Saving the Rain

Book 4: Crimson Ridge

by Elliott Rose

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Western Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Forbidden love heats up in this spicy, age-gap, stepbrother rodeo cowboy romance from internationally bestselling author Elliott Rose.

All it takes is eight seconds for your world to come crashing to a halt. What happens when you’re injured, stuck with the one man who makes your blood heat in a way you’ve never experienced before?

I’ve been on a path to redemption. Kayce Wilder, former screw-up. The bareback bronc rider with big dreams. I had it all figured out.

Only, I didn’t count on a ride gone wrong to leave me with no other option than to ask for his help. Zeke Rainer. Raine. The gruff cowboy covered in tattoos, surrounded by mysteries.

We’ve been at odds forever. Rivals in the arena. Two rodeo riders in pursuit of the same buckle . . . before he left me behind, without warning.

My stepbrother.

When urgent help is needed to run the ranch, he’s the last person I want to be relying on for a favor. As the fall nights lengthen, tension and angst thicken the more time we spend alone together.

I shouldn’t be noticing so many small details—especially not how strong his hands look while working with the horses—and I certainly shouldn’t be wondering if he thinks about me as much as I think about him.

I’ve never been attracted to a man before. It would be unthinkable to be drawn to him. Wouldn’t it?

Release date: August 26, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 460

Sample

“Goddamn. That ass was sculpted to wear a pair of wranglers.”

Tipping my gaze up, I’m met with the sight of uninhibited, glinting green mischief radiating from the eyes of the cowboy sitting opposite me. One of my closest friends who loves nothing better than to live up to his name—Chaos Hayes.

He blows out a low whistle then jerks his chin toward a group of other ranch hands, cowboys, and cowgirls hanging out across the other side of tonight’s bonfire. Orange flames dance high into the crisp evening sky, keeping time with the music running low and relaxing through the stereo set up on the porch at our backs.

“Who are you perving at, so I can at least get a chance to warn them,” Brad groans as he nears our table. “I really needed to add a warning when I put out the invite. Should’ve told everyone to bring a squirt bottle, knowing you’d be extra frisky after a win like that.” As always, our host for tonight’s post-rodeo BBQ at Rhodes Ranch is taking stellar care of us all, in the form of a mounded pile of food fresh off the grill delivered right to the table.

“Fuck yes. Thanks, babe.” His boyfriend, Flinn, who is built like a linebacker but kinda looks like a nerd with his glasses, pounces on the food. “It’s that new dude. Pretty sure he’s just arrived and is working one of the local ranches. He’s gonna eat up every guy and girl in this place.” Reaching forward to help himself, he waves one hand, gesturing vaguely in the direction of whoever it is they’re all drooling over.

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “Trust you, Chaos. Eyeing up the fresh meat before you’ve even been back in Crimson Ridge for five minutes.” We rolled through the main street of this sleepy little place we call home among the mountains at stupid o’clock this morning. After driving what felt like a thousand hours to get back from the latest stop on the rodeo circuit, my eyes were scratchy as fuck and damn near falling out of my head for those final miles.

All I’ve done since getting home is shower, pass out face down, then roll out my screaming muscles when I finally woke up this afternoon. My last ride was a bastard of a bronc who put me through my paces, thrashing me hard, but the horse scored highly because of it. I walked away with a good enough total to place second overall. Chaos took out the top spot in our bareback division. The smug fuck is still riding the high of his win.

As he should be.

I’m damn proud of him, but even still, it’s always the goal to come first. No matter how graciously defeat might be accepted, the motivation to win a buckle pumps hot through your veins as a rough stock rider. If only I’d scored a few points higher. All that time driving gave me plenty of opportunity to stew on the tiny details of my ride—my form, the way the horse bucked—anything which might have made all the difference.

Lucky me. Take out second place, and I get to come home to a cold bed and a spine that feels like it’s been greeted with a sledgehammer.

Oh, the glamor of pro rodeo behind the scenes.

Brad elbows my ribs, getting me to shuffle sideways and make more room at the outdoor table we’re seated around. He huffs at Chaos, before wedging himself onto the bench seat at my side. “Didn’t your dick get enough attention after that win, superstar? Christ. Who are you eyefucking now?”

Chaos flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. Giving off wave after wave of irredeemable asshole energy that acts as both a pussy and cock magnet wherever he goes. “What can I say? Us Hayes’ have healthy appetites to keep satisfied.” He chomps a large bite of steak, before swiping at the sauce running down his chin with a thumb.

