Page 9 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Chapter Five

WOLFE

Ienjoy the pre-dawn quiet of Monday morning, using my time wisely before the kids rise. I live in a rustic two-story cabin my foster brothers helped me build on ten acres of Rough & Ready Ranch. While cozy, it hasn’t felt like home since Izzie moved out.

I have yet to decorate for Christmas. It just doesn’t feel right without my wife, but I should at least get a tree for the kids’ sake.

That said, it barely feels like December.

The weather’s been unusually warm with little more than snow flurries.

We usually get the worst of it starting in January and stretching through March or even April, though, so it shouldn’t surprise me.

My days now have a domestic regularity, starting at 4 a.m. When I was an Army Ranger or even a PMC living overseas, I often kept crazy hours, going days without sleep.

Of course, that life came with plenty of excitement and kept me on my toes.

As for eight to five in Ophir City? The verdict’s still out.

I take another sip of black coffee, going over the museum security protocols and specs in front of me.

Nobody has updated this shit since at least the nineteen eighties.

It shouldn’t surprise me, considering how old the facility is.

I stretch, leaning back in my chair. Izzie’s only been the director for the past three months, and I wonder what kind of pushback she’s already gotten.

The historical society is housed in a large building from the nineteen seventies and serves a dual purpose as a museum and historical research institute with a library.

It contains some of the state’s most precious historical records and photos along with a rich collection of artifacts, all hearkening back to when Sierra Nevada gold country fueled California’s expansion.

A mixture of full-time state employees—a few curators, a librarian, and a janitor—and docents keep it running. Some of the docents have been there for decades, and God knows when they last underwent a background check or fingerprinting. If ever.

Today’s the day I start shaking up their world.

I have to do it. The museum contains a priceless Native American basket collection, thanks to historical and regional local Dat So La Lee, a renowned Washoe basketmaker.

The original director of the historical society meticulously collected as many of her baskets as possible.

Some of Dat So La Lee’s pieces are worth millions, which means a security audit has been a long time coming.

My mind wanders back to the congratulatory phone call last Friday morning from Dr. Alan Watts, the administrator of museums. After relaying the news, he told me how impressed the various museum directors were with my proposal and presentation.

He also made it clear that Izzie put in a strong word on my behalf.

Strange, considering the way she acted Friday night.

I hope I can count on her as an ally throughout this process.

I have no idea how all of this will go down, though.

Fuck, I’m still confused about what happened with her at Lucky’s.

I rub my hand over my face, trying to quiet the tangle of thoughts in my mind.

They’ve been twisting and spiraling out of control since I got up.

I dreamt about her again last night, which doesn’t help anything.

I hate it when that happens because then I have to wake up and remember what a mess I’ve made of my life.

I also have to remember the divorce papers burning a hole in my desk drawer. Does she really want to divorce me? Of course, that’s what she says. But the way she let me touch her and mark her in the parking lot—

These are not the internal thoughts I need to entertain right now.

I take another sip of coffee. If I’m being honest, I both love and hate the predictability of my current existence and career.

It makes me feel like a wild horse, chomping at the bit.

I could handle it if I still had my family.

But keeping a broken home is the last thing I thought I’d do with Izzie.

I rub my hand reflexively over my heart.

The only thing that helps with the sneaking feeling of domestication is staying in tip-top physical condition.

Thankfully, the Sierra Nevada Mountains provide plenty of opportunities for that.

I have to stick closer to home on my days with the kids, though.

So, instead of heading out for a rigorous trail run, I hit the treadmill, turning up the speed and elevation extra high.

I’ve got to get rid of some of this sexual and emotional frustration before my first day of security consulting and management at the California Historical Society in Ophir City.

No matter what my past is with Izzie, I need to keep this job on the up and up. Not only did I score a highly lucrative consulting contract, but based on my recommendations, we’ll also be providing indefinite security for the premises.

Locking down the state’s entire museum system will provide much-needed and welcome renown for my security business.

It’ll also get me on the inside track to potential fraud and black market activities within the museum system.

That, in turn, helps with my side jobs. I won’t let anyone or anything stop me from reaching my goals—unresolved feelings for my estranged wife included.

A little over six miles in, I wipe sweat from my forehead, breathing hard.

My muscles feel taut and exhausted in a good way—like the vigorous exercise has energized rather than depleted me.

The door of my home office opens. Matt stands in the doorway, wiping sleep from his eyes and holding Mr. E, the well-loved, well-worn teddy he’s carried since his toddlerhood.

Pressing the button to end my run, my legs slow with the treadmill before coming to a halt. “Hey, buddy, did you sleep well?”

He shakes his head. His eyes are tiny slits that I can’t imagine he can see through. Just like his mama, he’s not a morning person. The same goes for our five year old, Stasia, who I guarantee is still sound asleep. My eyes glance at the screen protector flashing on my PC. Five forty-five.

Good. The kids and I still have a little time to do yoga.

My mind could use the extra peace and tranquility of the practice this morning.

And Matt and Stasia love the funny names of the poses, like mountain, tree, and downward dog.

“Go get your yoga mat, buddy,” I say, and he breaks into a big grin, revealing his missing front teeth.

Stasia will be disappointed if she doesn’t get to do a little yoga with us, too, so I get her up next. We all convene in the living room with our mats. I help Stasia flatten out her pink and purple swirled mat while Matt sits crossed-legged with Mr. E in his lap.

“Alright, Stasia, time to sit like your brother,” I encourage, even though she looks more tempted to lie down and fall asleep.

I sit down, too, and instruct them to put their hands on their knees and close their eyes for a few minutes of meditation.

