Page 82 of The Lilac River

"You can," she insisted. "If I can tell my truth, you can tell yours."

I nodded, though the idea made my stomach churn.

It was almost three a.m., and I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

The house creaked softly in the night, the old water pipes knocking like a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. Grandma snored faintly down the hall. Somewhere outside, a coyote howled low and mournful, its cry curling in through the window like an omen.

Did I tell Nash? Did we risk the Mayor’s wrath? Did I let Mom tell the Silver Peaks News her darkest secret? What if we lost everything?

But in the quiet, dark hours of the night, only one truth remained steady:

Every road in my heart led straight back to Nash.

And maybe it was finally time to stop running.

Maybe...it was time to fight.

Chapter 31

Torn – Natalie Imbruglia

Nash

The day was muggy and stifling, and everyone was suffering. The summer storm we’d been promised hadn’t arrived yet, but the sky hung heavy with it, thick and oppressive. Even the air felt too tired to move, like the whole world had been wrapped in wet wool.

According to the forecast, it was still on its way and honestly, we were all looking forward to it. Sure, storms could create a whole host of problems for the ranch, but at least it would break this damned heat. Right now, it felt like the whole valley was holding its breath, waiting for the clouds to split open and offer some kind of relief.

Adding to my day from hell was the fact that Bertie’s class would be arriving at the lavender farm any minute. I’d hoped to get myself miles away so I wouldn’t have to see Lily, but I'd been stuck inside, tangled up on a long call with the Water Authority.

The news hadn’t been good. The water was contaminated. They were now testing both the Jenkins' and Taylors’ water tosee how far upstream the pollution had spread. If it reached both neighboring ranches, it was going to be catastrophic, not just for us, but for the whole valley. And if the source couldn’t be found soon, the damage wouldn’t just be environmental, it would be personal.

The best we could hope for was that the dams we installed had been quick enough... and that we found the bastard responsible. That hope felt thinner than the air outside.

I’d told them what I thought the chemical was, but after that, all we could do was wait. And waiting when lives, livestock, land, maybe even legacies were on the line? That was its own kind of torture.

"You okay?" Wilder asked, sliding a mug of coffee onto my desk. He looked like he'd already been sweating through fence work for hours. "I heard you pacing around half the night," he added, perching on the edge of the ridiculous, green-leather-topped desk my dad had insisted on. The damn thing still smelled faintly like tobacco and ambition.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" I grunted. Which was half apology, half deflection.

"Nah. I couldn’t sleep either. Been trying to remember where I’ve seen that pesticide name before, but it’s just not coming to me." He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. It meant something to him, too, this land, this fight. We didn’t always say it, but it was there in every early morning and late-night worry.

"That’s what’s been keeping me away, too," I said, only half-lying. A certain blonde had also been haunting my damn dreams. I didn’t say her name. Didn’t need to.

"I just want to find the son of a bitch who dumped that crap. Preferably so I can dump it somewhere real uncomfortable for them." The anger wasn’t surface-level, it had roots, deep ones.

Wilder chuckled, running a thumbnail along the gold embossed pattern on the desk. "Any ideas who it might be?"

"Brad Jenkins hires some questionable hands. The Dupree brothers, mainly." I didn’t want it to be them, but if it was, I’d sleep fine knowing they were dealt with.

"Yeah, they’re trouble," Wilder agreed. "But poisoning cattle? Seems reckless even for them."

Reckless, yeah. But not impossible.

"Someone did it," I muttered, staring out the window at the shimmering paddocks. The horses were barely moving, just shifting in the heat, their tails swiping in slow, annoyed arcs.

"Have you talked to Brad or Calvin yet?"

I blew out a breath, recalling the heated phone call with Brad Jenkins. "Brad wants compensation. Calvin’s more reasonable. He knows it wasn’t our fault." Not that Brad had ever needed an excuse to be a jackass.