Flinn waves his half-eaten burger in the direction of the fire, but all I can see are the climbing flames and shadowy outlines of individuals from where I’m sitting. “Over there in the red flannel. He’s got that look about him. You know, the one that says he’s bad for your health, and your heart.”

As they keep talking about whoever this guy is, that uncomfortable sensation keeps creeping up on me. The one slinking into my awareness far too easily. Weaving around all my organs, it settles somewhere deep inside my stomach. An almost weightless sensation. An awkward feeling as if I’m quietly unspooling. The unsettling knowledge that I’m hiding a massive fucking secret from my closest friends.

I’ve hidden away the kind of revelation about myself that leaves me feeling as fluttery and nervous as a naive schoolgirl about to go to her first prom. Not at all like I’m in my late twenties, compete on a pro rodeo circuit, and have had more sexual encounters than I can count.

It’s when they’re talking about this—about hot guys—that I turn into a flushed-cheeked, tongue-tied disaster that I gotta do my best to hide.

My friends don’t know what I did one night, when I was here for New Year’s Eve, while hidden away in the garage. I never told them, not because any of them would treat me any differently . . . I guess, mainly because I don’t understand my goddamn self anymore after that urge hit me outta the blue.

Turns out, getting myself sober in recent years lifted the haze on more things than just pulling my shit together and dragging my ass back in the arena in search of sponsors prepared to back my rodeo career.

“Anyone want another drink?” My knee bounces, and even though I was hungry earlier, now I’m not even interested in finishing my food. Any excuse to walk off this uneasy feeling will do at this stage. “I’m grabbing a soda. Who else wants something?”

“I’ll take one.” Brad looks my way, then squints thoughtfully. “Pretty sure we’re all out of what I had stocked in the kitchen. Everything is in the cooler over there.”

Great. I follow his line of sight, my eyes tracking in the direction of this mysterious hot guy. Of course, that’s where the drinks are.

“Go chat to what’s-her-name while you’re there, Wilder,” Chaos says through a mouth full of food while giving me a wink. “Pretty sure she was hanging on your every word and move this week.”

I know exactly who he’s talking about. Jessie is one of the barrel racers who trains with us at Rhodes Ranch. She’s cute and sweet, and at one point in time, I for sure would have flashed a smile her way in return. But now? I’m just all sorts of fucking flipped inside out.

Well, one thing I do know for certain is that I’m not worth anyone’s time. They might think they’re interested in Kayce Wilder, the cowboy package who looks the part to the rest of the world on the outside. Only, once they see the damage beneath the surface, they run a mile.

“C’mon man, you’ve gotta get back in the saddle. It’s been ages since that disaster with the crazy pregnant bimbo. You can’t let that overshadow your life.”

There’s nothing more to be done other than give Chaos my middle finger and let him think I’m taking him up on that challenge. Because, on one hand, he’s right, but on the other, he’s way off base with what he thinks he knows about me.

Hell, I don’t even know about me.

“Game on, fuck face.” I click my tongue at him.

If I don’t at least pretend to be interested and go over there, talk to her for a few minutes . . . well, that potentially raises too many questions. The kind I have no interest in digging into right now.

If I stroll across to where Jessie’s hanging out and put up with a bit of small talk, even if it’s with the intention of taking it nowhere, at least it’s an easy route to keeping everyone’s noses out of my business.

I’ve spent years running from my own demons, and while it used to be much more convenient to do so while shitfaced, this is just one more night among hundreds of nights when I slap on a mask and be the good-time guy. Only problem is, doing it sober takes a hell of a lot more effort. It’s exhausting being a former fuck up who’s trying to sort his life out.

One day, and one conversation, at a time, I guess.

As I cross to the other side of the fire, weaving my way through the small crowd who have turned up for tonight’s gathering, I nod at the familiar faces and say brief hellos as I go past. It’s mostly ranchers, rodeo folks, and locals who have horses stabled here.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I cast a quick glance at Jessie, taking in the sight of her from the side. I’m trying to figure out why I’ve never felt more attracted to her when she’s literally a cowgirl-doll. Blonde hair. Petite. Cute style. Half the guys in Crimson Ridge have tried to get her number, I’m sure.

