Page 11 of Roots of Redemption (Hicks Creek #4)

Chapter Seven

Sutton

T he morning air is crisp when I step out of the guest house, the kind of chill that bites just enough to wake you up but promises warmth as the sun climbs higher.

My breath puffs in front of me, little clouds that fade into the pale dawn.

The ranch is quiet, still shrouded in the half-light of early morning.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows, breaking the silence.

I swallow hard as I look over at the main house. Mrs. Callahan is probably inside cooking up a storm for the ranch hands. I would give anything to walk in there and get one of her special hugs.

It would be like hugging Mom again.

My eyes flit over to the other house next door, Wade’s house. I can see the light on in an upstairs window, and my brain reminds me of how amazing that man looks naked.

“Stop it, Sutton. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness from yesterday.

The familiar ache in my legs and back from trudging through the pastures feels satisfying, like a job well done.

But today, I need to clear my head. Too many thoughts swirling around—about the cattle, the disease, Wade, my dad.

Especially my dad.

Our talk yesterday hadn’t been anything more than about the cattle.

I think he was surprised that I actually showed up.

I think he doubted whether I’d really come back to Hicks Creek to figure this out.

I’m not sure what I really expected going in there, but I guess I had hoped for an I’m sorry, an I love you or I missed you, but I got none of that.

More like passive-aggressive to a new extent.

“I don’t know how you put up with that man for almost fifty years, Mama,” I breathe out loud. “You were more of a saint than any of us realized.”

Lacing up my running shoes, I take a deep breath, the scent of dew-soaked grass and earth filling my lungs.

The driveway stretches out before me, long and winding, flanked by wooden fences that seem to stretch forever.

I start at an easy pace, letting my muscles warm up, my feet finding a steady rhythm against the packed dirt.

There was a time when I used to hate running, but it was something that I got into in college and never stopped.

“Woof,” I hear as I see two giant white heads poking their heads up from their spots in the grass before they lazily drop them back down.

The Callahans’ Great Pyrenees aren’t guard dogs in the sense of people, but they’re amazing for keeping the coyotes and whatever other predators away from the livestock. Hence why they barely notice me.

The ranch wakes up around me as I run. Birds chirp from the trees, and the faint lowing of cattle drifts on the breeze.

My mind wanders as I pick up speed, my body settling into the familiar cadence of movement.

Running has always been my way of sorting through things, of finding clarity when the world feels too loud.

The driveway gives way to the trails that weave through the property, paths I know like the back of my hand.

I veer to the right, following a trail that cuts through a grove of trees.

The sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the ground in shifting patterns.

Memories flood back as I run, vivid and unbidden.

This trail used to be our shortcut between the Callahan Ranch and my family’s place.

My friends and I spent countless summers tearing through here on four-wheelers, the roar of engines and our laughter echoing through the trees.

We’d race each other, pushing the limits, daring each other to go faster.

The thrill of freedom, the wind in our hair, the world wide open before us.

Wade taught me how to ride horses when I was around six years old.

That’s probably the first time I fell for him, and I just didn’t realize it back then.

He’s the one who showed me these trails as he took me through here countless times.

He always prided himself on telling me not to be out here too late or too early because of some of the wildlife I might happen upon.

I roll my eyes.

Man, did he always love telling me what to do. Always thought he could boss me around or pretend to be my big brother.

I forgot how many memories I did have with him before things went bad.

I think that’s what hurt the most when our fathers got into the argument. He was someone I adored and loved spending time with, and then it all just stopped. It’s like I had never even existed.

I didn’t just lose Wade, though. I lost his mama, too.

I can’t tell you how many times I would sit in the kitchen with my mama and Mrs. Callahan as they baked and giggled like schoolgirls while they drank wine.

I’d come home from volleyball practice, and Mrs. C would have brought over a Hi-C for me while Mama had some sort of snack at the same time.

She and Mama were at all my volleyball games and plays together, until they weren’t any longer.

I knew that Daddy was in the wrong with his actions, but I also couldn’t stand up and tell him that. I had to show loyalty to my family. A lot of good that did me, though. I have nothing to show for it.

I pick up my pace, trying to burn the images away.

I slow down as the trees thin, revealing the outline of my childhood home in the distance.

The sight of it stops me in my tracks, my chest tightening with a mix of nostalgia and unease.

I didn’t really take the time to soak it all in yesterday when I showed up both times with Doc Lucy.

I wanted to push down all the memories and not face them yet.

I was doing everything possible not to cry at the realization that my mother wasn’t going to come out on that porch, wiping her hands on her apron and grinning widely back at me.

No, those days are long gone.

Tears prick at my eyes as I stand there, willing her to walk outside. The house looks smaller than I remember, the paint a little more faded, the porch steps worn with time. But it’s still home in a way that no other place ever could be.

I’m standing on the front steps before I realize it, my hand hovering over the railing.

The screen door creaks open, and my dad steps out onto the porch, a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate with an omelet in the other.

He’s wearing his usual attire: worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots that have seen better days.

His eyes narrow when he sees me, but he doesn’t say anything right away.

“Morning,” I say, my voice tentative.

He grunts in response, setting the plate down on the small table by the door. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I went for a run,” I explain, gesturing vaguely behind me. “Ended up here.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze steady.

“Fresh pot of coffee inside if you want it, not like that fancy crap you normally drink, I’m sure, but…”

“I’m fine,” I sigh.

I look around and realize that my dad’s old Ford is the only vehicle in the driveway.

That’s odd.

Now that I think about it, when we came by the first time, none of the ranch hands were here, and that’s strange for the middle of the day. And when we came back later, he was the only one present.

“Where’re all the ranch hands?” I ask, glancing around.

His jaw tightens, and he looks away. “Had to let ’em go.”

“What? Why?”

“Couldn’t afford to keep ’em,” he says gruffly. “Not with whatever this is hitting the cattle. Didn’t seem right to ask ’em to put in the work when I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pay ’em.”

“Dad,” I say softly, stepping closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would’ve it done?” he snaps, his tone sharper than I expected. “You made it clear that this isn’t your home. You’ve got your own life, your own job. I didn’t need you swooping in here, trying to fix things.”

I flinch at his words but hold my ground. “But you called me to help. I’m here now. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “I’m managing.”

“Are you?” I ask, my voice rising slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it.”

“What would you know?”

“You can’t run this ranch by yourself. It’s impossible. You’ll put yourself into an early grave.”

“Well, when that happens, you can run it how you see fit. Or sell it—that’s more likely.”

I fight every urge I have to groan out loud.

Jerk.

“I lost five more cows overnight,” he continues.

“Did you even sleep?”

“Can’t afford to,” he mutters.

He takes another sip of his coffee. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, he sets the mug down and looks at me.

“Where are you staying?”

“A guest house,” I say cautiously.

His brow furrows. “Guest house? The only guest house I know of around here is the Callahan one.”

I hesitate, not wanting to lie, but knowing the truth will only worsen things. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “So, you’d rather stay at the Callahan Ranch than with your own family?”

“It’s not like that—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Nothing’s changed, has it?” he says, his voice low and bitter. “You’d rather save them than us.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, my own temper flaring. “I didn’t know it was on their property when I booked it. I also only came for you and Doc—”

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the porch. “Save it,” he says, his voice cold. “I’ve heard enough.”

He storms inside, the screen door slamming shut behind him. I’m left standing there, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders. The sun is higher now, the day fully awake, but all I feel is the chill of the morning air.