Page 21 of The Wrong Ride Home (Wildflower Canyon #1)

elena

T he cabin was small and barebones. Its walls were thick pine logs, the furniture plain and sturdy. The whole place smelled like cedar and smoke from the wood-burning stove.

I didn’t have any plans for the day, except to spend it alone, fishing down by the creek where the world was quiet, untouched.

The water ran clear and cold, threading through the valley like a silver ribbon, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple of a trout rising for a fly.

Cottonwoods leaned over the banks, their branches swaying with the wind.

Birds called from the trees, a steady background rhythm to the soft gurgle of the current.

I took my fishing gear and went to the bend in the creek, where the water deepened and slowed. This time of year, it was the place to catch brown trout. The best spots were where the fish could sit, hidden, waiting for food to drift by .

Nash taught me how to fish. We’d go together and sit quietly. No unnecessary movements, no sudden splashes to spook the fish—just calm and silence.

I baited my hook with a fat nightcrawler, threading it carefully with my fingers. I could’ve used a lure, maybe even a hand-tied fly, if I felt like testing my luck, but today, I needed something simple—life was complicated enough, and fishing didn't need to be.

I cast my line, watching the gentle arc before the bait hit the water with barely a ripple. Then I waited, my hand loose on the rod, feeling, not forcing.

Fishing wasn’t about chasing. It was about stillness.

The world narrowed to the movement of the line, the slow pull of the current, and the occasional flicker of tension that told me something was curious but not quite committed.

And then—if you were lucky—the tug. A sharp pull, the sudden weight at the end of the line.

I let it take for a breath. The fight was a good one—the fish pulled hard, the rod bent, and the reel hummed as I let the trout run just enough to wear itself down before reeling it in.

It was a good-sized trout—about fourteen inches, a solid pound and a half.

Big enough for a meal, maybe even leftovers if I wasn’t too hungry.

It had taken nearly two hours to get one on the hook and a good thirty minutes to land.

A stubborn fighter, darting and diving, testing my patience and skill.

But I’d won in the end, and with brown butter, the spoils were going to be damn good.

I carried the fish up from the creek, its slick body firm in my grip, the speckled scales catching the afternoon light.

There was a cleaning station by the cabin—nothing fancy—a rough-hewn wooden table stained from years of use. A bucket was nearby to catch the scraps. The table sat in the shade of a pine tree, close enough to the creek that I could still hear the water moving.

I laid the trout down and reached for my fillet knife, the handle worn smooth from use. I worked the way Nash had taught me.

"First, cut along the belly—steady, no sawing. Then slide the blade just below the gills and run it down toward the tail in one clean motion."

I made the incision, and the trout’s warm insides spilled out into my waiting hand, fresh and briny, smelling like the creek itself. I tossed the guts into the bucket, already knowing the coyotes or raccoons would get to them by morning.

Dipping the fish into a bucket of clean water, I gently swished it to remove any blood.

"Descaling ain’t brute force, Lena," Nash had told me once, demonstrating with the back of his knife. "It’s rhythm."

I worked the blade over the fish’s skin, the tiny silver scales flaking off, catching in the setting sunlight before sticking to my hands and shirt. No matter how careful I was, I’d find them later. I always did.

With a few precise cuts, I removed the head and tail, then butterflied the fish open, pulling out the spine in one smooth motion. I cleaned it a little more before taking it inside to the tiny kitchen.

Because when I said the cabin was barebones, I meant it. Maverick had built this place for himself and those like him—people who didn’t want luxuries, just a quiet spot to fish, hunt, cook, and be.

"All it needs is salt and pepper—just enough to bring out the flavor, nothing else. This is fresh Colorado fish; it don’t need nothin’ else," Nash would say as he laid fillets over a cast-iron skillet, whether we were cooking over an open fire or in the bunkhouse kitchen.

I rubbed the trout with salt and pepper, just as he had taught me, working the seasoning in with steady hands.

Then, as the fish rested, I fired up the pan.

Soon, the rich, familiar scent of sizzling fish and butter filled the cabin, mixing with the faint smokiness of the wood-burning stove. I waited until the skin crisped to a perfect golden brown, the edges curling just slightly, before flipping it with a fork.

I threw together a salad with what I could find in the fridge. Maverick always kept this place stocked to the gills—maybe not with luxuries, but with damn good liquor and enough fresh ingredients to cook a Michelin-star meal if you knew what you were doing.

Case in point: the fresh black truffle sitting in the fridge.

If Maverick were here, he’d insist on shaving that overpriced mushroom onto the fish. But I was a purist. Butter, salt, and pepper were all fresh trout needed, just like Nash always said .

"You know why this tastes so good, Elena?"

"Why?"

"‘Cause you caught it. That’s the food that tastes best—the one you grow yourself, the one you catch."

"Is that why our steaks are so good? Because we raise the cattle?"

"You got it, pretty girl. You got it."

