Page 6 of The Mountain Echoes

“She wishes,” Kaz growls.

Bree grabs my hand and pushes me toward the passenger side of her truck. “Come on, let’s get you to Longhorn before you say something that makes me wanna drive you into the dirt like a T-post in dry ground.”

When she tells me, as she drives, how everyone who’s anyone is probably at Longhorn, I sigh, “So, when I walk in there, everyone is gonna know I’m here.”

“Baby Cakes,” Bree snorts. “I think you’ve forgotten what Wildflower Canyon is like. Word travels fast here. Someone probably started talking the minute you stepped off the plane. Aria Delgado—home from the ashes.”

CHAPTER 2

maverick

The sisters couldn’t look more different.

Celine is a blonde, petite woman with milky-white skin and blue eyes. Her blonde hair is lush, blow-dried, the loose waves flirting with her shoulders. She’s stunning in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way.

Aria is a brunette, tall—easily around five foot ten—with the kind of posture that comes from years spent in saddles and in fields, not from ballet classes or etiquette schools. Her skin favors her father’s side of the family, a warm sun-gold tan that doesn’t fade with the seasons, and her features are strong,hardrather than delicate. Her eyes are a dark brown with hints of hazel. Her hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense French braid, with a few auburn wisps broken free to frame her rather plain face.

While Celine is wearing a lot of bling—jewelry she inherited from her mother, Aria wears only a watch and small pearl drop earrings.

Her black dress tells me and everyone else who looks at her that she doesn’t haveanycurves. Her tits are small. Her ass is passable.

Even her coat is impractical and far removed from Celine’s mink.

I watch her with curiosity, which is natural since I’ve heard a lot about her from Celine, but this is the first time I’m seeing her.

Aria doesn’t have Celine’s high-sculpted cheekbones or bee-stung lips.

Her nose is small and slightly crooked, like it was broken once and never set right.

Her eyes—wide, clear, and unblinking—aren’t brimming with tears, but carry the weight of old sorrow.

She wears no lipstick, no artifice, just a softness that feels lived-in.

By most standards, she’s plain.

Butshe stands out.

Her face may not be beautiful in the usual way, but it is…arresting.

I’m not the only one who’s thinking of the older Delgado sister. Aria is taking up plenty of real estate in Celine’s head.

“She’s only here because he’s dead,” she says mournfully as we drive to the ranch house in my Chrysler. I have one of the ranch hands driving us for the day, so the three of us are seated in the back.

“He’s her father, too,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

I don’t want to be part of the Delgado family drama, but I feel an irrational need to defend Aria.

“She doesn’t care,” Celine spits out.

I didn’t argue, but I saw the pain in Aria’s eyes. She’s grieving—there’s no mistaking that—and it was only confirmed when I watched her hang back, then lower herself to the cold earth beside her father’s grave.

She lay there, silent, curled close to the stone like a daughter searching for comfort one last time. There was something raw and childlike in the gesture, but not performative.

Aria doesn’t appear to cry for show; she mourns in quiet shadows. She holds everything in, only letting it out when no one’s looking.

Celine, on the other hand, wears grief like a costume. She plays it for the crowd. She’s good at it.

“Come on, Celine, just because she’s not wailing like you, doesn’t mean shit,” her husband snaps.