Page 17 of The Wrong Ride Home (Wildflower Canyon #1)

elena

N ash lay in a plain pine coffin, the perfect kind for a cowboy to be buried in—no gloss, no polish, just wood and nails.

The undertaker had done his part, cleaned him up, and dressed him in his worn jeans, boots, and the pearl-snap shirt he wore when he cleaned up .

His old hat, the one shaped just right from years of wear, rested over his chest instead of some damn rosary.

Father McCay looked at Hunt and me with an arched eyebrow. “You both look like crap.”

“Thanks, Father,” Hunt retorted dryly.

We were exhausted and not particularly clean .

After all, Hunt and I had started before sunrise, shovels breaking the ground while the rest of the ranch slept.

It had to be this way—quiet, unseen, where no one would ask questions.

It was what Nash wanted. I wished we could’ve invited Duke, but he would’ve thrown a fit, considering he still looked at me like I was a whore and also a child of one.

Couldn’t he see what Mama gave Nash? Could he only see the ugly label of mistress and not the companionship, the support, the endless, unconditional love she gave him?

Fucking Gloria Wilder!

I hope when her time comes, she rots in hell.

My mother may have loved Nash more than anything and anyone, but she never manipulated anyone the way Gloria had every man in her life, Nash and Duke.

She kept Duke in check by playing the victim and kept Nash in check by dangling Duke’s hatred for him.

She came across as this fairy-like sweet thing, but I’d heard her conversations with Nash and knew the evil that her polished surface covered.

I didn’t think I could hate anyone as I did her this minute when a man would be buried without his son being present—without his forgiveness, his acceptance for the flawed man he was.

We all stood silently for a while. It seemed appropriate. Nash wasn’t a big talker.

Tacitly, without much drama, Hunt and I closed the casket, carefully lowering the wooden lid and pressing it down until it settled with a quiet finality.

Hunt reached for the metal latches on either side, fastening them with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who had done a hundred hard things in his life but never this.

We moved in silence, stepping toward the ropes we’d laid beneath the coffin earlier. Thick and sturdy, they were strong enough to bear the weight, just as we had to be.

Hunt took one side, I took the other. Without a word, we lifted, the wood heavy in our hands, and carefully guided the casket over the open grave. The ropes stretched, creaking under the strain, but they held—just like they were meant to, just as we had to.

The earth was dark and freshly dug beneath us, and its scent was thick and heavy in the cold spring morning air.

“Easy now,” I murmured, as we began to lower him.

The ropes groaned, sliding slowly and surely through our hands. Inch by inch, we brought Nash down into the dirt, into the place he had chosen for himself.

When the casket touched the bottom, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

We pulled the ropes back up, coiling them neatly on the side.

Nash’s grave was tucked away, out past the pastures, beneath a gnarled old cottonwood, far enough that no one would wander here unless they meant to.

Mama was already there, waiting. There wasn’t much of a tombstone for her, just a simple wooden cross, weathered and worn by years of sun and rain.

Nash had carved it himself—not fancy, just her name, Maria Rivera, and the year she was born, and the year she died.

No words. No loving woman, no devoted mother, no scripture etched into stone.

Just her name because that was all she ever really had to call her own.

The grass around had grown wild, creeping up the base, half-swallowing the memory of her. No fresh flowers, no polished marble—just earth and time, keeping her the way the land always did. Now Nash was here beside her, where he’d always belonged.

I’d carved his cross the same way he had hers—simple, unadorned, meant to stand against the wind and time. There was no grand marker, just a rough-hewn piece of cedar planted firm in the dirt.

I didn’t write beloved father. Didn’t write husband. Didn’t write friend. He didn’t want that. Just N. Wilder. Because anyone who found their way out here, anyone who knew, wouldn’t need more than that.

Father McCay let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. I suppose I should say something holy .”

“Or unholy,” Hunt chuckled, holding his Stetson close to his chest as I was.

“Wouldn’t be Nash if it was… holy ,” I murmured.

Hunt huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Father McCay nodded, looking down at the coffin.

“Alright, then.” He cleared his throat and murmured a prayer, more for his sake than Nash’s—who sure as hell never gave a flying fuck about salvation.

But the good Father was a man of duty, and saying the words were as much a part of this as the dirt waiting to cover the casket.

"Lord, we commend Nash Wilder into Your hands. He was a hard man, a sinner like the rest of us, but he was honest in his sins. He loved this land, fought for it, bled for it. If there’s mercy to be had, Lord, let it be for a man who never asked for any."

He made no plea for redemption, no flowery words about a heaven Nash wouldn’t have believed in. Just the truth. Plain and simple, like Nash would’ve wanted.

“Well, that sounded official enough,” Hunt declared, amused.

Father McCay chuckled. “That was for the Lord; this is for the man.” He let out a shaky breath. “Nash Wilder, you were a pain in my ass.”

Hunt barked out a short laugh. I didn’t. I just stared down at the coffin.

“You drank too much, fought too hard, and swore like it was a second language. But you were also a damn good cowboy. And even when you were wrong, which you were often, you weren’t wrong about giving a damn about this land.

” Father McCay paused, then sighed. “If there’s a heaven, you’ll probably have to fight your way in. ”

We all cackled at that because it was something Nash used to say.

“They won’t let me in, Father, but you know me, I’m gonna fight my way in ‘cause I hear they keep the good booze and the great broads there.” And because he’d told me, “ Maria will be there ,” and he wanted more time with her, a perpetuity.

Father choked up as he continued, “But if there’s a range on the other side, I hope the fences are straight and the cattle easy.”

Hunt tipped his hat. “Well, boss, you may not have gotten all you wanted in life, but we damn sure made it so you’ll have it in death.” His voice was rough, edged with grief that was deep .

Hunt reached down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and let it fall soft against the wood.

I did the same, the earth slipping through my fingers slowly as if I didn’t want to let go of it.

My throat burned. I swallowed the acid down.

The three of us stood there a short while until the cold started to bite and ruminated over the sorrow of the moment.

Then, without further ceremony, we finished what we started.

And then, shovel by shovel, we covered Nash Wilder the way he wanted—on his land, beneath the open sky, next to the only woman he ever really loved.

By the time the last of the dirt was settled, my hands were raw, my arms aching.

When it was done, we all stood there a moment longer.

Then, without another word, we turned and walked away.