After I lost Duke, I lost Nash. And then, in some ways, I lost Mama. The truth was, after Duke, I lost myself.

I finished eating and cleaned up, which wasn’t hard. Mav’s barebones cabin did come with a few luxuries, including a dishwasher, and I wasn’t about to complain about that since I hated doing the dishes.

As dusk slipped in, I sat outside on the porch, a glass of Mav’s good bourbon in my hand. It was early spring, so the mornings and evenings still carried a bite.

I fired up the outdoor fireplace. The fire burned low, embers glowing red-hot beneath the stacked logs. The scent of charred wood and pine resin threaded through the crisp evening air.

Beyond the porch, the wilderness stretched wide and quiet. The creek murmured in the distance, winding its way through the valley. The towering pines stood like dark sentinels against the deepening sky, their branches rustling softly in the breeze.

The night sounds came alive slowly—the distant hoot of an owl, the soft chirp of crickets, the occasional snap of a twig somewhere in the brush. Out here, the world didn’t need words. It just was. And since there was no cell signal, my phone wasn’t going to ring or beep and ruin nature’s concerto.

I took a slow sip of bourbon, letting the warmth spread through me. Then, I watched the flames in the outdoor fireplace dance, steady and unhurried—the only company I needed tonight, along with memories of Nash…and Mama.

Since she died, I knew he wouldn’t last much longer. But he did for three long and painful years, waiting for Duke to come home.

Nash loved Mama. I didn’t doubt that. Even more than he loved his son because he kept her when letting her go would guarantee Duke’s forgiveness.

No, he decided that Duke’s departure was my fault, and that way, he could keep Mama and pretend I was to blame.

I hadn’t known about him and Mama, not until Duke told me.

Their affair had never been out in the open, but love like that was hard to hide. And yet, I hadn’t seen it, maybe I hadn’t wanted to. Who knew? I was a kid, finding myself, trying to live up to Nash’s expectations because he’d become the father I didn’t have and wanted.

I loved the man—idolized him. I didn’t want to be a housekeeper like Mama; I wanted to be a cowboy like Nash.

But after that summer with Duke, I began to notice the stolen glances between Nash and Mama, the quiet smiles when they thought no one was watching. I saw it in the way his hand would brush hers, just barely, when she passed him a cup of coffee in the morning.

Mama had been so happy with Nash, so much so that she hadn’t cared that he didn’t legitimize their relationship. And Nash—rough and unyielding—softened around her in a way I never saw with anyone else.

I sometimes caught them tucked away behind the barn or standing too close by the corral, whispering low enough that only the wind could hear them. He never took her to town, never let anyone call her his, but everyone knew.

They belonged to each other, even if the world refused to let them have it.

The night Mama died, Nash lost himself.

I found him in his office, a bottle of whiskey already half-gone, his breathing uneven.

"She’s gone, pretty girl." His voice had cracked. "She’s gone."

He never cried, not in front of anyone, but he did with me that night. I put my hand on his back, and for the first time in my life, he let me comfort him.

But Nash was a complicated man. He loved me because I was his Maria’s. He liked me, trusted me, relied on me—and he resented me because I had ruined his relationship with Duke. If I hadn’t been with Duke, he would’ve come back, that was his assessment.

He told me he was being unfair to me when he was drunk. And when he was sober, he made sure I knew he meant every harsh word he sent my way .

But I stayed. I took care of him because I’d promised Mama, and I kept my word—it was all I had to give.

“Let the bad memories go,” Mama whispered as she lay dying. “Keep the good ones. And…forgive me, mija .”

I didn’t ask what she needed forgiveness for. I knew.

She wanted absolution for putting Nash ahead of me, for keeping me tied to Wildflower Canyon, for not protecting me from the man she loved.

So, I shook off the bad and focused on the good.

I smiled, remembering how Nash taught me to ride—to sit deep in the saddle and trust the horse beneath me, to read the land, to sense a storm before the first cloud touched the horizon. He showed me how to drive cattle, mend a fence, and break a green colt without breaking its spirit.

"You’re tougher than you look, kid," he said when I took on my first horse. "Might make a cowboy out of you yet."

I smiled to myself and raised my glass to the stars.

"Goodbye, Nash. Take care of Mama."

I drank to that, letting the bourbon warm me from the inside out.

And then, just like that , I let him go.

I let all of it go.

Duke had never been mine to keep, and I would never love anyone like that again.

Some people only got one great love, and he was mine.

However, I wasn’t going to let the past prevent me from living my life.

I was going to leave Wildflower Canyon. I’d find a place of my own.

Make friends. Maybe fall in like with a man and build a family, a different kind than the one I’d lost.

I finished my drink, set the glass down, and let the sounds of the forest settle me.

I was alone.

But hell, that wasn’t anything new. I’d always been alone except for one summer a decade ago when I’d made a friend and found my soulmate—until he’d left, and once again I was…alone.