What I do realize, all a little too late, is that the group she had been surrounded by before seem to have all disappeared in the time it’s taken me to circle the bonfire. Now that I’m a few paces away, I see there’s only one guy standing to her side, covered in deeper shadow. Jessie has her head tilted back, smiling up at the spot where he towers over her, and as I get closer, my eyes are drawn to him more so than her.

I mean, I’m curious who she’s so avidly talking to. I’m intrigued after hearing what was being said about this guy in a moth-drawn-to-flame-about-to-burn-its-wings-off kind of way.

Swallowing heavily, my eyes race about, trying to capture a quick glimpse without making it seem as though I’m outright staring. That would be hella fucking weird. To make matters worse, I’m about two seconds from crashing their intimate little moment for two, surrounded by a cloak of dark and orange firelight licking their skin. Jesus, this is already feeling like a goddamn disaster, and I’m cursing myself silently. Not only for leaping up to avoid my own bullshit, but also for snapping at Chaos’ bait to come over here.

At a stolen glance I suppose, objectively, the guy isn’t bad-looking. The lower half of his face is all I catch before my eyes slide lower. Scruffy, worn black jeans, faded along the thighs. Tattoos. Rust red check pattern shirt rolled at the elbows.

His palm is wrapped around a beer bottle, which reveals a map of veins on the back of his hand. They stand out, prominently highlighted by the warm glow of the fire. An inked design of a rose covers the skin there, and my breath catches as I take him in. His hands have got me stumbling, and I don’t know what to do with the sensation. I’ve never even thought twice about what another man’s hands look like. Let alone . . . appreciated the sight of them.

What the fuck? I’m feeling all sorts of prickly and clammy beneath my hoodie. Heat crawls up my neck and makes itself at home on my cheeks.

How can it be that I kiss one guy, one time, in a reckless fucking moment on New Year—which was months ago—and now I’m a jangled-up mess at the first sight of some random cowboy arriving in town?

My legs seem to keep moving of their own accord until I’m close enough now to hear them talking. Jessie lets out a breathy, flirtatious laugh before the guy speaks again, and I continue on my path, where I’m about to fumble headlong into disrupting their private fucking conversation. There’s a magnetic pull on my body that I can’t fight, drawing me closer and closer to encroach on the space where they stand.

“. . . I might not enjoy a crowd, but I know a lot about pleasing an audience.” From the other side of her, the way his focus drags down her body is unmistakable.

“Do you now?” With drink in hand, she holds a straw to her lips and takes a slow sip. Followed by a playful tilt of her head.

I don’t hear what he says in reply—with just a low rumble catching on the night air—but my heart is goddamn pounding for no good reason.

Another laugh comes from Jessie as she turns, all glossy lips and batting lashes, before her dark eyes flick my way. My presence registers, and an unreadable expression slides across her face for the briefest moment.

“Oh, hey, Kayce.” As she takes me in, eyes widening slightly, she smiles. The kind of look that tells me she’s more than pleased to show off the attention given by someone else since I haven’t been reciprocating any of her hints.

And while I’m figuring out what to even say now that I’m standing here, she ducks her head while reaching up to hook a strand of hair behind her ear. That's the second I get my first proper sighting of the profile of the man at her side—at the same moment he lifts his chin to look toward the bonfire.

I stop dead.

My pulse spasms, heart jumping straight into the back of my throat, before my stomach plunges in the opposite direction and hits my boots.

“What—What the hell?” I croak.

Jessie’s brow pinches together. She looks between me and the man at her shoulder, who I’m struggling to wrap my goddamn mind around seeing in the flesh after all this time.

“Do you guys know each other?” she asks. Hesitation evident in her expression.

“What the hell are you doing in Crimson Ridge?” I straight up ignore the girl between us. Jaw locked up tight, ice seeping into my veins.

His dark gaze meets mine and lingers for a drawn-out, weighted pause before speaking. “Got a job. I work here.” The words prowl forward, languid, and gritty. No greeting. No acknowledgement. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from this asshole.

With an indifferent shrug, his attention tracks up and down my frame. He always was so fucking infuriating with that cold, callous attitude he carries around.

“No. No, you don’t. This isn’t happening.” My teeth grind. “I thought we agreed to stay outta each other’s way.”

“Gladly. Last I checked, this town ain’t yours, snowflake.” Lifting his beer, that motion reveals the slight glimpse of prime intolerable asshole settled on the corner of his lips before he takes a swig from the bottle.

“You can’t be serious.” No. There’s no way this is real.

