Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
If she sits out here much longer, her skin will burn.
“My legs aren’t broken, Jake.” She turns her head toward me and kisses my cheek. “I miss Ketchup.”
Her black mare. She was twelve when we got our own horses. I let her name mine Barnabe and thought it was the worst name ever until she announced, “I’ll call mine Ketchup, because I’ll always be in the lead, shouting, Catch up!”
“What did the doctor say about riding?” I ask.
“I’m on restriction for four weeks.” Her sigh brushes my cheek, and she leans back against my chest. “I’ll bring her some apples today and hang out with her in the stable.”
“She’ll like that.”
Outside her bond with Ketchup, Conor doesn’t have female friendships. Maybe because she grew up with three boys. Or maybe because she didn’t have the softer influence of a mother in her life.
I’ve never seen paint on her nails or cakey goop on her face like the girls wear at school. Her wild mane of red hair doesn’t come from a box or a salon. It’s all hers, and when it’s caught in the wind, she looks like a mystical goddess.
It’s so easy to be besotted with her. I don’t care if that makes me pussy-whipped. Let the haters burn with jealousy, because the hottest girl alive only has eyes for me.
“You’re beautiful.” I ghost a kiss against her neck.
“Me?”
“You.”
The screen door opens behind us. Footsteps creak the wood decking, and the door slams shut.
“Jake.” My dad’s irritated tone stiffens my shoulders. “Come here.”
I twist my neck to glare at him. “What?”
He stalks forward, dressed in a black suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, white Stetson on his head, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. No tie. I’m not sure he owns one.
His deep-wrinkled scowl fits the occasion. Wyatt Longley’s funeral is today, and he’s the only one in our household brazen enough to attend.
His polished boots pause at the top stair, and he towers over us looking for all the world like a pissed-off oil baron. “Conor, go inside and put some clothes on.”
What the fuck? The shirt hangs past her knees and completely hides the shape of her body.
My hackles bristle, snapping my voice. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“It’s okay.” She grabs the guitar and breakfast dishes. “I need to take a shower.”
She slinks by my dad, chin tucked and eyes lowered in a way that fuels my anger. She’s always been respectful toward him, but lately, he hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it.
When she steps inside and closes the door behind her, I stand, putting myself at his height.
He was an attractive man once. Maybe he still is, but the years have multiplied the lines on his face and sagged the disapproving scowl that’s become his permanent expression.
“What’s your problem?” I clench my hands at my sides.
“Watch your tone.” His voice shudders the air between us as he leans into it. “I told you to stay away from her. Especially now. Last thing she needs is you knocking her up.”
“Jesus, Dad.” My eyes bug. “She needs her friends. Her family. She needs all of us.”
“We’re here for her, but there’s going to be some changes around here. You kids are grown, and the house is getting cramped.”
My stomach hardens. “What do you mean?”
The house is eight-thousand square feet. The main kitchen and living space separates two massive wings—a Cassidy wing and a Holsten wing—totaling eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. It’s more space than six people know what to do with.
“What changes?” I ask.
“We’ll continue this later.” He glances at his watch. “I’m late.” Turning toward the door, he glances over his shoulder. “I need you in the field today. Your brother’s not keeping up with the chores.”
Pinching the brim of his hat, he tips it like he always does and disappears inside the house.
Why is he even going to the funeral? The murder’s all over the news, making Lorne out to be a stone-cold killer. Sandbank doesn’t get this kind of excitement and can’t accommodate the media circus that’s flooded in. Thankfully, no one’s tried to trespass on our property.
I head inside just as my dad steps out the front door. Making a beeline toward the Cassidy wing, I pass the formal dining room, sitting room, and gaming area. Reclaimed hardwood, dark leather, and chunky, roughly-finished furniture gives the spacious rooms a rustic, masculine feel.
Our dads built this house, but the ten-thousand acres belonged to Conor’s mom, Ava O’Conor. She was an only child and barely an adult when her parents died and left her the land. Her best friend, Julep, stayed at her side while she grieved, helped her manage the farm finances and turn it into the cattle operation it is today.
In return, Conor’s mom gave Julep half of the business shares and named the ranch after her.