Page 3 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Chapter One

WOLFE

NINE YEARS LATER

Ican’t sign the divorce papers in front of me.

Even though I know I should be a bigger man and let her move on.

I can’t. Some would call it stubborn and others toxic or possessive.

Izzie’s even thrown out the word “obsessive,” but none of those terms really fit.

Yes, I know all that’s required of me is a squiggle in black ink.

The same squiggle I use to sign a check or finalize a holiday card. But I can’t make myself do it.

Because that black ink squiggle would mean killing the only forever I’ve ever believed in.

It’s like cutting a piece of myself off.

Maybe the best part of myself. The sharp ache in my chest reminds me of what I’m losing but don’t know how to reclaim.

That ache has burrowed so deeply into my chest that it feels like a permanent part of my soul.

God, I miss that gorgeous, sexy nerd girl.

I miss her honey-colored hair in a messy bun held by a pencil.

I miss her curvy body wrapped in vintage sweaters with impossibly tiny buttons I long to unfasten.

I even miss the clumsy way she daydreams through life, more interested in deep thoughts than where to put her feet.

Of course, I never minded catching her. Anything to get my big, brutish hands on her.

She’s the only woman I ever loved and probably ever will. I wonder if she knows that? Or even cares? I shake my head. Our son Matt is seven, and our daughter Anastasia is five, which means it wasn’t that long ago Izzie was all mine.

Yet, the thought of her silky skin and ample curves beneath my hands feels remote, like it happened lifetimes ago.

Now, her hostile gaze meets mine if I steal too long a look in her direction.

It’s a fucking impossible existence, and yet it’s one I can’t deny my part in creating through stupidity, arrogance, ego, and stubbornness.

I don’t know how to do relationships. It’s a fault I recognize but can’t change, although the consequences are unbearable.

Placing the divorce papers back in the manila envelope they came in, I shut them in the drawer at the bottom of my draftsman wood desk. They can wait.

However, another set of papers requires my immediate attention—the signature making my company’s contract with the state to manage security at the California Historical Society in Ophir City legal and binding.

Izzie has worked as director there for three months now, and I can’t imagine she’s going to be happy my company secured the job.

But no matter how much it pisses her off, it’ll be worth it, knowing I’ve found a way to keep one of my promises to her.

The promise I made all those years ago in Afghanistan.

Rutger pokes his dark blond head into my office, headquartered in a single-story building two blocks from Main Street in Ophir City, thirty minutes from Hollister where my cabin is. “Boss, you about ready?”

The boys and I are heading to Lucky’s Saloon, a decent watering hole down the street from the historical society, to celebrate scoring this considerable contract.

If things go well, we could become a favorite at museum facilities across the state, which would be huge for us.

I’ve got seven employees, all former military men and two Army Ranger buddies.

We’re a long way from the 75th Batt’s base in Georgia, but that’s okay because guys like Rutger are among my most loyal comrades.

They’ll always have my back and follow me to the ends of the earth, qualities you can’t buy with all the money in the world.

“Yep, tell the boys I’m buying.” Not only is this a celebration, but it’s Friday night.

I hope by controlling the liquor train, hopefully, I can keep some of the more unruly guys, like McGregor and Alonso, from coming off their rockers in town.

They’re train wrecks with enough shots, not the respectable vibe I’m going for.

Twenty minutes later, I sit at a corner table as far from the saloon door as possible.

My back’s against the wall where I like to keep it.

McGregor’s half Scottish and half Mexican.

He’s already doing tequila shots, and Rutger, Alonso, and the other guys are sticking to what’s on tap, spiced up with occasional shots of Jack.

I’m nursing a shot of Hennessy and a beer, ready to punch anyone out of line.

The guys are playing darts, and I’ve got the table piled with happy hour favorites, like nachos and fried potato skins, to keep everyone sane and satisfied.

I stare at the door, ready to attack any threat that comes through it.

It’s a force of habit from so many years in security.

Izzie always said I looked miserable with my face like this.

But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I’ve got a calm inner energy and a desire to keep the peace. That’s all.

But I think Izzie often misread my feelings, and I can’t blame her.

I’ve got a severe face with a square jaw that I have the habit of clenching.

It makes me look like an asshole. An angry one.

Between that and my massive build, I look more like a linebacker or a bull in a china shop than an entrepreneur about to establish a statewide footprint.

