Page 41 of The Wrong Ride Home (Wildflower Canyon #1)

duke

I stood outside the house that my father paid for with his money and blood.

It was incredible how I didn’t doubt one thing Tansy said. I believed her because, in the back of my mind, I’d always known that the story I was told had holes. But I didn’t want to see them when I was young because I couldn’t, and then it just became a habit.

I was Mama’s parent, her bulwark, her support system—and to find out that I was also her patsy was shattering. I felt like an anvil was pressing down on my chest, tearing my insides apart.

Mama had insisted that the house Nash bought her be in Highland Park, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Dallas. It was home to oil tycoons, old money, and society’s finest—only the best for Gloria Wilder.

Sure, I always thought Mama was a little vapid but not malicious. Sad and pitiable but not evil.

But I’d seen glimpses, hadn’t I? My whole life, I’d seen signs. But having your parent almost die by their own hand in front of you fucked you up good.

I was almost always worried she’d do it again, and this time she’d be successful.

Even now, I worried about that—about how she would handle the conversation we were about to have.

I had called her housekeeper, made sure she was home, and would stay there, just in case the shit hit the fan after I left.

Cheyenne had known Mama for years and understood her. Did she know about Silas? Did she know that Mama had demanded so much from Nash, using me—so successfully—as a weapon?

I walked to the front door of the 6,000-square-foot testament to excess, set behind manicured hedges and a wrought-iron gate meant to keep out anyone who didn’t belong.

Inside the house, there was a grand entryway with a sweeping staircase, marble floors that echoed underfoot, and chandeliers imported from God-knows-where. On the walls hung carefully selected art pieces done by artists that legitimized my mother as a woman of taste and style.

The whole house was curated, cold, and designed for show, not living. It included a chef-inspired kitchen Mama never cooked in, a sitting room she rarely used unless there was a party, and a library full of leather-bound books she’d never read.

When Mama first moved to Dallas, it was chaotic for me. I was only eight, and Mama cried all the time, lamenting how Nash had destroyed her life. But I continued to engage with my father whenever he visited Dallas—and ultimately, I even got to spend two summers with him on the ranch.

“I don’t want you to go there. That ranch is evil, Duke.

I can’t lose my baby. You’re all I have.

” Mama had whined time and again. Finally, when she relented, I thought it was because I’d convinced her that she couldn’t lose me, ever.

Now, I wondered about her motives. Was it as simple as she was busy those summers and didn’t mind not having me around?

The Dallas social scene had embraced Mama because she had money.

She was also charming—the perfect socialite.

I had wondered how she fit in with the rough and tumble Nash, who couldn’t say a sentence without cursing.

I had thought that was why they wanted a divorce: they were so different.

Mama was all city and fancy—while Nash thought a good evening was having dinner with the hands in the bunkhouse.

Mama attended the right galas, donated to the right charities, and surrounded herself with the right people—those who valued gossip over loyalty and reputation over truth.

Nash’s closest friends were no-nonsense ranchers like him.

They worked with their hands—knew a sunburn from a damn badge of honor.

They didn’t care about status and didn’t give a damn about appearances.

A man was measured by his work, not by who he sat next to at dinner.

Mama built a life on polished lies and careful curation. Nash built his on sweat and stubbornness, where a handshake meant more than a contract, and loyalty wasn’t just expected—it was earned.

My mother surrounded herself with people who spoke in whispers behind manicured hands. Nash surrounded himself with men who spat in the dirt and told you the truth whether you wanted to hear it or not.

They lived in different worlds, and for a long time, I hadn’t known which one I belonged to and which one I wanted to be part of. But now, I knew for damn certain, and it eased me.

Cheyenne opened the door and walked me to my mother.

“She’s been like this since Miss Fiona called her,” the housekeeper informed me on the way.

“Thanks, Cheyenne.”

“Would you be wanting something to eat or drink?”

“Just coffee. Thank you.”

She led me into the sunroom, where Mama lay in a champagne-colored silk robe on the chaise lounge, looking like Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire .

“Oh, my baby is home.” She came running to me and threw herself at me. I had no choice but to catch her. She hugged me tight. “I was so upset when you said you couldn’t come last night. I didn’t sleep a wink, and now I have a headache.”

