Page 19 of The Wrong Ride Home (Wildflower Canyon #1)

I knew exactly what he’d done with it—Hunt had told me in great detail.

Kaz had bought up ten-thousand acres of prime land, ripped out the working cattle operation, and turned it into some high-end, glorified playground—hunting, private lodges, a place for men with too much money to pretend they knew a damn thing about ranching.

Now, I was starting to sound like Nash.

I took a slow sip of whiskey. "Yeah. I’ve seen it."

She smiled. "Then you know he has a vision, which is also mine."

“I suggest breakfast at Blackwood Prime,” Fiona said smoothly. “Should we say around nine?”

“Sounds good,” Piper replied, but she looked at me as if she could see that I was having doubts. “Kaz will be with me.”

“The more the merrier.” I looked her in the eye and let her see what I wanted her to see. Avarice !

I met with more people and then some more—Fiona leading the way, ensuring that I locked in about two weeks’ worth of meetings in one afternoon at my father’s fucking wake.

I couldn’t wait for people to get the hell out of the house, I thought as I watched a group of white-haired, pot-bellied men on the back terrace, talking about investments and tax benefits, about how much land would be worth once the right people took control.

I was sick of all of it, I realized—and probably had been for a long time but hadn’t noticed, or allowed myself to feel it until the crisp air of Colorado thrummed through my arteries.

There were air kisses and handshakes that meant nothing. Men who had never set foot on a ranch talked about developing the land like a portfolio instead of the wild terrain it was.

I looked down at my glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. I’d been nursing this for the past two hours. There was a hollowness in my stomach, and every time I closed my eyes, the words “ My father is dead ” screamed in my mind.

I knew that everything in my world was a performance, and I’d been playing my part for so long that I wasn’t sure if I even knew where the act ended and I began.

I should’ve been mingling, talking numbers, securing the right deals, but I told Fiona I’d had enough, and she said she understood, but I knew she didn’t.

She believed my bullshit that I didn’t care about my father or his home, that I didn’t give two fucks about the ranch.

I couldn’t blame her. After all, I’d believed my own bullshit, hadn’t I?

“Baby, isn’t everything wonderful?” Mama snuggled up to me, and I slid an arm around her frail, petite body.

Wonderful? Woman, your husband is fucking dead, for the love of everything holy.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Itzel did a great job arranging everything.”

It wasn’t Itzel. It was Elena, I’d learned, but I didn’t disabuse Mama of that notion. She’d lose her shit, and I’d have to be around listening to her cry for hours straight while she talked about how she wished she was dead, how she wished I hadn’t saved her.

Did I think my mother manipulated me with that shit? Yeah, I knew she did. But the fact was that she was not able to handle the realities of life and lived in a bubble. I’d keep her there for the rest of her life because she was my mother, and despite all her failings, I loved her very much.

My unease grew as she droned on about meaningless nonsense—how incredible the canapés were, especially the Wagyu beef ones. But her words barely registered because she didn’t have my attention. I was looking for her even though I had told her not to come, told her she wasn’t invited.

Yet, I searched the room, waiting for a glimpse of dark hair, a sharp mouth, and that familiar defiance in her chocolate-brown eyes.

Her not being here shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Of all the people at the house, including me, Elena was the only one who seemed to be genuinely grieving Nash Wilder.

Unable to stand it any longer, I left the ranch house before I could talk myself out of it (or Fiona stopped me), shedding some of the grief of losing a parent with every step across the darkened yard.

I went to the bunkhouse, looking for her , though Hunt had told me Elena had taken the day off and gone to some cabin owned by Maverick Kincaid.

Was he with her?

That thought burned my insides, though I had no right to feel that way. I’d brought a woman along to Wildflower Canyon—and had flaunted her in front of Elena. Just like I’d known the impact she’d have on me, I suspected I had the same on her.

How could a love affair from all those years ago still bring me to my knees—how could it still bring her to hers?

I could still remember the gut-wrenching sobs she’d let out by the river, and it had given me no pleasure at all. I didn’t like seeing her hurt. That had been a surprise because I’d assumed I would. I didn’t like seeing her in pain. I never had, no matter if I’d caused her plenty of it.

