Page 69 of Apple of My Eye
Until then, Forest Grove, be good to each other.
You have always been worth writing about.
With love, always —
The Forest Grove Gossip Gal
(Retired)
#ForestGrove #ThatsAWrap #TheHatSaysEverything #TrustTheProcess #SilverCountyStrong #SheWasRight #GoodbyeForNow #IsThisTrulyTheEnd #StayTunedForMore #FallorNothing #CowboyCarter
Epilogue: Fall or Nothing
Chris Magnus, ODRR Owner
“All right.Who is ready to eat?” I announced, removing the meat from the barbecue. Minutes later, my family gathered around the picnic table and ate and talked and giggled our way through the meal. The evening had cooled slightly with the sun making its way behind the mountains. Another few months and snow would cover them. So I’d hold on to this moment as long as I could.
Only a sound cut through my peaceful evening—an engine roaring up our long driveway, tires spitting gravel.
“What the hell?” I muttered, setting down my fork full of potato salad.
Nikki frowned. “Are we expecting anyone?”
“No.” Irritation pricked at the back of my neck. We lived a mile off the main road specifically for privacy. Nobody just dropped by.
The engine revved louder, more aggressive. Whoever was driving was going way too fast for our winding mountaindriveway.
“Stay with the kids,” I told Nikki, already moving toward the front of the house.
I rounded the corner just as a sleek red sports car—some Italian thing that had no right being in the middle of Montana—came screaming up the drive. It skidded to a stop, throwing up a cloud of dust that settled over everything like a bad omen.
My jaw clenched. The windows were too dark to tell who it was, but I knew the type of person who drove it. Someone I could never be. I cared more about my ranches, horses, and family, and using my millions for good, as opposed to filling a garage full of shiny, useless cars.
A moment too long later, as if the driver had purposely kept me waiting, the door opened and out stepped Carter Magnus.
My half brother appeared exactly like I remembered from the last time I’d run into him in a private jet hangar a few years back, same expensive sunglasses, highlights in his hair, and that entitled air that came from never having to work for anything in his life. Only then he’d had a few women hanging all over him, jetting off to a party in Ibiza or some shit.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The words came out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t care.
Carter pulled off his sunglasses, and I caught something in his expression I’d never seen before. Desperation.
“Good to see you, Chris. I—” He stopped, seeming to struggle for words. “I know we’re not exactly close.” His slight English accent could only carry him so far.
“Close?” I snickered. “Carter, the few times our paths crossed, you treated me like I was nothing better than the dirt under your boo—” I peered down at his feet. “Your Italian leather loafers.”
“You know I was just following Hugh and Oliver’s lead, right? I never took the time to actually get to know you. And, well, I’d like to now.”
“I believe you three called me the bastard half brother who didn’t belong.”
He flinched. Good.
“So I’ll ask again. Why the fuck are you here? And how did you even find my place?”
“Mick told me where you lived,” he admitted.
I’d have to remember to give Mick, the only half brother I cared about, a piece of my mind about this.
Carter stepped forward, removing something from the back pocket of his tan Bermuda shorts. They rode low on his hips, a polo shirt finishing his look—his damn collar upright with a polo player on the chest—that was more suited for an afternoon drink at the country club than here.