Another lift of his broad shoulder. “Dunno what you expect me to say. I’m working on one of the local ranches. So, run on back to your buddies.”

I take a step toward him, bristling.

“You’re not coming out here and entering events . . . you’re . . . you’re too old.” A protest splutters out of me. My stomach forms a churning mess, thrashing around to the point of seasickness.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” He chuckles. “And you know I would still win, too.”

Fuck him. Fuck every single goddamn twist of fate that has brought him back into my life.

“This is bullshit. You could literally go anywhere else. Go base yourself on any other ranch.” My throat struggles to work down a swallow.

“I could, but this little neck of the woods seems kind of sweet.” His gaze slides down to Jessie, while giving her a wink. “I’ll bet I can have Crimson Ridge eating out of the palm of my hand. All it’ll take is a couple of wins, and that’ll be enough.”

“Fuck you. Cut the crap.”

“Besides, you’re almost aged out yourself. Twenty-nine, aren’t you?”

My throat works. “I’m twenty-eight. You know that, dick.”

“Mmm. So basically washed up.” One of his tattooed hands rakes through his mess of dark curls.

“Screw you.”

“Gonna melt if you stay too close to that fire, snowflake. I’d be careful where you stand.” His eyes flicker over me once again, leaving my mouth filled with chalk. “And no, I’m not here to fool around with rodeo. I’m here for a job, but we both know I could still school your ass anytime I like, without even trying.”

He leans down to say something in Jessie’s ear, then guides her away by the elbow. She offers me an apologetic shrug, before the two of them head off in the direction of the grill, leaving me standing, staring out into the darkness of a fall evening. The kind of night that should be brimming with laughter and celebrating hitting the highs of placing in a competition event.

Instead, I’m numb from head to toe, trying to wrap my brain around what just happened. The gut punch of my past coming back to haunt me in the most unexpected of ways.

The last person I expected to see again.

My goddamn stepbrother.

I scrub a hand over my mouth while mid-yawn. A gallon of coffee and extra heaping of sugar have yet to fully kick in. Through bleary eyes, I scroll the messages in my Instagram inbox. Beyond the windows, it’s the kind of morning where mist shrouds the ranch in a thick, morose cloak. Everything is painted in shades of bruised gray, and my mood suits the color palette up here.

Even Devil’s Peak, which normally stands guard watching over the ranch, has decided today ain’t worth her while to put in an appearance.

Chaos

You slunk off like a little bitch last night, Wilder.

Irish goodbyes aren’t usually your style.

I’ll see your ugly ass at Beau’s tomorrow, yeah?

Gotta get my beauty sleep if I’m gonna beat you next stop on the tour.

But yeah, I’ll be there. Should be down early-ish. I’ll sort the horses and the cattle out first thing.

Leaving my phone on the kitchen counter to charge, I head out to make a start on the day. Literally no point carrying the damn thing around up here, since our only means of communication is via radio. Modern technology? Yeah, that’s pretty much a running joke on this mountain. Good luck getting the internet to work anywhere beyond about three hotspots inside the house.

There’s no pause for idle scrolling or wasting time on social media around here. Mornings start early as shit, and the animals don’t appreciate their routine being fucked with. If there’s one thing that a ranch demands, it’s every ounce of your attention. Mother Nature never lets up, and the worst mistake you can make in a place like this is to assume you’ve got plenty of time in the day.

Fall basically translates to getting all your crap prepared for winter. That bitch is ruthless around these parts.

Shoving into my boots, I stifle another yawn while getting ready to face leaving the comfort of warmth inside the house. My first stop is the barn, seeing to the horses; then, I’ll head down to the further parts of the ranch to check our herd of cattle. As I crunch my way across the gravel yard outside, plumes of white billow in front of me like dragon’s breath. I’m fiddling with my brim and shrugging to pull my hoodie up over my entire cap against the chill.

Last night was . . . I don’t even know what to make of it.

What I do know is that I slept fuck all, even though I’m dog-tired and still trying to recover after that last event.

Zeke Rainer. Raine. The colossal asshole I thought I’d long put behind me.

A face I honestly didn’t think I’d see again . . . until he loomed out of the shadows beside the bonfire.

