Page 4 of Something Tangled Something True (Rosa Ranch #1)
ROOTS
I swear, I can feel his eyes burning into me as his truck stops at the gate. It takes everything in me to keep mine pinned straight ahead and not risk falling into his trance.
I cannot leave my fiancé at the altar one day and fall back into Ryder Lockhart’s arms the next—no matter how big and muscular those arms are.
Jesus, Lola, stop it! You can’t think about his arms. Eyes forward! Get to the damn stables.
Clearly, not much has changed since we last saw each other.
The pull to him is still there, same as always.
Even after the dust had settled and we’d had the time to talk about all the reasons our breakup had made sense, it still hurts to know he’d married my childhood bully.
It’s an irrational thought considering I’d deliberately hidden the extent of her torment from him, but salt in the wound, all the same.
I release a sigh when I make it inside, grabbing one of the brushes off the wooden wall, where saddles and other equipment hang off rusted nails.
Everything is in the same place it always was.
I find where Penny, Mayte’s Red Dun Quarter, stands at the last stall, her head hanging through the top of her door.
She whinnies and chuffs the closer I get.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I coo, unlatching the thick wooden stall door and leading her out.
She preens under my attention, much like she has every night since I’ve arrived.
I get to work, brushing her smooth, ruddy coat and preparing her for our nightly ride. I fully intend to make it a routine now that I’m here. At least, for as long as my body will allow.
Being at Rosa Ranch is surreal, like stepping into a place that should be familiar and comforting, yet enough has changed that it has me second-guessing myself.
After Ryder and I had broken up, I’d been too busy to visit, and in the years after, I kept my visits as short as possible to avoid Lemmon’s ire, but family dinners were unavoidable, and truthfully, I hadn’t wanted to avoid him.
He was my best friend for so long, and in the end, I’d failed him just as much as he’d disappointed me.
Knowing I’m likely here to stay is a strange reality.
It’s the place I spent most of my childhood, learning to care for the rescue animals, milk the cattle, tend to the landscaping, and everything in between.
It’s where I met some of my very best friends, snuck out of the house, and got absolutely lost in the freedom of my youth.
When I moved after graduating high school, I’d always hoped I’d come back someday, but I had no idea it would be under these circumstances.
I don’t have a clue how I’m going to make any of this work. So much has changed since I’ve been gone, and somehow, not enough. The town is still overflowing with the same hardworking, kind, and generous people I once knew. All of them are complete gossips, so I’m sure they know I’m here by now.
The ranch is still littered with memories of the past, of what I might’ve had if I’d stayed.
My unfortunate reality is, there’s no way to tell how my life would’ve panned out if I had stuck around.
These days, it feels like a black cloud constantly looms over me, waiting for me to trip up or fail at the next thing.
Maybe this time, I can learn to not do everything on my own.
I can get my life back and do the things that bring me joy.
I don’t have to do what makes me feel like I’m stuck in a revolving door of degradation, pleading, and an inevitable return to loathing and self-hatred. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Russ really was the worst, huh?
I’m still shocked that, after my parents packed up my things and hauled ass out of the city, Russ hasn’t tried to contact me.
He’s been eerily silent about this whole situation, and it makes me wonder if his family was just glad to have me gone from his life, no longer bringing their precious white-collar son into the mix of my artistic passions.
His mother had once described my aspirations as “childish dreams” I hadn’t given up on and made sure I knew that: “The term starving artist is a stereotype for a reason, dear. If you don’t give up on these fantasies of yours, you’ll wind up starving with the rest of them.
Russ can only subsidize you for so long.
” Truly, such big words for a woman who raised her child on meals from the local food pantry and worked three jobs to get him into college.
He had a beautiful childhood from what I know, but it isn’t about what you have in materialistic things—it’s about who you have. His mother seems to have forgotten that.
It wasn’t until Russ got into “trading stocks,” if that’s really what he was doing, that she suddenly had fur coats and a stick so far up her ass, you could call her a flagpole. Some days, it’s hard to believe I ever liked his family, let alone him.
I focus my attention on Penny, trying not to dwell too much on the past and look forward to the future.
I get her saddle on, and we head outside.
