Page 3 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

I scrub a hand over my mouth while mid-yawn.

A gallon of coffee and extra heaping of sugar have yet to fully kick in.

Through bleary eyes, I scroll the messages in my Instagram inbox.

Beyond the windows, it’s the kind of morning where mist shrouds the ranch in a thick, morose cloak.

Everything is painted in shades of bruised gray, and my mood suits the color palette up here.

Even Devil’s Peak, which normally stands guard watching over the ranch, has decided today ain’t worth her while to put in an appearance.

Chaos

You slunk off like a little bitch last night, Wilder.

Irish goodbyes aren’t usually your style.

I’ll see your ugly ass at Beau’s tomorrow, yeah?

Gotta get my beauty sleep if I’m gonna beat you next stop on the tour.

But yeah, I’ll be there. Should be down early-ish. I’ll sort the horses and the cattle out first thing.

Leaving my phone on the kitchen counter to charge, I head out to make a start on the day.

Literally no point carrying the damn thing around up here, since our only means of communication is via radio.

Modern technology? Yeah, that’s pretty much a running joke on this mountain.

Good luck getting the internet to work anywhere beyond about three hotspots inside the house.

There’s no pause for idle scrolling or wasting time on social media around here.

Mornings start early as shit, and the animals don’t appreciate their routine being fucked with.

If there’s one thing that a ranch demands, it’s every ounce of your attention.

Mother Nature never lets up, and the worst mistake you can make in a place like this is to assume you’ve got plenty of time in the day.

Fall basically translates to getting all your crap prepared for winter. That bitch is ruthless around these parts.

Shoving into my boots, I stifle another yawn while getting ready to face leaving the comfort of warmth inside the house.

My first stop is the barn, seeing to the horses; then, I’ll head down to the further parts of the ranch to check our herd of cattle.

As I crunch my way across the gravel yard outside, plumes of white billow in front of me like dragon’s breath.

I’m fiddling with my brim and shrugging to pull my hoodie up over my entire cap against the chill.

Last night was... I don’t even know what to make of it.

What I do know is that I slept fuck all, even though I’m dog-tired and still trying to recover after that last event.

Zeke Rainer. Raine . The colossal asshole I thought I’d long put behind me.

A face I honestly didn’t think I’d see again... until he loomed out of the shadows beside the bonfire.

Jesus. I scratch at my day-old stubble, long strides carrying me into the barn in a half-asleep sort of haze.

Hay and leather and the muskiness of the horses’ scents all drift to fill my awareness.

Their snorts tell me in no uncertain terms to hurry the hell up.

I’d put money on the fact they’re already impatiently waiting for breakfast. At least by spending the day running through the motions and generally being able to disappear into my own thoughts, I can attempt to sort through the whirlwind of memories long shoved down.

Seeing my stepbrother for the first time in so many years has dredged up shit I’d rather forget from someplace mighty deep .

Mom married his father when I was twelve years old.

After bouncing between a revolving door of shitty boyfriends, it seemed like a good thing at first. Weddings and marriages and seeing your mom settle down equate to positives.

Right? A permanent address. Staying in school and being able to maybe this time hang with the same group of friends until senior year.

A roof over our heads, especially one that wasn’t going to disappear if she missed rent. .. seemed like living the dream.

Except, when she married Ezekiel Senior , his package deal included a son who took one look at my ass and sneered like I was something foul he’d stepped in.

Raine has hated me since that first day we locked eyes. When I was nothing more than a scrawny little kid sat perched on an unfamiliar couch, running clammy hands up and down my jeans. Practicing my best manners while being introduced to the guy who was set to become my stepfather.

Life in the here and now is a million miles from the home I grew up in.

My biological father, Colton Wilder, had no idea of the life my mom was leading.

He didn’t know about the pills. He didn’t know about her shitty choices.

And I didn’t know him, either. For most of my life, I swore the guy was the worst piece of shit to ever exist.

The reality wasn’t pretty, but I’d been fed lies about him by one parent who was bitter toward the other. A woman who projected her own mess onto me whenever possible.

