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

Blowing out a breath, I wander further, checking in on the horses before coming to a stop at Ollie’s stall.

She’s super docile but will demand you stand there all day, giving her your undivided attention.

Not that I mind. This is what I love more than anything.

Being with the horses. Hanging out in these wide-open expanses where there’s nothing but mountains and pines and cattle.

Of course, it’s soothing, and I’m blessed to be living in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

But I need connection, too. Being around people gives me something; it’s one of the biggest differences between me and my dad.

Colton Wilder has happily lived in isolation on this mountain for decades.

When I first came here, it felt like being shackled into a prison sentence.

I only did it because I needed the money.

Now, I know that time spent with the horses fills that void for me.

Whereas I used to chase that vibrant glow and sense of being needed somehow with partying and day drinking—sinking to the bottom surrounded by a group of people who were all equally as fucked up—I’ve figured out that ranching gives me that intangible thing I’d been searching for.

So now? Life revolves around managing Devil’s Peak, taking care of the cattle, the horses, and running the property when my dad and Layla are away—like they are at present, off to Ireland for the fall and winter seasons.

I’ll also help out at the other ranches down in Crimson Ridge when they need extra trail guides.

Getting paid to ride a horse, flash a smile, and talk shit? Too easy.

I’m grateful to have found some kind of peaceful ground with my dad.

He might not have been there for my childhood, but I can tell how much that eats at him.

Regret is so often thinly disguised in the creases around his eyes.

.. lined between his brows during brief moments when I catch him looking my way.

He’s a man of few words, but his actions make up for that.

And the guy didn’t let me carry on with the self-destruct mode I’d been committed to pursuing.

Even if our first months of being in each other’s lives were anything but straightforward.

The first thought that crossed my mind when I found out my ex had hooked up with my father? Relief .

A bone-deep, lengthy, drawn-out exhale, knowing that Layla had found someone better than me. Because while my dad might be a self-professed grouchy asshole, I was nothing more than a cheater and an alcoholic. Kayce Wilder. Douchebag and endless screw-up.

I messed around behind Layla’s back. I used her. I made too many drunk decisions out of desperation. She didn’t deserve any of the hell I put her through.

At least my dad was there to gather up the tattered pieces after I’d torn everything apart and treated someone who has such a good, kind heart like absolute shit.

While it ain’t ideal for all of us to be living here, I’m away a lot with rodeo throughout the year, and the two of them are happiest when hermiting away from the world.

They prefer to stay in a cabin my dad built up on one of the ridgelines if the weather allows.

Then, at times like this, they’re gone traveling overseas anyway.

Strangely, it works. As bizarre as our circumstances are, it provides a cathartic sort of glimmer of hope.

Like I’m somehow making it up to a good woman, someone to whom I was no better than an immature, foolish idiot.

What none of that self-reflection does, however, is resolve the fact I’ve now got to face my past again.

A childhood I’ve long tried to shake off. A mom who was never really a parent. A prick who seemed to get off on making my life even shittier than it already was once our homes were combined in the most unwanted of ways.

In all the years we spent under the same roof, Raine made it his business to prove just how much he hated my guts.

Naive, stupid me. In all my prepubescent idiocy, I thought Mom getting married might have been a bright spot—a ray of hope in an otherwise pretty bleak life with her only ever scarcely holding her shit together.

I thought I might have been given the gift of an older brother, a mentor, someone I could grow close to... instead I was landed with a hot-headed jerk who loved to laugh at my mistakes.

Scrunching my eyes closed, I tilt my head back.

What in the fresh hell was last night about anyway?

Was I objectively looking at the guy’s ass in a pair of jeans?

Seeing his figure—before I caught a glimpse of his face—I felt more excitement thrumming in my veins than at the prospect of talking to Jessie.

And that leaves me all kind of churned up inside my head. I thought my own stepbrother was hot .

Fuck. My. Life .

Plenty of people go through an awkward phase.

Everyone experiences confusing, conflicting sentiments at one time or another.

An awakening or opening of their eyes where their sexuality is concerned.

We’re not always the same person we were twelve months ago, let alone five years.

In theory, I know all that. I also know for certain I’ve got people I can talk to when the time is right—including one offer already from my friend, Sage, the perceptive little minx she is.

Hell, if needed, I’d be able to talk to Brad, or Flinn, or even Chaos, right this second.

I blow out a long breath into the crisp air.

Ironically, I’ve ended up surrounded by friends who wouldn’t blink twice if I strolled up, leaned on a fence railing, and came out to them—seeing as some of the people closest to me are bisexual themselves, just all in different kinds of relationships.