She held my hand and took me to the sofa and sat, patting the place next to her. I did as she gestured, feeling a sense of loss so profound that I feared I’d fucking pass out because of it .

“It’s been too much, you know? The funeral…all of it.”

She wore her widowhood like a badge of honor, and the realization of it twisted my gut. Just days ago, I would have been irritated but indulgent. Now, I felt nothing but disgust.

She spun a tale of suffering and resilience to anyone who would listen, making Nash’s death into another tragedy for herself .

Poor Gloria, left all alone.

Poor Gloria, trying to move forward after everything Nash had put her through.

Poor Gloria… period. And everyone would believe every word. After all, I had.

Now, I saw the truth—or at least, I thought I did. But did I really?

A part of me had always known something wasn’t right with Mama, and that instinct had made me want to defend her. Even now, I still knew she wasn’t well, but for the first time, I wanted to protect myself instead. And that made me feel guilty.

I’d spent my life taking care of this woman—kissing her bruises, soothing her tears, coddling her insecurities. She was my spoiled parent, a burden I had carried for so long that I wasn’t sure how to set it down.

I loved my mother. Even now, even knowing what I did, even when I disliked her. And that truth sat heavy in my gut, curdled and sour, like spoiled milk.

She made small talk, bubbly stuff, and I knew she’d wait until Cheyenne was gone before she said anything important.

She was under the illusion that Cheyenne didn’t know her business.

I’d thought it was cute how clueless she was; now I found her classism and discrimination against the person who took care of her at par with how Fiona treated the ranch hands.

I poured her tea and myself coffee.

Mama took a dainty sip and set her cup down. She picked up a napkin and dabbed at the corner of her lips.

“Son, you can’t break up with Fiona.”

I settled toward the other end of the couch as if in an effort to get comfortable when, in fact, I wanted some physical distance from her.

I was not feeling well in my head and heart, which was no surprise. I was thirty years old and felt like a child again, confused about why my father didn’t live with us anymore and why my mother was always sad.

“Mama, no offense, but my relationships are not up for discussion.”

She pouted. “I knew this would happen if you went there . See how you’ve changed? You even sound like him .”

There was obviously the ranch, and he was Nash.

My father hadn’t been perfect, not by a long shot, but what I knew now and felt in my bones was that he’d loved me—more than Maria, more than Mama, or even himself. I was the one person with whom he’d been completely selfless. A fat lot of good it did him because I’d been an ungrateful asshole.

“I was at the Wildflower Canyon Rodeo.” I finished my coffee in three gulps, letting the burn in my esophagus heat up my blood.

“Once you sell that place, you won’t have to deal with all of that. Fiona says it’s going well, and you have important people like Piper Novak ready to buy.” Her eyes glinted with what now I could see was a garden variety of greed.

“Why do you like Fiona?” I asked, obviously surprising her with my question.

“Ah…she’s lovely. Comes from a good family. And she loves you.” Mama settled with a smile. “That’s the thing I like most about her, that she loves my baby.”

“Or maybe it’s because she’s so much like you?

” I suggested as a light bulb went on in my head.

I’d been dating my mother! Regardless of the fact that Fiona worked, and Mama didn’t, the two women had the same skill sets—they manipulated and were chameleons.

Mama was just like Fiona when it came to treating the help .

My mother portrayed the image of fragility, sure, but I’d seen her lose it with staff.

“Why isn’t this warm? Can’t you do at least that?”

“Get out of my room.”

“Oh, Duke, they’re all making my life impossible. I’m going to fire them all and just do everything myself.”

Mama pursed her lips. “Fiona is nothing like me. She’s a career woman, and I’m…well, you know how I am.”

“I think I do now.” I let out a deep breath and finally said what I’d come to say. “I met Tansy Hawthorne at the rodeo yesterday.”

Her face froze for an instant, and then her eyes narrowed with malice. “That woman is a slut.”

“I don’t know, Mama, she wasn’t the one having an affair with another woman’s husband.”

The silence that followed was loud, unbearably so, a pounding on the eardrums and stretched so long and hard that I could feel it pressing against my skin.

Mama’s face didn’t shift, didn’t change—not at first. It was only in her eyes that I saw it. The flash of ice and calculation before she smoothed it over, replacing it with well-practiced heartbreak.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”