Page 21 of The Lilac River (Silver Peaks #1)

What Hurts the Most – Rascal Flatts

Nash

I nsomnia was hell when you had to be up at five to ride the high ground and check cattle.

But it wasn’t just the lack of sleep gnawing at me, it was the way memories had a habit of slipping in when the world was quiet.

The kind you tried to bury with hard work and dusty miles, but they still found their way in.

Especially the ones with blue eyes and a laugh that still echoed in my chest at the worst times.

We were lucky, though. Our land sprawled far and wide to give me plenty of thinking time.

The bonus was that I could do it all on horseback with no one else around.

We just raised cattle and trained horses for ourselves, no permits, no off-roaders, just us and the range.

We leased a few parcels of land to local farmers but never sold grazing rights.

Our cattle could wander for miles, and it was our job to track every damn inch.

Hours in the saddle under a blazing sun wasn’t great after a sleepless night but it certainly salved the soul. Unlike the message I’d gotten from my old man:

The Mayor

Nash, make sure you and your brothers are at the house at seven this evening. We need to talk about the ranch.

No please. No thank you. Just a command like we were soldiers in his private army. When I forwarded it to Gunner and Wilder, they sent back matching middle finger emojis from opposite sides of the property. That about summed up how we all felt about him.

"Another dead calf, Nash," Mitch said, tipping his hat back to wipe the sweat from his brow. "That’s three now."

My stomach sank. "Same as the others?"

"Yep. Mountain lion."

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. "Shit."

Mountain lion attacks were rare around here, but we had a stubborn one. One that had developed a taste for veal.

"What I wouldn’t give for a quiet hiking weekend in Booney," I muttered. "Not that I could hike far these days."

"Knee giving you grief again?"

"Too many hours in the saddle. Not enough time doing the physical therapy Doc keeps harping about."

Mitch chuckled. "Take an ice bath. Milly swears by ‘em. I think she just likes seeing my balls shrink to bullets."

I laughed despite myself. "Maybe she’s just trying to stop you from knocking her up again."

He tipped his hat. "Too late. Number six is already baking. Getting the snip next week."

"You poor bastard."

"No sympathy," he said over his shoulder as he rode off. "Go dunk yourself before you seize up, boss."

I leaned forward and gave Ponti a grateful scratch on the neck. "Let’s get you home, boy."

Ponti, short for Adam Pontipee. Bertie had named him after her favorite character in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Wilder had drawn the short straw with his horse, Alice Elcott.

Bertie had been deep in her naming phase.

Gunner's horse got spared, he’d already named his peanut-butter-colored gelding Peanut.

Thinking about Bertie made the ache in my knee fade a little. If I had her, I could weather anything.

Well, anything except maybe Lily Jones and that kiss at the weekend that I couldn’t stop replaying.

By the time we reached the house, my knee felt like it was being gnawed on by a bear. I needed to invest in one of those ice tubs with a lid, just to stop Bertie from turning it into a Barbie swimming pool.

I was about to dismount when the pounding of small feet hit the porch.

"Daddy, Daddy! I need to ask you something real big!"

Sunlight filled my chest. Bertie barreled toward me in a dress that had seen better days, smeared with chocolate, dirt, and probably Jello. My heart walked around on two legs, sass and spark wrapped up in a ponytail.

"And good afternoon to you, too, munchkin."

She grinned, her arms wrapping around my legs.

"Good afternoon, Daddy," she parroted, eyes gleaming. "So can I ask now?"

"Hit me."

She beamed. I spotted a new gap in her teeth. "Hey, you lost a tooth!"

"That’s nothing," she said with a wave. "Almost swallowed it, but Miss Gray made me spit it out. Not ladylike, but totally necessary."

Lily.

Her name punched straight through me, dredging up memories I had no business letting surface.

Her laugh echoing through lavender fields.

Her lips brushing my ear, whispering promises she never kept.

The way she used to hum when she thought I was asleep.

That ache in my chest that never really went away, not even when I buried it under parenting, ranching, and pretending I didn’t still think about her.

"Anyways," Bertie continued, oblivious to the storm inside me, "Miss Wright talked to me today."

"Principal Wright?"

"Yep! She wants to know if my class can visit the lavender farm."

I froze. The lavender farm.

That field wasn’t just flowers. It was history. It was Lily. The first time I told her I loved her was in the middle of that violet sea, her hair catching the wind, our bodies wrapped up in sun and secrets.

Now her class would be walking those same rows. She’d be walking those same rows. Lily, back in the place we broke and bloomed.

And suddenly I was back there, seventeen again, chasing her through rows of blooming purple, the sky split open with golden dusk. She tackled me from behind, and we fell into the soft earth, laughing. She said it smelled like summer and magic. I told her it smelled like her.

The memory didn’t just sting, it scalded.