Or, in Chaos’ case, being bi means enjoying the fact that it gives him a very wide playing field.

My friends would undoubtedly be there for me, but what do I deserve of their patience?

After I’ve been nothing better than a man whore myself in recent years.

After I’ve used numbing and avoiding as a way to run from my own damn self.

Then all the effort it’s taken to go about getting sober, getting my ass back on the competitive rodeo circuit.

.. I barely deserve their support on top of it all.

All in all, my recent interactions, with either sex, include one scare about knocking someone up and one unexpected moment on New Year’s Eve that toppled me into the territory of looking in the mirror and thinking what the fuck.

I’ve kissed exactly one guy, one time. I gave in to a flirtatious look and a moment standing so close I could taste the mint on his breath.

When he shoved me backward, hands fisted in my shirt, and lips touching mine, something came alive inside me.

I’ve never felt anything like those sparks replacing my blood, or that tingling sensation coating my mouth like sugar crystals.

Of all times and places, in a darkened garage, between a deep freeze and a shelf full of tools, I learned more about myself than I had in two decades.

I still like women. I think there’s a chance I might still even enjoy being with the right kind of woman.

.. hell, I don’t know. But either way, I’m realizing there’s a part of me that has been ignored my entire adult life so far, because it never once crossed my mind that it was something I might need.

“Kinda gotta figure my shit out, don’t I?” Ollie’s big liquidy eyes blink back at me. “But first, I better get you hungry assholes fed before you riot.” From further down the line of twenty or so stalls we’ve got, hooves stamp as my words float on the morning air.

It’s a stretch, but I can manage up here on my own.

I’ve got a handful of competitive events left in the season before winter hits, and that’s when I’ll be stuck on this mountain for the better part of several months.

Snow fronts roll in anytime from fall into spring, and during the darkest depths of winter, Devil’s Peak Ranch is frequently cut off from the world, stranded for weeks on end.

An isolated and bleak spot, while the roads shiver under layers of snow and ice, waiting to be cleared.

WiFi is shit at the house. There’s no cellphone coverage anywhere. This place is, for all intents and purposes, severed from the world for long-ass stretches of time.

So, I’m bracing myself for when winter rolls up her sleeves. I gotta make the most of these next tour stops and then keep my fitness up so I can be back out there again come spring.

The years only seem to be going by quicker, and the injuries take longer to heal.

Back when I first started out, it was like I was made from rubber, able to bounce back from anything.

Nowadays, I fucking feel it jarring deep in my bones.

The aches and pains are almost a full-time job to manage in their own right.

A race against time before the next competition kicks off.

Constantly trying to beat the ticking clock in order to be fit and ready to climb on the back of a bronc.

Determinedly hanging on until that buzzer sounds.

Thoughts of my early rodeo years inevitably bring me back to the man I’m doing my best to shove from my mind.

Raine competed in the bareback bronc division, too.

As I was coming into my own, still wet behind the ears— green as fuck, and only just getting myself out in the arena for the first time—he was the established name on our home circuit.

Zeke Rainer was the guy to look up to, and the guy everyone was trying to beat.

At seventeen and anxious to learn, I should have relished the fact my own stepbrother was the star taking out first place.

By all rights, it should have been a gift to have someone in my life to study, to learn the ropes from.

Instead, I was left eating dirt and covered in shame wherever our interactions were concerned.

He was a cocky asshole. With five years between us, didn’t he love to remind me of that fact.

How could I compare with everything he had that I didn’t?

Older. More experienced . More desired .

Everything from sponsorships to buckle bunnies, prize money to event invitations, success circled him at all times like a damn halo.

The smug prick never let me live it down. Reminding me just how easy it was to beat me any time he launched out of the bucking chute. The guy had the world and any horse he rode on a string, and I’d never been more relieved than when he took off for Canada.

But it stung like a bitch to realize the only reason I started to win was because he’d moved on from our region’s competition. If he’d been there, I’d still have been stuck watching him walk away with the buckle, the top spot, and giving me that superior fucking look as he did so.

A raised eyebrow and tip of his lips. Always the silent promise that he could see straight through me.

No surprise, we haven't kept in touch. The guy is a jerk and a selfish dick.

I certainly don’t need to spend any more time thinking about my stepbrother, or what he’s doing in Crimson Ridge. I’ve got my own life to live, and my own future ahead of me.

He left me to survive those two assholes on my own.

And that’s what I did.