Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
We’re bumping down the dirt road toward Bayfield when my mom calls. Chance’s truck is new, shiny, and fucking huge. It’s a four-door dually, meaning it has double wheels in the back that help haul heavy shit. The windows are down, and some country singer on the radio is crooning about front porches and short skirts.
“Hey,” I say into my cell.
Chance gives me a glance from the driver’s seat and turns down the music. Miles is in the back, his blond hair—which only three days ago was styled like a city slicker—catches the breeze.
“Hi, sweetheart. How’s it going?” Mom asks.
“Good.”
“Is everyone nice?”
I laugh. “It’s not the first day of second grade. Don’t worry, I’ve only gotten into one fight.”
“What?”
I see Mom’s face in my mind’s eye. Her lips are parted into an O and her eyebrows have flown off her forehead. I took her looks instead of my father’s. We have the same dark hair and eyes.
Chance raises a brow at me and I ignore him, looking out the side window as the prairie rushes by. I doubt Chance has forgiven me for touching Carly—not that I’m going to tell him shit about our time at the secret spring—but he hasn’t thrown another punch either. He made his point and now I’m going to do what I fucking want. He might want to sucker punch me again, but I won’t let him land another.
Since our time together at the spring, I looked for Carly, cutting once through the stable like a teenager passing the cheerleader tryouts. She wasn’t there. I hope she hasn’t quit because of me. Probably not. I figure Chance would have said.
Since he hasn’t, and my nose isn’t broken, I figure he still likes me, or at least settled his issue with the punch. Hell, he’s taking Miles and me for beers, so I’d say he doesn’t hate me. For now.
Miles is cool and all, but I doubt we’ll be getting mani-pedis together when the year is up. There wasn’t much bonding at the bar the other night, and the workload Chance piled on us isn’t a get-to-know-you vacation.
“I’m kidding,” I say to Mom.
I’d rather she not worry. Besides, what kind of grown man tattles to Mommy about a bully on the playground?
Funny thing is, if our places were reversed? I’d have done the same thing as Chance. I’d protect a woman who’s been through what Carly has, just as he did. Which means I grudgingly have to like the guy.
“Really. How is it? I still can’t believe your father’s doing this to you. And the other boys.”
I mentally shrug because we’ve been over this before. “You know, you never talked much about him. Jonathan. In fact, not at all. I’m here now, so maybe you can give me some details.”
She pauses a second and then sighs. “He’s always been part of my past. Until now, so I guess you’re right. I was twenty-three and working at a bar to put myself through flight school. He came in and swept me off my feet.”
“Just like that? I mean, you married him.”
“I did. He was a nice man.” She pauses. “Until he wasn’t.”
I still. I never heard her say that before. “He hurt you?”
Chance stiffens beside me.
“Sweetheart, it’s old news. Thirty-five years, to be exact.”
I shake my head even though she can’t see. “It’s not old news. I’m in Montana because he forced me here. Pretty much extortion. He’s fucking with my life—and my brothers’ lives—from the grave.”
“I’m glad you’re thinking of them as your brothers.”
I frown. Am I thinking that? I clear the thought and get back to Mom.
“Besides divorcing you when you were pregnant, what did he do to you? I think I deserve to know now.”
She sighs and is quiet for a minute.
“Mom,” I prompt.
“Our relationship was a whirlwind. I know you don’t want to hear about your mother’s sex life, but I’ll just say it was lust at first sight. Looking back, I have to wonder if it was ever love, at least for him. We married, and I moved to Montana.”
“You stopped going to flight school?”
“I did.” She gave up her dream because she got married.
“Then…”
“Then the real Jonathan Bridger showed himself. Verbal abuse. Drinking. Womanizing. He hit me once. Only once. I was pregnant with you and I told him the good news. That’s why he hit me. Because I got knocked up. He divorced me before you were born.”
“He didn’t want kids,” I muse.
My free hand is clenched into a fist, ready to beat the shit out of the dead man who laid a hand on my mom.
She sighs. “I returned to Seattle and got through flight school.”
And never married again. It seems nothing, especially love, got in her way again. Once bitten—or beaten—twice shy.
“I’m sorry you married him,” I tell her.