Back then, the lavender field had felt like the edge of the world. Now it felt like a ghost that hadn’t learned how to leave me alone.

"Well, Daddy?"

I blinked. The memory fled.

I forced a smile, each muscle fighting me. "Yeah. Tell her it’s good. Just have Miss Wright email me."

"Are you gonna do something cool? Like horse tricks?"

"You ever seen me or your uncles do tricks?"

"No. But you asked about the date, so I figured you had a plan for something inedible."

“I think you mean incredible, Munchkin.”

“That’s what I said. So, can I tell her yes?”

I ruffled her hair, laughing. "I just need to make sure Shane knows."

And make sure I wasn’t there.

"Okay! Tree house time?"

"Careful, Munchkin."

"Love you!"

"Love you more."

She ran off singing Bless Your Beautiful Hide like she was auditioning for Broadway.

The evening sun bled into the windows of the big house. The shadows stretched long across the polished floors as we sat around the oversized dining table.

"What do you want, Dad?" Gunner asked, no warmth in his voice.

The Mayor, our father, our burden, sat at the head like a king ready to dispense punishment.

"We need more money," he said without preamble.

I lounged back, feigning ease. "And how do you propose we do that, considering we’re already working ourselves raw?"

"Funny," he said, eyes narrowing, "you had time to play at the elementary school."

"Supporting my daughter," I shot back. "You should try it sometime."

Wilder snorted. Dad’s glare found him.

"Wilder. Act your age."

"Thought this was a family meeting, not a campaign rally."

I sent Wilder a subtle shake of the head. Not now.

"So, what's the big plan, Dad?" I asked. "Apart from gutting the lavender farm."

He slid a manila folder across the table.

"We turn Last Creek into a dude ranch."

The room went dead.

"No fucking way," I said, voice like gravel.

"You serious?" Gunner leaned forward. "You want Wall Street tourists breaking my horses?"

"Do you know how humiliating that would be?" Wilder looked ready to vomit. "Turning our home into a selfie spot for influencers?"

Dad slammed his palm down. "I own this ranch. You boys work for me."

My jaw tightened. My fist clenched on the table, knuckles pale.

"We are this ranch," I said, standing. "You just show up to bark and threaten. Mom made this home. Not you."

A flicker of something passed through Gunner’s eyes.

Pain, maybe. Recognition. His gaze flicked toward the empty wall where her portrait used to hang, before Dad replaced it with soulless art no one cared about.

I still remembered the way she smiled in that photo, soft and proud, clutching a sprig of lavender like it meant something. Like we all did, once.

"Next summer," Dad said flatly. "It’s happening."

"Over my dead body." I shook my head. “Not. Fucking. Happening.”

“Have you even thought about this?” Wilder shook his head, despair in his eyes.

“Because contrary to what you think, I have a decent head for business. I know how much things cost. I mean there’s lodges for the people to stay in.

A kitchen to make food for them. Staff to take care of them.

” He counted them all off on his fingers, his nostrils flaring with fury. “There’ll be laundry, cleaning?—”

“Okay,” Dad snapped. “I am aware of the details. That’s why I have some consultants lined up to come and look around. They’ll give us costings and projections on the profit we can make.”

I shoved the file back at him. “You can take that with you. We don’t need it.”

He stood, his hands hanging from his hips and stared down at each of us in turn. Intense and demanding. Steely and uncompromising. "Unless you have another solution, it’s dude ranch or sell."

At the door he turned, hand on the doorknob. "And the lavender farm is going, no matter what."

My chair screeched back as I stood, heart thudding.

"Like hell it is."

He left.

Silence.

Gunner rubbed his temples. "Do we actually need the money?"

"No," Wilder said. "Checked the accounts. We're stable. Don’t get me wrong, more money would be great, but we don’t need it."

“Wilder’s right.” I nodded. "But you know who probably doesn’t have liquidity?"

"Dad."

"Exactly."

"So, the dude ranch..."

"It’s a cover," I said. "Makes the ranch look profitable. More attractive to buyers."

Wilder groaned. “A report from the consultants saying how profitable it could be will drive the price right up.”

“Fuck,” Gunner hissed.

“Yep, fuck,” I replied, my heart sinking down to my feet. “The only intention he has is to sell the place. He has no plans whatsoever to try and make this place work.”

Wilder scratched the back of his neck and grinned. “Remember you mentioned about having him killed, is there any chance we could give him something to bring on a heart attack?”

Gunner groaned. "Wild, you’re terrifying."

"You're welcome." He pushed out of his seat. “Anyone want a beer?”

I clapped him on the back. "Forget the beers. Let's crack shithead’s Macallan."

They grinned. But even that didn’t wash the bitterness off my tongue.

Because deep down, I knew one thing:

The lavender field and the ranch weren’t just land. They were memories. They were assurances. And if he took that from us… from me… it wouldn’t just be a sale.

It would be erasure.