Page 152 of The Mountain Echoes

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “What?”

Celine’s jaw clenches. “I hate you.”

“Why?” I ask, puzzled.

“You always made me feel like I wasn’t enough. But I convinced everyone that I was better than you. Sweet. Soft. Gentle. And prettier.”

I study her, feeling immense pity for how lost she is. “I thought you were better than me.”

“I am.”

“You’re speakin’ from both sides of your mouth, Celine. But it doesn’t matter. Longhorn is mine, and you’re here.”

She looks away, just for a second, but when she turns back, there’s a sneer in her demeanor. It’s ugly. I never saw it before, and now I can’t unsee it.

“I used to think I’d feel better if you admitted that you hated me.” All my life, I felt the weight of her disdain, Mama’s, and even Papa’s. “But now I see the truth.”

“Which is?” she asks as if bored, but there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

“You don’t matter.”

“You think you’ve won?” Celine hisses, her voice barely above a whisper. “That cowboy’s gonna get bored with your pity party and walk. Just like everyone else.”

I rise, see her through the scratched plastic partition, see her discontent. I meet her eyes one last time.

“Goodbye, Celine.”

I walk out, spine straight, chest tight. The prison door clatters shut behind me.

I don’t look back.

Outside, the air is clean, free.

Maverick’s truck is waiting at the curb, engine idling. When I slide into the passenger seat, he starts the truck.

“Feel better?

“Yeah. Much.”

As he drives us home, the fields stretch wide and green around us, and I feel it for the first time in years:peace.

CHAPTER 36

maverick

Music rolls over the open pasture, guitars twang, fiddles hum, boots kick dust into the sky as folks swing and two-step under the string lights.

Wildflower Canyon’s Summer Kickoff has got that sweet mix of ranch grit and community polish.

There are folding tables loaded with potluck casseroles, toddlers chasing each other barefoot between hay bales, and old timers in pearl-snap shirts talking about the best bull they ever owned.

We’re near the dry creek bed at Old Oak Hollow, a wide clearing under a stand of cottonwoods where someone hauls out a flatbed to use as a stage, someone strings up lights, and someone starts the bonfire ring.

We have kegs of beer and enough food to feed an army.

“When I was growin’ up, this was my favorite event,”Aria told me when we were driving over, her eyes wide with excitement.

It’s been a year since Earl passed, and with each day, she’s shed some of the sadness of the past.