I know better than anybody that appearances can be deceiving.

Most of my life has been about intimidation, which makes me a good security provider.

My philosophy? Cut off trouble at the head.

Don’t even let the thought cross somebody’s mind.

That’s why I employ some of the toughest and meanest-looking sons of bitches in the world.

Of course, so much rough, masculine energy inevitably attracts plenty of barflies, even in Ophir City.

Selma Butterfield sits beside me, resting her hand on my shoulder.

My initial reaction is to shake it off. I don’t want her or any other woman touching me.

Just Izzie. Of course, I know this is a stupid-ass thought, especially since I’m the only thing holding back our divorce.

If I ever want to get laid again, I’ll have to let this rule go eventually.

But all I want to do is make love to my wife.

Dumb and unrealistic, I know. But hot damn, when we were good together, Izzie and I were so fucking good.

It’s hard to willingly settle for scraps after savoring countless five-course, five-star meals.

Selma’s buddy, Laurie Westman, sits on my other side.

Between the two of them, they’ve piled all of the makeup sold at the local mercantile on each of their faces.

It’s fascinating in a horrible sort of way.

I went to high school with both of them, but they never paid me attention.

And I don’t blame them. When I showed up my freshman year, I was a weirdo by Hollister’s standards.

Instead of wearing boots and belts and trying to look cool on a horse like my foster brothers, I was a big, angry punk from Orangevale.

Complete with black painted fingernails, dyed hair, eyeliner, flannel shirts, and Doc Martens.

Any other kid would’ve been beaten mercilessly for that look, but nobody messed with me because of my size.

I listened to Slipknot and Five Finger Death Punch, smoked behind the school dumpster, and brought orange juice with vodka to class.

My foster dad, Wyatt had his hands full with me, but he managed to sort me out. And what he didn’t finish straightening and polishing, the Army did. Thankfully, sealed juvenile court records and top marks on the ASVAB and DLAB put me on course to excel in the Army and advance to Ranger School.

It makes me cringe to think about those awkward high school days when I first came to Rough & Ready, a fucked up, neglected, mad-as-hell foster kid.

I never had a great tale of woe like Logan or Maksim.

I just had a diagnosis of oppositional defiance and a single mother who let me run the streets until I ran into the law.

At first, I hated everyone in Hollister and wanted nothing more than to get away from all the hicks.

But four years of working on the Rough & Ready Ranch put me in a cowboy hat, listening to Chris Ledoux and Garth Brooks.

It was a remarkable transformation that I doubt anybody from Hollister remembers but me, and it was all thanks to Wyatt.

He took me and fourteen other foster boys in, the worst of the worst by all accounts.

But he’s not the type to give up anyone, and he saved each of us, except for maybe Holden. The jury’s still out on him.

“Hello? You there, Wolfe?” I realize Selma’s staring at me expectantly.

Having spaced out whatever the hell she said, I grumble, “I thought you two ladies would be sticking closer to Hollister tonight. What brings you out to Ophir City?” I almost choke on the word “ladies,” but it’s a force of habit.

My foster dad taught me to be polite in all instances, even unsavory ones.

Selma shrugs her shoulders, and I can see she’s already looking past me at Rutger. Those two always seem to have a good time together. Even though her eyes stray, she answers my question, “I could ask you boys the same thing.”

From his dark blond hair to his gray eyes, Rutger’s drawn to any woman who shows him a lick of interest. He answers over my shoulder, “We’re here to celebrate Ormsby Security’s new big state contract at the California Historical Society.

” My employees turn at this, raising their glasses to cheer me, and I accept it begrudgingly as people in Lucky’s crane their necks to see what all the commotion’s about.

The timing couldn’t be more impeccable as I watch my wife and her historical society colleagues standing near the entrance, eyeing my table.

They’ve just walked in, no doubt, to take advantage of Lucky’s generous happy hour.

Lucky’s is a few blocks from the museum, so her presence shouldn’t surprise me. It still makes my heart race, though.

Izzie’s eyes lock with mine. After all these years, those gorgeous periwinkle orbs knock the wind out of me.

They go from curious to scathing instantly as she surveys the women seated on either side of me, and her face flushes red.

I wish I could say it was from jealousy, but I know that look’s one hundred percent rage. She knows I won and accepted the job.