Page 42 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

TRIPP

My upper body instinctively leans forward as Regal and I thunder across the outer ridge of the only bluff on the ranch. It’s miles away from anything else—which is exactly why I chose it.

I stay loose in the saddle, while my horse stretches to full speed like the wind is chasing us. Her hooves pound the dirt like war drums, and the front of my shirt clings to my skin as the back of it flares behind me.

Nothing can touch me out here. The prairie doesn’t give thought to my mistakes. It takes me as I am. It’s a toxic acceptance I don’t deserve, but I’m out here basking in it anyway.

The tension in my shoulders unravels, but not enough. I’d ride until it’s completely gone if I weren’t pressed for time today. With a gentle tug, I finally pull the reins back.

Regal’s speed fades to a smooth walk. She swings her head south like she knows we should be heading back. Leftover adrenaline still pulses in my veins as I bend to run my hand over her now sweat-soaked neck.

I let her cool down at a continued steady walk as we head back to the barn. My hair is tousled and sprinkled with flecks of dust from the ride. Running my hand through it feels nostalgic because I used to do this a lot in my teens.

It grounded me more then than it does now. The boy version of me was a ball of resentment, but the world hadn’t fully hardened him yet. These days, my frustration runs too deep to escape from.

The thin leather bag attached to the horn of the saddle shakes with vibration. I avert my gaze from the quiet expanse of land to check my phone. It’s damn pathetic the way I frown at the caller ID. Any name but Mesa’s is a letdown.

I have no right to call her myself, of course. After the things I said to her last week, I wouldn’t be surprised if she never spoke to me again.

My throat feels dry, and I’m not in the mood for an ass-chewing, so I decide to ignore the incoming call from Warren. I’ve heard enough from him and the rest of the boys over the past six days.

I listened to them, of course. I knew my only chance at fixing the mess I put myself in was to do the work and take their advice.

“Man up and stop pouting ,” they’d said. “ She won’t take you back if you don’t get your shit together.”

It’s only been a week of missing her and sitting with regret. But I spent an ungodly number of sober hours in front of the mirror just trying to convince myself I wasn’t looking at a direct reflection of my dad. She wasn’t shy about making sure I knew I was nothing like him.

Believing her felt impossible at the time.

Now, I’ve learned not to question a girl like that.

She’s not a liar, and she has no reason to feed my ego.

I’ve always trusted her, and I plan to do that more wholly in the future—especially when it comes to her calling me out on my superficial anxieties about turning into a man like my dad.

I wrote down everything Mesa said to me. It felt awkward to put her words to paper. I couldn’t humble myself enough to relive them at first, but Warren assured me it’d help. Cheesy motherfucker.

Cheesy motherfucker in a happy, healthy relationship, though. Yeah, I buried my pride and did what he told me to do.

The only valid conclusion I came to is that Mesa has put up with a constant state of whiplash from me.

Somehow, she stuck through all that and gave me the only genuine connection I’ve ever had with a girl.

As spineless as it was on my part to suggest it in the first place, I’m actually thankful we started as friends, so I can truly appreciate and recognize it now.

A light breeze dances through a line of trees as we cross a cattle guard. Two tiny white butterflies flutter around a patch of pink prairie roses by the gate. Mesa would think that’s cute.

Next time I go for a ride like this, I hope she comes with me.

My phone rings again and this time it’s Gage. I hit the red button and tuck the phone under my thigh. When it rings again, my heated curse words cause a bird to flush from a nearby tree.

Heston.

“I’m coming,” I sigh into the phone after answering.

“Cutting it a little close. Crazy thing about weddings. They have a start time, and usually, groomsmen take a shower first.”

I lower the phone and check the time. Shit. It’s one in the afternoon and we’re supposed to be ready for pictures in an hour.

“Is she here?” I ask while Savannah fixes my crooked bowtie.

She quirks an eyebrow and continues to adjust my collar. “I don’t know.”

I lift my chin to stare over her head and take a deep breath. Even after my long ride this morning, my planned words for her still don’t sound good enough. I know I’m going to try to talk to her tonight, but I don’t want to mess it all up even more than I already have by saying something stupid.

