Page 17 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, jaw tight. “You should know that. You were my best friend once.”

Damon growled. “The hell you didn’t! You were the last one to see Ty alive. You started that fight. And then you vanished, left everyone else to clean up the mess.”

There it was. The accusation that had haunted every day of my life since that night.

I opened my mouth to answer, but all that came out was a shudder of breath.

For a second, I wasn’t in the Dusty Barrel. I was nineteen again, standing in the dark with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber burning my lungs. Ty Higgins, slumped over the wheel of his pickup, head bleeding into the vinyl. My father, screaming at me—loud enough to drown out the sirens.

The red-and-blue strobe of police lights slicing through the trees. I heard the fire crackling, felt the bite of cold creek water around my ankles, tasted the copper in my mouth where I’d bitten my own tongue.

I came back to the present with a start, sweat slick on my forehead.

Gray was watching me with that same, predatory stare. But behind it, I saw something else: the tiniest flicker of confusion. Maybe even doubt.

Walker and Mason appeared at the end of the bar. They were watching us, not making a move to join, but clearly ready to step in if it got out of hand.

I tried to steady my breathing. “I didn’t kill Ty,” I said, voice shaking. “We fought that night, sure. Was no secret. But he was my friend.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Then why did you run?”

My throat closed up. I couldn’t answer. Not then, not ever.

Gray turned to Damon. “That’s enough.”

But Damon wouldn’t let it go. “No, I want to hear him say it. I want to know why he left. Why he left us.”

I felt something break loose in my chest—guilt, anger, fear, all knotted together. “I left because I had to,” I managed, each word a struggle. “Because I couldn’t stay.”

Damon sneered. “Coward.”

My hands balled into fists. “You have no idea what it was like. What I hid all my life.”

They stared at me, blank.

I forced myself to look at Gray, to make him see me, really see me. “If I stayed, it would’ve been worse. For all of us.”

Gray was silent for a long time. Then he said, very softly, “I never believed you did it.”

That surprised me more than anything Damon could have said.

Damon pushed up from his stool. “Whatever. You’re not the victim here, Ford. Ty’s the one who ended up dead. You just get to run around and pretend like nothing happened.”

Gray didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at me as if he was figuring out a puzzle.

Damon slammed a palm onto the bar, rattling the empties. “Look at me, Ford. You left us—left all of us—to deal with your shit while you ran off and got rich. You abandoned us all and pretended like this whole town was dead to you. And now you’re back, and you can’t even admit what you did?”

I stared at the ring of condensation on the wood. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to fucking say it,” Damon growled. “Say you did it. Say you left because you’re a coward.”

Something snapped inside my chest. Not the pain of accusation, but the white-hot rage at being powerless—at being forced into the same role over and over, even after all these years.

I stood up, not caring how my legs wobbled or if the whole bar was watching. “You think I wanted to leave?” I said, voice low but loud enough to carry. “You think I ever wanted to walk out on my own fucking life?”

Damon scoffed. “Sure looked that way from where we were standing.”

Mason tried to step between us again, but Damon shoved him back, sending him crashing into the jukebox with a hollow thunk. Walker was on his feet now, too, but he didn’t move, just hovered, gaze flicking from me to Damon and back.

I stared down at Damon. “You want the truth? Talk to my father.” That was as close as I’d ever come to talking about that night.

“Don’t bring your dad into this,” Damon snarled. “This is about you.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

I blinked, and the world went sideways.

The memory was jagged and bright as lightning: my father’s face inches from mine, his breath reeking of bourbon and rot.

The pain in my ribs, the bloody taste in my mouth, the words burned into my ear: If you ever tell anyone what happened tonight, I’ll make sure you regret it. I’ll make sure everyone regrets it.

The smell of smoke, the flicker of orange flame. Ty screaming. Me, running through the dark, my hands slippery with blood that wasn’t mine. The sound of my own heart, hammering so loud I couldn’t hear the sirens or the shouts or anything but my father’s threats, echoing forever.

I came back to the present with a gasp, like I’d been underwater.

Damon was yelling now, face red, spit flying from his lips. “You think you can blame anyone and everyone for your disappearing act? Then stroll back into town, buying up ranches, like nothing ever happened? You think money buys you forgiveness?”

I was shaking, but not from fear. From fury and grief and the utter, gutting frustration of not being able to explain myself—not to these men, not even to myself.

Walker finally moved, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” he said, gentle as a lullaby. “You don’t have to take this.”

I shrugged him off, voice raw. “Yeah. I do.”

Gray finally approached, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowed.

He put a hand on Damon’s chest, making him step back without force, only his quiet power as a patriarch of sorts.

He looked at me, but didn’t say anything at first, just studied my face like he was seeing more than just his old friend.

He was seeing a mystery he didn’t know existed.

He spoke quietly, but his words hit like a punch. “What exactly are you saying happened that night?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My tongue felt thick, my throat locked.

The words were right there. I could see them, taste them.

But I couldn’t say them.

All I managed was, “You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with.”

Gray held my gaze a beat longer. “Maybe not. But I’m willing to listen.”

It was more grace than I deserved.

Damon, though, wasn’t done. “Don’t bother,” he spat at Gray. “Some people never change.”

He turned on his heel and stomped out, the door slamming so hard the glass rattled.

The silence left behind was heavier than before.

Mason made his way back to us, rubbing his shoulder. Walker just kept watching me, that sad, knowing half-smile on his lips.

I took a breath. Then another.

Finally, I threw a couple twenties onto the bar, the paper sticking to the ring of my bottle.

I looked at Gray, at Mason, at Walker.

“I’m done being blamed for things people know nothing about,” I said, voice trembling but unbroken.

And then I left. I didn’t look back.

The night air was sharp, slicing through my shirt and straight to the bone.

I walked to my truck and climbed in, hands still shaking.

For the first time, I knew what I had to do.

It was time to stop running.

It was time to find out the truth—even if it killed me.