I can’t think of a more challenging pose for a rambunctious five and seven year old.

Matt spends most of his time trying to get Mr. E to sit in the lotus position, and Stasia can’t stop laughing at the funny way we’re supposed to breathe in through our noses and out through our mouths.

Moving on to sun salutations, Matt tries earnestly to mimic my moves.

His brows furrow in concentration, a look that’s got his mama written all over it.

But Stasia prefers to roll around on the ground, pretending to be a mealworm.

They’re raising them in her kindergarten class, so it’s all she talks about lately.

“Let’s see who can hold plank the longest,” I challenge, and now I’ve got both kids focused on competition. I outdo them by a long shot, even though Matt’s red face glows with a gritty determination.

Stasia asks expectantly, “Daddy, can we do tree pose? It’s my favorite.”

“And then butterfly pose?” Matt questions. That’s what he calls cobbler’s pose.

By the time we’re done, everyone’s got their fill of favorite poses, and while I wouldn’t call myself relaxed, I’ve had something approaching a post-run stretch.

I need a shower, so I set Matt and Stasia up in front of the TV while I do a quick two-minute scrub down. It has got to be at least the hundredth time they’ve watched Frozen. I catch myself singing “Let It Go” in the shower. Thank God none of my Army Ranger buddies can see me like this.

Next, it’s scrambling eggs, braiding pigtails, and making PB&Js for the kids’ lunches.

I relish every moment of being a parent, although I never thought I’d do it alone.

I can only imagine what Izzie went through, struggling with a two-year-old and a newborn while I still worked as an overseas contractor.

It’s not that I was never around, but I could have supported her better.

Made the move to a more settled life sooner.

Of course, hindsight is the only kind of wisdom that never comes in handy.

“Stasia, what’s wrong with your eggs?”

My wife’s doppelg?nger scrunches her face at me. “I don’t want eggs. I want oatmeal.”

Checking the time on the microwave, I reply, “Sorry, sweetie, but we’re out of time and oatmeal today. Eat what you can.”

“Can you tell Mommy to make it for me?” Stasia shakes her honey-colored pigtails and sticks her bottom lip out in a pout that I can’t refuse.

“Yes, sweetie, I’ll put in a good word about oatmeal with your mom. But I can’t make any guarantees.”

“It was better when we all lived together,” Matt says out of the blue, finishing his eggs.

“What do you mean?” I ask, taking another sip of coffee and trying to mask the heartbreak his comment elicits.

“Mom was happier. So were you. And we always got the choice of oatmeal or eggs. Waffles and bacon, too.”

I rub my hand over my heart instinctively, thinking back to the legendary egg, waffle, and bacon breakfasts I used to cook.

I always did it on Mother’s Day when I was home, serving Izzie breakfast in bed while the kids snuggled up around her.

And I cooked on the weekends before we went hiking and fishing together.

I still have Izzie’s custom-made fishing rod in my garage, along with ones for the kids. Fuck, those were good times. The best.

I can’t imagine Matt’s right about Izzie, though.

All we ever did was fight, at least at the end of things.

And to this day, every time I see her, I immediately watch her mood drop.

Despite what happened in the museum parking lot the other night, I can’t remember the last time she seemed happy to see me.

Honestly, she wasn’t even happy on Friday, just turned-on.

I swear if that’s how things get left between her and me, it’ll be one of the worst regrets of my life.

Fuck, it shames me to think about my lack of control.

But it was one of the only times I’ve been alone with her in the past three months.

She avoids me like the plague. No wonder I went for it.

What a fucking lousy impression to leave in her mind, though.

Without her marriage bands, I have to assume she’s already moved on with another man.

Not that she shouldn’t. If she’s been unfaithful now, it’s my fault because I won’t man up and sign the papers.

She can’t become a nun because I’m a stubborn fuck.

So, I’m not judging her. Still, the thought of someone else’s hands on her sickens me.

I guess that’s why I fucked up her love life, at least temporarily, with a little scarlet reminder of me.

Of course, the hickey was a bad idea. But between that and the museum contract, I’m full of them lately.

The look on her face when I called her out for staring at my ass still makes me laugh, though.

She never could keep her thirsty eyes off me.

That’s the first thing I noticed when I became her mahram.

Then again, I could never keep mine off her, either. I never believed in love at first sight until the day I met Izzie. Now, I’ll never doubt its existence. Shit, those were such good days. How could so much pain and disappointment follow that magical beginning?

What ultimately hurt the most for me were the accusations of infidelity. I thought she knew me better than that. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I can’t count how many times I’ve ordered men into dangerous, life-threatening situations without one hesitation or question from them.

Just pure loyalty and unwavering trust. But my own damn wife couldn’t show me even half that respect.

I know I shouldn’t expect Ranger ethics from a civilian, and I guess Izzie and I ultimately had two very different definitions of what marriage meant.

All I know is the memory of those allegations remains seared on my heart and soul—even more painful than receiving divorce papers overseas.

It’s a tough thing to forgive and move on from.

Forgive. I need to be honest with myself.

I may not be up to that task—not that she’s ever asked for my forgiveness, anyway.

Maybe I should sign the divorce papers and be done. God, I miss my wife, though.

Another glance at the clock tells me I’m out of time for pondering. “Alright, you guys have convinced me. I’ll get oatmeal at the store for your next visit and bacon and the stuff to make pancakes, too.”

Stasia pipes up, “Matt’s right. Mom was happier with you.”

I take another swig of coffee. I do not want to have this conversation with either of my kids right now. Instead, I deflect, “Wrap it up, you two. I’ve got to get you both to the before-school program.”