“That looks better.” Savannah steps back and places her hands on her hips. She’s in her bridesmaid dress and all done up, since we’ve already taken pictures. “Now, dry your hair off and comb it or something.”

I had to strip down and take another shower after sweating through the photo session. I behaved and followed every direction, but never quite shook the thought of getting to see Mesa today. It’s all I’ve thought about.

With a smirk, I shake my damp hair back and forth like a dog, which makes Savannah squeal and shield her face.

My role of shit-stirrer in this place hasn’t been filled by someone else, and for that I’m glad.

That part of me is still in here somewhere.

I just have to fix the rest before it can shine again like it used to.

“At least I’m not covered in sweat,” I say. “And I’ll have a hat on anyway.”

“I’m confused,” Warren interrupts from his seat by the window. He’s leaning back with his legs spread like he hates the suit he’s in as much as I hate mine. “I thought it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”

We all look to the kitchen where Gage and Blythe are standing by a counter full of finger food and blushing at each other like a couple of—well, newlyweds.

I don’t think there was ever a plan to use the bunkhouse as a bridal or groom’s suite.

The girls took over all the bathrooms. The guys got changed out here.

It’s been a mash-up of all of us since breakfast.

That’s us, I guess. It’d be weird if we were separated.

“They’ve been married in their heads since the day they laid eyes on each other. Disgusting, isn’t it?” Keanna jokes.

Blythe’s maid of honor flew in last night from Boston, but she’s been here before and knows her way around.

The jukebox plays while the wedding coordinator examines each of us to make sure that there are no final touches that need to be made. Two photographers sneak through the room snapping candid moments. Laughter bounces off the wooden beams in the ceiling, but I sit quietly for the most part.

Warren throws back half a shot, straight from a bottle, and then passes it to Heston, who’s standing nearby. I’ve never felt claustrophobic with a buzzing group of people before, but as the wedding gets closer, my neck itches and I’m tempted to go sit on the back porch for a gulp of fresh air.

My jaw works as I stare out the window. The sun hangs low as the last few arriving guests filter in across the field. My shoulders feel as tight as they were when I woke up this morning, but I roll them back anyway.

All I hear is laughter and the sound of happy people. I can’t get away from it, so I might as well join it.

“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Bets on who cries.”

“Easy,” Keanna says. “I’m taking Warren and every bridesmaid but me.”

Warren scoffs and moves to stand. “You’re on.”

Heston holds the bottle of whiskey in my direction, but I shake him off. Gage takes it from his hand instead and lifts it for a swig.

“The girls won’t cry. It’ll be these two,” he says, standing between Heston and me with his arms around our shoulders.

Blythe breaks out in laughter, making the makeup artist who’s fixing her lip liner scowl. “Oh, for sure. And you. You’ll be the worst of them all, babe.”

I’ve never seen Heston cry before and I definitely count myself out, too. Unless Mesa slaps me in the face when I walk down the aisle, you can’t make me cry at a wedding.

Gage shrugs. “I might. I’m a lucky guy.”

Normally, I’d throw out a line like, “ Pass me the nearest puke bucket .” Instead, I put myself in his shoes—a place I’ve never allowed myself to go before. If I were getting married to someone I loved as much as he loves Blythe, I might be acting the same way.

Truth is, he is lucky. I can’t blame him for admitting he might shed a tear. He’s got a sure thing on his hands, and the rest of his life will be spent with someone who will fight as hard for a happy ending as he will.

It’s good to see them get the love they deserve, and I’m not at all jealous.

The wedding coordinator whistles to get everyone’s attention. “Two minutes, people!”

Gage slaps me twice on the shoulder. “Ready?”

I chuckle and pull at the cuffs of my suit jacket. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be asking you that question?”

“No, I know how this is going to go for me,” he says proudly and runs his palm over his closely trimmed facial hair. “You, on the other hand, look like you might throw up.”

“I’ll be good,” I say.

Once I get to talk to her . . . I’ll be good.

Wade Farrow, Blythe and Warren’s dad, steps into the kitchen from the hallway—all red cheeks and sunken eyes—like he’s about to give away his baby girl. A good dad, doing good dad things.

I make a mental note to hang out with him more in the future.

Gage and he shake hands before us guys make our way out the door.