the road outside my window, and my shoulders sag when I see the cruiser kicking up dirt as it pulls down the road.

  “Fricking great,” I mutter, already knowing what he’s here for. I give myself one last look in the mirror, promise again to give myself one more year, and then head out to see if my assumption is correct.

  I already know it is.

  When I step off the porch, my lips are in a welcoming smile as Rusty Chatsworth exits his cruiser. He slides his hat on and makes the leisurely stroll up my driveway to where I stand, his eyes looking here and there as he goes.

  “Must be a slow day in town, Sheriff, if you came all the way out here to pay me a visit. Let me guess, the Marx brothers are out of town so they can’t cause trouble?”

  He chuckles, his soft smile lighting up his dark blue eyes beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

  “The Marx brothers are getting older now, Ms. Knox. One has a girlfriend and the other has joined the local 4H club and spends all of his time with his swine.” He tips his hat my way while I try to fathom how the two snot-nosed kids Fletcher said got caught swiping candy from the local market can be old enough to have girlfriends. “And yes, it is quite a slow day, but isn’t it always in Lone Star? It isn’t late enough for the drunks at Ginger’s to be falling out of their bar stools and it’s too early for the kids out joy riding to do just that . . . so yes, it’s a slow day, indeed.”

  Rusty sounds much older than his thirty-two years, but I guess that’s what comes from listening to your dad your whole life.

  “Your father doing well?” I ask.

  He nods. “As good as retirement can be expected. I think he misses the feeling of importance that wearing the badge gave him, but he’s managing just fine.”

  I had no idea that Rusty Sr. had retired, but the way his son says it, I should have. I smile to cover my surprise. “Does that mean he’s driving you crazy and constantly asking about the town happenings?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rusty moves across the driveway, his eyes taking a curious glance around the ranch, and I wonder what it is he sees. Does he still see Fletcher Knox’s ranch or does he see Tatum Knox’s attempt to keep it afloat?

  And I’m not quite sure why I care but Jack Sutton’s words from the day before hit a nerve that I want settled.

  “What can I do for you, Rusty?”

  He hooks his thumbs in his utility belt and shifts his feet some before meeting my eyes. “Another complaint has come in on the ranch.”

  “Christ. For what this time?” I ask with a part chuckle, part sigh of exasperation. “How can there be any complaints about my care when there isn’t a single person who’s been up here to see otherwise?”