Page 5 of And Forever (The Riders and Rings Duology #2)

WILDER

EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — APRIL

T he Stryker ranch is exactly what I expected from the way Charlotte used to talk about it.

Sweeping and beautiful, the property boasts gentle slopes and open meadows, everything necessary to work the land and offer the dream experience for the tourists who book in for a stay.

The infrastructure is designed to reflect the rustic setting, but with every modern amenity.

It’s quietly rich, if that can be a thing.

I knew Charlotte came from money, even if she never flashed it in anyone’s face.

But as I pass under the iron Arrowroot Hills sign, it’s clear as day.

The boy inside me, who grew up with nothing, is confused by her reluctance to give this up.

It’s stable and safe in a way I didn’t experience growing up.

Spring has started to make an appearance along the dirt road leading to the central ranch house.

Wildflowers burst in bright spots among the ripening prairie grass.

The little kaleidoscopic patches won’t survive a late spring frost or storm, but their valiant attempts to soak up the sun and bring forth fresh life is admirable.

I feel like them as my truck rumbles along: hopeful in the face of possible ruin.

During the near-eight-hour drive from Idaho, I almost turned around twice, uncertainty and fear nearly eclipsing my motivations for accepting the position.

When I reached the turnoff, I pulled over and killed the engine.

I sat for twenty minutes talking myself into putting the truck back in drive, too many emotions battling for control.

But I need to do this. I’ve needed to do this for years , even if making amends is never easy.

Especially when Charlotte has every right to reject me.

I ease the truck around a bend and park beside the main house.

It’s two stories and sprawling. Rustic and inviting with log beams and large picture windows in the middle before being bracketed by expansive covered porches that I know wrap around to the back.

I spy the tops of two stone chimneys and the corner of an upstairs balcony as I cut the engine.

Planter boxes line the railings facing the entry of the property, cheerful, yellow flowers filling each one; the namesake of the ranch beckoning visitors to stay a while.

It takes a few steadying breaths before I can climb out of the truck.

My eyes sweep left and right, searching for a flash of black hair.

My heart beats thunderously as it flickers between desire and dread at facing Charlotte.

As soon as my boots hit the dirt, all thoughts of “what if” die when I hear my name from under the shadowed eave of the porch.

Mitchell and Elizabeth Stryker walk down the flagstone stairs side by side. I slam my truck door behind me. With my baseball cap in my hands, I catalog all the features in the pair that I’m familiar with and where the differences are between them and their daughter.

Charlotte inherited Mitchell’s thick, black hair.

His gently curls until the brim of his tan hat.

The set of his shoulders reminds me of her as well.

Strong, but broader. Mitchell is taller than I am by a couple of inches, but he has a solid twenty pounds on me.

He walks with a quiet confidence I’m used to seeing in ranch owners.

It’s a sureness that comes with the comfort of owning the property you live on.

There’s a deep protectiveness ingrained in men like him, and I see that cut into the lines on his tanned skin.

Everything else about Charlotte comes from Elizabeth.

Where Charlotte’s gem-like green eyes are a pure emerald color in their depths, Elizabeth’s are striated with peridot lines and flickers of jade.

A heart-shaped face with a button nose and full lips were also passed down from mother to daughter.

But where Charlotte’s smiles were a reward, I can tell from the lines around Elizabeth’s mouth hers are more freely given.

She’s taller than I expected, clearing Mitchell’s shoulders, and her ash-colored hair is streaked with silver in the single braid resting against her collarbone.

“Wilder McCoy. Nice to finally meet you,” Mitchell thrusts his hand out, a wry grin on his face. “I’m Mitch Stryker. You can call me ‘Mitch’. This is my wife, Elizabeth.”

I shake the man’s hand before turning to his wife and doing the same. Her smaller, softer hand slips into mine.

“‘Bex’ is just fine by me, Mr. McCoy.” She offers me a warm smile.

“Wilder, please,” I gently correct. My insides are a riot of nerves. Doubt, confusion, and wonder all mix together, and I have the random thought that I hope my hand isn’t sweaty. I pull it away and try to surreptitiously wipe it by slipping it into my front pocket. “Thanks for having me.”

“We’ve wanted to meet you for a long time,” Bex says, but there’s no rueful reproach or admonishment in her words.

She sounds kind of wistful, as though she knows what we lost and is saddened by it.

It was always the plan to spend Christmas with the Strykers.

A way for Charlotte to finally introduce me, and an opportunity to experience my first holiday as part of a real family.

I don’t trust my voice to reply, as I remember spending that Christmas sitting alone on the frozen shoreline of the lake on my property.

The day was spent breaking the ice with rocks and empty beer bottles before hurling my phone into the water, content to watch it sink and match the feelings inside me.

Instead, I offer a tight smile and a curt nod of acknowledgment.

There’s an awkward pause. What exactly do I say next?

I’m sorry, I loved your daughter but lost myself and sent her away?

Mitch seems to pick up the thread of conversation, pivoting it to safer topics.

He clears his throat, then takes hold of my shoulder to steer me toward the house.