Jesus. I scratch at my day-old stubble, long strides carrying me into the barn in a half-asleep sort of haze. Hay and leather and the muskiness of the horses’ scents all drift to fill my awareness. Their snorts tell me in no uncertain terms to hurry the hell up. I’d put money on the fact they’re already impatiently waiting for breakfast. At least by spending the day running through the motions and generally being able to disappear into my own thoughts, I can attempt to sort through the whirlwind of memories long shoved down. Seeing my stepbrother for the first time in so many years has dredged up shit I’d rather forget from someplace mighty deep.

Mom married his father when I was twelve years old. After bouncing between a revolving door of shitty boyfriends, it seemed like a good thing at first. Weddings and marriages and seeing your mom settle down equate to positives. Right? A permanent address. Staying in school and being able to maybe this time hang with the same group of friends until senior year. A roof over our heads, especially one that wasn’t going to disappear if she missed rent . . . seemed like living the dream.

Except, when she married Ezekiel Senior, his package deal included a son who took one look at my ass and sneered like I was something foul he’d stepped in.

Raine has hated me since that first day we locked eyes. When I was nothing more than a scrawny little kid sat perched on an unfamiliar couch, running clammy hands up and down my jeans. Practicing my best manners while being introduced to the guy who was set to become my stepfather.

Life in the here and now is a million miles from the home I grew up in. My biological father, Colton Wilder, had no idea of the life my mom was leading. He didn’t know about the pills. He didn’t know about her shitty choices. And I didn’t know him, either. For most of my life, I swore the guy was the worst piece of shit to ever exist.

The reality wasn’t pretty, but I’d been fed lies about him by one parent who was bitter toward the other. A woman who projected her own mess onto me whenever possible.

If you grow up only ever hearing one side of the story—that he wasn’t interested in being a father, or having anything to do with his unwanted kid—you form a pretty solid image of the heartless bastard who knocked up your mom as a teenager.

I spent twenty-five years cursing my father’s name, because that was all I knew.

Well, turns out not even a decade living under the roof with a stepfather who was supposed to fill a role, to provide that security and steadfastness I’d never had, proved he was just another crap decision. One more poorly thought-out plan made by my mother to add to the laundry list of terrible choices she’s intent on making in this life.

My girl Winnie pops her head over her stall to take a look at me when I walk through the doors to the barn, and I pause to give her a thorough scratch using both hands all around her long nose and ears.

“Did you miss me, girl?” I hum softly, placing a kiss on her forehead. She gives me a nudge with inquisitive, whiskery lips to tell me I’m running late with my attention and affection. The two things that make Winnie’s world go round, followed closely by offerings of carrots or apples.

Standing in this barn is a stark reminder of everything my dad has worked his ass off to achieve. And he did so almost entirely on his own, literally bleeding and giving everything he’s ever had for this ranch.

Could I be a jealous, petty dickhead about the fact that I didn’t get the chance to grow up here? Sure. Or I could recognize that no one is perfect, and I sure as hell now understand why my dad allowed my mom to take me what felt like a million miles away. She left this place when I was a baby, and never looked back.

What I’ve learned since moving here to Crimson Ridge is that the man who, for the duration of my youth I was certain was the scum of the earth, is, in fact, anything but.

Sure, Colt Wilder is a man who absolutely made mistakes, but he dealt with surviving a shitty upbringing and physical abuse the only way he knew how. My dad was barely a kid himself when I came along. He thought he did the right thing by me. Who knows what my life might have looked like if my mom hadn’t up and left Montana to go and settle in the Midwest, but I’ve gotta play the cards I’ve been dealt.

For too many years, that looked like getting wasted to avoid my shit.

For too many years, the easy option was to hide in any escape a bottle crudely provided.

For too many years, I coasted along, thinking that my rodeo career would suddenly take off because I had natural talent and the kind of smile that seemed to open doors for me.

Tumbling from the high-highs is one hell of a sucker punch when you plunge into the low-lows. The temptation to chase the rush that came with obliterating myself was all I lived for. I missed too many sponsor’s calls. Too many times, I made promises I didn’t keep. I fell off the tour with a brutal thud.

With a rueful whistle, I pat Winnie’s neck. “No one’s surprised I crash-landed on my ass in Crimson Ridge, huh?” My lips twist as she tries to crane further, attempting to ransack the front pocket of my hoodie. “Rocking up on my dad’s doorstep begging for a place to stay at twenty-five with a red-line bank account and a fuck-ton of terrible decisions following after me. What a joke.”

She snorts loudly. Probably agreeing. Mostly disgusted that I haven’t got a stash of treats like Layla usually has.

