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Finally, Elena stopped crying. I watched as she composed herself, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her jacket, she stood steadily and walked toward the river, toward the falling water.
The river roared as it tumbled over the rugged rocks, a steady, shimmering cascade of silver. A delicate mist floated in the cooling air, catching the fading light and wrapping the scene in an ethereal glow as if time itself had stilled.
She knelt at the river’s edge, cupping what I knew was shockingly cold water in her hands, then splashed it across her face. The water streamed down her skin, washing away the traces of her grief.
She then turned, not looking around, feeling safe and at peace that she was alone and no one had seen her lose her shit. She walked back to her waiting horse, swung up into the saddle, and rode off—not leaving behind any sign that she had been there at all.
I walked to the river’s edge where she’d just been and felt the agony of her pain like it was my own because, in truth, it was. Seeing her opened every wound until I was just a throbbing mess. But nothing has changed. Mama couldn’t even stand the idea of Elena at Nash’s funeral. If I told her that I fucked Elena ten years ago and still wanted to…thatIlovedher, my mother would have a fucking coronary event. I couldn’t kill my mother.
I sat on the grass, touching the wet blades.
I recall the first time Elena and I made love.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was dark blue, and the setting sun was indescribably opulent. The evening was perfect for poets to write love ballads about.
We lay on a blanket in the grass, her head resting on my chest, our fingers intertwined.
Elena tilted her head up to look at me, her dark hair falling in waves around her face. "I love you." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I felt my heart swell with emotion as I looked into her deep brown eyes, and without saying a word, I kissed her.
We moved together in perfect harmony, our bodies speaking a language that only we could understand. It was pure, raw, and beautiful—perfect!
I was her first, and it was tender. It was amazing to be given that gift. I promised to cherish it and her. I hadn’t kept that promise. I hadn’t kept any of my promises to her, except maybe the one where I vowed I’d love her forever.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Elena.” I shook with the effort it took to move into her slowly.
She wrapped her legs around my waist as if it were the most natural thing. “You could never hurt me.”
What a fucking joke!
That night, we both felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be—with each other. And as we lay there, spent and tangled in each other's arms, I knew that I never wanted to leave that moment. I never wanted to leave her. We were young and in love, and nothing mattered but us.
That memory would forever be etched in my mind, an anchor that kept me rooted here no matter how hard I tried to let Wildflower Canyon, the Wilder Ranch, andhergo. Because even now, ten years later, I could still feel her in that warm summer breeze, her touch on my skin, her love in my heart.
Now, I had a new memory superimposed over that, one of her on her knees weeping because I’d shattered her dreams, her hopes, showing her I was with another woman. If it were the other way around, I’d have fucking hurt the motherfucker. But I knew she’d not do that to me, she didn’t have that kind of cruelty. I knew Elena. I’d always known her.
I did as she had, splashing some river water on my face to wash away my tears.
I’d made my decisions. I’d chosen my mother over my father. I’d chosen my mother over Elena. And now, I had to live with my fucking choices as they tortured me—I had to live with the knowledge that they tormented her as well, which somehow hurt the most.
CHAPTER 11
elena
Nash lay in a plain pine coffin, the perfect kind for a cowboy to be buried in—no gloss, no polish, just wood and nails. The undertaker had done his part, cleaned him up, and dressed him in his worn jeans, boots, and the pearl-snap shirt he wore when hecleaned up. His old hat, the one shaped just right from years of wear, rested over his chest instead of some damn rosary.
Father McCay looked at Hunt and me with an arched eyebrow. “You both look like crap.”
“Thanks, Father,” Hunt retorted dryly.
We were exhausted and not particularlyclean. After all, Hunt and I had started before sunrise, shovels breaking the ground while the rest of the ranch slept. It had to be this way—quiet, unseen, where no one would ask questions. It was what Nash wanted. I wished we could’ve invited Duke, but he would’ve thrown a fit, considering he still looked at me like I was a whore andalso a child of one. Couldn’t he see what Mama gave Nash? Could he only see the ugly label of mistress and not the companionship, the support, the endless, unconditional love she gave him?
Fucking Gloria Wilder!
I hope when her time comes, she rots in hell. My mother may have loved Nash more than anything and anyone, but she never manipulated anyone the way Gloria had every man in her life, Nash and Duke. She kept Duke in check by playing the victim and kept Nash in check by dangling Duke’s hatred for him. She came across as this fairy-like sweet thing, but I’d heard her conversations with Nash and knew the evil that her polished surface covered. I didn’t think I could hate anyone as I did her this minute when a man would be buried without his son being present—without his forgiveness, his acceptance for the flawed man he was.
We all stood silently for a while. It seemed appropriate. Nash wasn’t a big talker.