If you grow up only ever hearing one side of the story—that he wasn’t interested in being a father, or having anything to do with his unwanted kid—you form a pretty solid image of the heartless bastard who knocked up your mom as a teenager.

I spent twenty-five years cursing my father’s name, because that was all I knew.

Well, turns out not even a decade living under the roof with a stepfather who was supposed to fill a role, to provide that security and steadfastness I’d never had, proved he was just another crap decision.

One more poorly thought-out plan made by my mother to add to the laundry list of terrible choices she’s intent on making in this life.

My girl Winnie pops her head over her stall to take a look at me when I walk through the doors to the barn, and I pause to give her a thorough scratch using both hands all around her long nose and ears.

“Did you miss me, girl?” I hum softly, placing a kiss on her forehead. She gives me a nudge with inquisitive, whiskery lips to tell me I’m running late with my attention and affection. The two things that make Winnie’s world go round, followed closely by offerings of carrots or apples.

Standing in this barn is a stark reminder of everything my dad has worked his ass off to achieve. And he did so almost entirely on his own, literally bleeding and giving everything he’s ever had for this ranch.

Could I be a jealous, petty dickhead about the fact that I didn’t get the chance to grow up here?

Sure. Or I could recognize that no one is perfect, and I sure as hell now understand why my dad allowed my mom to take me what felt like a million miles away.

She left this place when I was a baby, and never looked back.

What I’ve learned since moving here to Crimson Ridge is that the man who, for the duration of my youth I was certain was the scum of the earth, is, in fact, anything but.

Sure, Colt Wilder is a man who absolutely made mistakes, but he dealt with surviving a shitty upbringing and physical abuse the only way he knew how.

My dad was barely a kid himself when I came along.

He thought he did the right thing by me.

Who knows what my life might have looked like if my mom hadn’t up and left Montana to go and settle in the Midwest, but I’ve gotta play the cards I’ve been dealt.

For too many years, that looked like getting wasted to avoid my shit.

For too many years, the easy option was to hide in any escape a bottle crudely provided.

For too many years, I coasted along, thinking that my rodeo career would suddenly take off because I had natural talent and the kind of smile that seemed to open doors for me.

Tumbling from the high-highs is one hell of a sucker punch when you plunge into the low-lows.

The temptation to chase the rush that came with obliterating myself was all I lived for.

I missed too many sponsor’s calls. Too many times, I made promises I didn’t keep. I fell off the tour with a brutal thud.

With a rueful whistle, I pat Winnie’s neck.

“No one’s surprised I crash-landed on my ass in Crimson Ridge, huh?

” My lips twist as she tries to crane further, attempting to ransack the front pocket of my hoodie.

“Rocking up on my dad’s doorstep begging for a place to stay at twenty-five with a red-line bank account and a fuck-ton of terrible decisions following after me. What a joke.”

She snorts loudly. Probably agreeing. Mostly disgusted that I haven’t got a stash of treats like Layla usually has.

Fucking hell. It makes me feel nauseous to think of that first year when I came to settle at Devil’s Peak Ranch. By that stage, I’d already made a complete mess of my life and nearly got myself tangled up in even deeper shit.

I’m pregnant, Kayce. It’s yours.

Those five words sent me into a goddamn blackout spiral. The girl I’d been messing around with at the time blew her stupid pink bubble of gum, popped it with a loud smack, and showed me a crumpled ultrasound she’d shoved down her bra.

After that, I don’t think I was sober for months.

Jesus. My stomach knots. There are a lot of days when I try to avoid even thinking about it all.

What kind of piss-head moron goes and fucks around without protection?

Especially when I was drunk at every opportunity and ended up in bed with the worst kind of bad decisions.

It was only thanks to my dad’s influence—his unwavering help—I was able to screw my head on straight, get sober, and most importantly, have a goddamn paternity test done.

A life-altering step that proved I wasn’t the father.

However... it still didn’t erase all the shit leading up to that moment.

It didn’t go any way to changing the course I’d set myself on.

I had to work doubly hard to even get back to competing in pro rodeo.

Finding sponsors after you’ve already been ditched once?

Yeah, I had to live on scraps and crumbs, busting my ass doing basically two full-time jobs on the side of training and traveling.