Elena was in my blood like I was in hers. And if I could fuck Fiona and so many others before her despite the woman beating inside me like a pulse, she could do the same—so, if she was in the cabin with Maverick and he was fucking her brains out, I just had to accept it.

All that sounded good in theory, but the minute I even thought about Elena naked with another man, I felt nausea churn inside me. Is this how she felt when she saw me with Fiona?

I had to get rid of her…Fiona, not Elena, because there was no getting rid of her . I was coming to terms with that truth about myself.

I’d spent ten years without her, and I was exactly where I started, begging for her attention the minute I breathed the same air as her, even as I kicked at her because I blamed her for things out of her control and mine.

In my head, I understood it. In my heart, not so much. For a man who thought he was heartless and was an objective unemotional sumbitch, I was undoubtedly behaving like a pussy in a rom-com movie.

I found myself outside the bunkhouse. I could hear the low rumble of voices, the clink of poker chips, and the occasional burst of laughter.

I didn’t bother to knock. No one did that when they entered a bunkhouse, even my absent cowboy ass knew that.

The air inside was thick with the scent of whiskey, leather, and the remnants of the day’s work—sweat, dust, the faint char of grease from the mess hall next door.

Boots were kicked off near the door and lined up in a lazy, uneven row. Someone had slung a jacket over the back of a chair, and the long wooden table by the far wall was covered in half-empty coffee cups, a deck of playing cards, and the kind of mess only working men left behind.

I knew this place .

I’d spent two summers here, back when I was just another kid trying to prove I belonged. Before the suits, before the land deals, before my last name meant something to the people around me. Because on Wilder Ranch, I wasn’t the owner’s son—I was just Duke, the kid trying to keep up.

I remembered early mornings before sunrise, piling in for coffee before heading out to work.

I remembered the long row of bunks in the back, where the ranch hands crashed after twelve-hour shifts.

The stove always ran hot, and Miss Patsy kept coffee on even when the sun was high, feeding anyone who wandered in.

In ranch country, you were measured on your grit. On how early you got up, how well you rode, how steady your hands were when doctoring a calf. On whether you could pull your weight, take a hit, and get back up without whining about it.

It didn’t matter who your daddy was. Out here, the land didn’t give a damn about your pedigree. Either you earned your place, or you didn’t.

This was where Nash used to come at the end of a long day—not the house, not the office, but here. He’d sit at the card table, boots propped up, drinking cheap whiskey and playing poker with the men who worked his land.

And now I was intending to do the same. I wasn’t sure if that meant something. I just knew it felt better than standing in a room full of men who wanted to carve up my inheritance .

I waited for a beat, wondering if I had the right to go into the bunkhouse like Nash used to.

“…all I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t got Nash to hide behind anymore,” Sawyer’s voice carried, smug and full of malice that sat wrong in my gut. “And we all know the new boss ain’t exactly her biggest fan.”

“Elena is terrific,” Ben remarked. He was the kid who worked in the stables.

“Elena is a cunt,” Sawyer snapped.

My jaw tightened. That son of a bitch needed his ass handed to him, and on a daily fucking basis.

“Boy, you need to shut the fuck up about Elena,” Cal said.

“What she suckin’ you off?—”

There was a big thump and some snickering.

“Hey, Cal, cut that shit out,” Sawyer cried out.

“Then you shut the fuck up,” Cal replied.

There were a few chuckles. Someone shuffled a deck of cards.

“I’d watch your mouth, Sawyer,” Hunt’s voice cut through the room, low and edged with warning.

Sawyer scoffed, “Just callin’ it like I see it, Hunt. She walks around here like she’s in charge. Thought maybe the boss would set her straight.”

A chair scraped against the floor. I didn’t need to see Hunt’s face to know he was staring Sawyer down.

“That woman works harder than you ever have, boy. And she is in charge,” Hunt said, his voice low.

Before Sawyer could respond and say something else that made me want to break his jaw, I stepped into the bunkhouse.

The men were at ease, dressed the way I used to be that summer—dusty jeans, work-worn boots, sleeves rolled up, not a fucking cufflink in sight…well, except the ones I wore, along with the dress slacks and white shirt. I’d at least gotten rid of the suit jacket and tie, so that was something.

They all looked up at me, and for a beat, silence hung heavy in the room.