I pretend his grip isn’t slightly more forceful than necessary.

“The job starts now and runs until the beginning of July,” Mitch starts as we walk up the stairs and across the porch.

Bex leads, opening the side door. “That’s when our usual ranch boss, Cooper, arrives.

At that point, there’s the possibility of keeping you on for the remainder of the season if all goes well and you get approval. ”

We enter a comfortable living space. Pine floors are covered with warm, neutral area rugs between deep hunter-green couches and a chocolate-brown reading chair tucked against the windows.

Bookshelves line one wall with a nook carved out for a television and other entertainment equipment.

The tabletops have framed photos of a little girl with black hair and pigtails.

I don’t let my eyes linger on the image of young Charlotte, focusing instead on the realization that this likely isn’t a common area used by guests or employees; this is the family’s side of the house.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” I begin. Mitch drops his guiding hand, continuing through the space to the kitchen on our right. Bex has her head buried in the refrigerator and hands items to her husband as he enters. Mitch accepts with one hand and waves away my words with the other.

“I’m not who you need to impress.” He sets Bex’s ingredients on the butcher block island.

Deli meat and cheese, a head of lettuce, and a ripe tomato are soon joined by bottles of mayonnaise and mustard.

Bex continues pulling bread, plates, and utensils from various cabinets as I listen to Mitch.

“Cooper Ames has been working for me since he was in high school, before taking up the ranch boss position two years ago. His opinion means a lot, but Charlotte oversees all our hirings and determines whether a probationary employee—which is what you are—can be given a permanent contract.”

“So, Charlotte knows I’m here?” It’s one of the many questions I’ve wanted to ask for weeks.

“Oh, hell no,” Bex laughs, her fingers flying through the process of stacking sandwiches. She glances up at me, “You like mustard, honey? Mayonnaise?”

“Uh, mustard, please,” I find myself answering, but I’m totally confused. I hold up a hand, as if it will halt anything that is happening. “Wait. Charlotte doesn’t know I’ve been hired, or she doesn’t know I arrived today?”

“Both.” Bex cuts the sandwich in half and pushes the plate across the countertop.

She pointedly gestures at an empty barstool for me.

I swing my gaze to Mitch, who appears bemused by his wife, but there’s tension in his jaw.

He lifts his brown eyes to mine and nods before sitting beside me.

Bex continues making food, but sighs heavily when she looks up at the two of us.

“Do you really think keeping her in the dark is a good idea?” I swallow thickly. The bountiful and delicious-looking sandwich in front of me might as well be a pile of ash for how little I could stomach it.

“I’m sure you know my relationship with your daughter didn’t end…

well.” I fumble to find the right description.

I don’t know Charlotte’s parents personally, and I am operating with second-hand information from three years ago, given to me by their rebellious daughter.

Charlotte always insisted she loved her parents, but it was easy to see how their control over her, coupled with their simultaneous absence from her life, deeply impacted her.

Adding in the disastrous ending of our relationship, I can’t get a read on what these people think of me.

A silent conversation passes between husband and wife. Bex sets Mitch’s finished sandwich in front of him, then leans on her elbows over the island. Mitch takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before he swallows and addresses me.

“When Charlotte came home after the finals that year, she was a different person,” he begins slowly.

I can hear the way he’s choosing his words carefully.

He’s clearly protecting his child by not revealing too much.

I’m not owed this explanation, but I’ll take anything he can tell me about the woman I’ve missed every day since failing to beg her to stay.

“What happened in Las Vegas and after.” His eyes flicker with apology and pity.

I wince at the mention of Travis and the aftermath, the flash of shame at my behavior is familiar as it jolts my system.

“Well, she stopped riding and started working for us.”

Just like they always planned.

Just like Charlotte always dreaded.

The shame coils tighter.

“I want a riding ring so I can practice in the off-season. Maybe even give riding lessons when I decide to stop riding?”

“When will that be?”

“When I can’t pull myself up on a horse anymore.”

The memory floats to the surface. The two of us wrapped in each other’s arms in the quiet of the night, talking about our future. Charlotte stopped riding, and I can’t help but feel like I’m to blame.

“But she’s not happy.” Bex’s sad voice keeps me from spiraling at the Strykers’ casual admission that Charlotte upended her entire life.

“Sure, she has happiness . There are aspects of her life that bring her joy, but we know she needs more. She needs something to shake up what she thinks is a comfortable existence, when really, she’s allowed herself to become complacent.

Charlotte’s accepted things for what they are. It’s killing us to watch.”

Mitch nods beside me.

“And dropping me back into her life is your way of changing that?” I can’t help the incredulous tone of my voice.

No wonder these people drove Charlotte crazy as a teenager.

There’s parental guidance and then there’s this: complete interference.

I might not have the right anymore, but an old protectiveness swirls inside me at the machinations being laid out in front of me.

“I don’t have any guarantee that she’ll even want to see me. I’ve more than earned her hatred.”

“She doesn’t hate you.” Mitch brokers no argument with his words. “And we’re not asking you for anything. Just stay, take the job.”