Penny’s a gentle horse. She doesn’t spook easily, and she’s great with kids.
I hope to still be here when Isabela is old enough to learn to ride.
Penny would be the perfect horse for her to practice on.
The sun should be setting in just over an hour, but I plan to make this ride as long as possible.
Now that Ryder’s home, and especially considering what day it is, I have no intention of making it to the main house for dinner.
So, instead, I make sure her saddle is on properly before climbing on and leading her out toward my favorite trail, just past the big red barn.
As the day ends, the wind starts to pick up, chilling my skin. The frogs and cicadas can be heard for miles, their high-pitched clicking and rhythmic croaks filling the silence. The sound takes up enough space to keep my anxious thoughts and regrets from tumbling in. It’s a welcome reprieve.
“We should probably start to head back,” I tell Penny, reluctant to put an end to our ride.
The sun is setting on the horizon, casting a stunning display of pink-and-purple cotton candy clouds around us.
The wildflowers are in full spring bloom, and the rolling hills surrounding us stretch far and wide, reminding me what an insignificant role I play in the grand scheme of life.
It’s a thought that should make me feel small and worthless, but it has the opposite impact.
Instead, it’s reassuring to know my actions are a part of a greater sum, that what I choose to do with my life won’t have some huge domino effect that’ll leave the world around me in ruins.
Leaving my fiancé at the altar only changed the trajectory of my life and his, no one else's. I refuse to feel guilty for leaving Russ; the truth is, I hadn’t been happy with him in a long time, and he made sure of that.
As if to say, “But I know someone who could make you happy,” the universe laughs at me as I hear hooves hitting the dirt trail. From the sounds of it, whoever it is is in a hurry, and I’m nearly certain I know exactly who’s chasing after me.
Some things never change. If only he’d chased me when I needed him most.
“Lola!” I hear my name from that deep, familiar baritone, and a shiver travels down my spine.It’s been a year and a half since I’d last seen him, and the sound makes my chest ache .
I whip my head around to catch a glimpse of him, and sure enough, Ryder Lockhart is behind me, seated atop Asier, the Friesian we rescued from auction my freshman year of high school. He sidles up beside me, nudging Asier to a slow stroll.
I shake my head at him, steering Penny toward the house, Asier following suit and making a big horseshoe turn as we do.
“Hey there, birthday boy,” I tease, swallowing around the lump in my throat. I run the tip of my tongue along the backs of my teeth, steadying my breathing before continuing with a charade of confidence. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Lola Lima. Aren’t you just the best birthday present I could ever ask for?” He chuckles, allowing his accent to thicken with his last few words.
Sucking my lower lip between my teeth, I worry the thin flesh before making an easy mistake that threatens to unearth all the pent-up emotions chained beneath the prison of my last relationship.
My gaze flits over him, drinking in every inch of his familiar physique, broad shoulders, biceps that ripple beneath the thin fabric of his button-down.
I trail back up to his face, cataloging each freckle, the hint of stubble along his strong jaw and square, dimpled chin.
I avoid his eyes like my life depends on it, and it just might , because those luminous baby blues have always snared me, lighting the darkest, most anxiety-riddled confines of my mind with warmth and light.
It’s a feeling like no other—toasty, inviting, and undeniably like home.
What I couldn’t possibly realize would be my downfall is the faint white scar barely hidden beneath the curve of his full lower lip, dragging me into a memory of a day I hadn’t thought about in years…
“Ryder! Hurry! We need to run faster, or we’ll never make it!” I screeched, my feet pounding against the dusty, sunbaked road as we chased after any horse's worst nightmare.
“Lols, we’ll make it!” he hollered back with a false bravado that did nothing to settle the angry swarm of bees in the pit of my gut.
I glanced at him long enough to see the way his thick brows pinch together, eyes set on the trailer ahead. My arms pumped at my sides, my calves burning as I willed myself forward. Don’t worry, big guy. We’re coming.
The massive Friesian horse was the sleekest shade of midnight black, so dark, it appeared almost blue in the hot summer sun. His mane was a stunning wave that fell below his chest, blowing in the light breeze as he stared out the metal grate, his dark eyes pleading with us to move faster.