Fucking hell. It makes me feel nauseous to think of that first year when I came to settle at Devil’s Peak Ranch. By that stage, I’d already made a complete mess of my life and nearly got myself tangled up in even deeper shit.

I’m pregnant, Kayce. It’s yours.

Those five words sent me into a goddamn blackout spiral. The girl I’d been messing around with at the time blew her stupid pink bubble of gum, popped it with a loud smack, and showed me a crumpled ultrasound she’d shoved down her bra.

After that, I don’t think I was sober for months.

Jesus. My stomach knots. There are a lot of days when I try to avoid even thinking about it all. What kind of piss-head moron goes and fucks around without protection? Especially when I was drunk at every opportunity and ended up in bed with the worst kind of bad decisions. It was only thanks to my dad’s influence—his unwavering help—I was able to screw my head on straight, get sober, and most importantly, have a goddamn paternity test done.

A life-altering step that proved I wasn’t the father.

However . . . it still didn’t erase all the shit leading up to that moment. It didn’t go any way to changing the course I’d set myself on. I had to work doubly hard to even get back to competing in pro rodeo. Finding sponsors after you’ve already been ditched once? Yeah, I had to live on scraps and crumbs, busting my ass doing basically two full-time jobs on the side of training and traveling.

Blowing out a breath, I wander further, checking in on the horses before coming to a stop at Ollie’s stall. She’s super docile but will demand you stand there all day, giving her your undivided attention. Not that I mind. This is what I love more than anything. Being with the horses. Hanging out in these wide-open expanses where there’s nothing but mountains and pines and cattle. Of course, it’s soothing, and I’m blessed to be living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. But I need connection, too. Being around people gives me something; it’s one of the biggest differences between me and my dad.

Colton Wilder has happily lived in isolation on this mountain for decades. When I first came here, it felt like being shackled into a prison sentence. I only did it because I needed the money. Now, I know that time spent with the horses fills that void for me. Whereas I used to chase that vibrant glow and sense of being needed somehow with partying and day drinking—sinking to the bottom surrounded by a group of people who were all equally as fucked up—I’ve figured out that ranching gives me that intangible thing I’d been searching for.

So now? Life revolves around managing Devil’s Peak, taking care of the cattle, the horses, and running the property when my dad and Layla are away—like they are at present, off to Ireland for the fall and winter seasons. I’ll also help out at the other ranches down in Crimson Ridge when they need extra trail guides.

Getting paid to ride a horse, flash a smile, and talk shit? Too easy.

I’m grateful to have found some kind of peaceful ground with my dad. He might not have been there for my childhood, but I can tell how much that eats at him. Regret is so often thinly disguised in the creases around his eyes . . . lined between his brows during brief moments when I catch him looking my way. He’s a man of few words, but his actions make up for that. And the guy didn’t let me carry on with the self-destruct mode I’d been committed to pursuing.

Even if our first months of being in each other’s lives were anything but straightforward.

The first thought that crossed my mind when I found out my ex had hooked up with my father? Relief.

A bone-deep, lengthy, drawn-out exhale, knowing that Layla had found someone better than me. Because while my dad might be a self-professed grouchy asshole, I was nothing more than a cheater and an alcoholic. Kayce Wilder. Douchebag and endless screw-up.

I messed around behind Layla’s back. I used her. I made too many drunk decisions out of desperation. She didn’t deserve any of the hell I put her through.

At least my dad was there to gather up the tattered pieces after I’d torn everything apart and treated someone who has such a good, kind heart like absolute shit.

While it ain’t ideal for all of us to be living here, I’m away a lot with rodeo throughout the year, and the two of them are happiest when hermiting away from the world. They prefer to stay in a cabin my dad built up on one of the ridgelines if the weather allows. Then, at times like this, they’re gone traveling overseas anyway. Strangely, it works. As bizarre as our circumstances are, it provides a cathartic sort of glimmer of hope. Like I’m somehow making it up to a good woman, someone to whom I was no better than an immature, foolish idiot.

What none of that self-reflection does, however, is resolve the fact I’ve now got to face my past again.

A childhood I’ve long tried to shake off. A mom who was never really a parent. A prick who seemed to get off on making my life even shittier than it already was once our homes were combined in the most unwanted of ways.

In all the years we spent under the same roof, Raine made it his business to prove just how much he hated my guts. Naive, stupid me. In all my prepubescent idiocy, I thought Mom getting married might have been a bright spot—a ray of hope in