Page 13 of Then You Happened
Another small part of me yearns for the ignorance and oblivion in which I used to live, and I shake the thought away by hefting another bag of feed that’s almost half my body weight.
It’s hard to live in a place where there are so many things that remind me of him—his footprints in the concrete we poured outside of the stables, the fence rail that is still broken from where the horse spooked and he fell through it, our last name carved in the rail on the porch, the bed I sleep in—and not get bogged down with them all.
Not to hate as fiercely as I thought I loved.
Not to question my judgment when before I trusted blindly.
I use the back of my hand to try to shove the tears off my face, but I know that, even with dry cheeks, I’ll still feel the defeat that is seated deeply in my bones.
A horse neighs out in the paddock, and the sound forces me to move because standing here sure as hell isn’t going to fix a damn thing.
“No rest for the weary,” I murmur as I pick up the pails and head over to the washbasin.
Channeling all of my frustration into scrubbing the stubborn residue and grime off the buckets, I tell myself not to think of him.
The problem is that I’m not sure which him I’m referring to: Fletcher, who brought me to Lone Star and lived a lie with me, or Jack, who thinks he can just show up and tell me what to do and how to run this place.
“Christ, Tate. You are losing your mind,” I say with a laugh because I know Jack said none of that.
None at all.
And yet, that’s what I heard in every single nuance of his tone, in just that lone lift of his eyebrow.
Jack wins, and my thoughts, the brunt of my temper, and the obstinance that goes hand in hand with my pride turn their focus to him.
Screw you, Jack Sutton.
I can do this by myself.
I have been.
So, I scrub until my arms ache and my hands hurt, and when I’m done, I feel no better for the time put in. Hell, the damn horses aren’t going to care if there’s a stubborn speck of mud on the inside of their pail. They aren’t going to care if the water I add to bind the supplements to their feed is lukewarm or cold.
They aren’t going to care about any of it.
And that’s when it hits me. How could Jack have seen any of this when it’s all inside the stable? How could he pass judgment on how my feed is stored when he never ventured this way in the first place?
I watched his every step from the moment he stepped out of his truck.
All six foot plus of him with that dirty-blond hair that curled at the back of his neck and the swagger he walked with. My eyes were on him until he strode up to my porch and set those chocolate-brown eyes on me.
And I thought I was in control of this situation right up until he played me like a damn fiddle.
“The feed isn’t stored properly, my ass,” I mutter.
I was firing him, and he was arguing with me, and hell if he didn’t work me up so much that I fell for his bullshit accusation.
Hell, he’s probably sitting in Ginger’s right now, telling them all how he put me in my place and I didn’t even know it. They’re probably laughing at how I’m running around the ranch like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to fix all the things he mentioned so that no one knows.
Screw you, Jack Sutton.
I hang my head and laugh with only the horses to hear. I laugh until tears fill my eyes and my stomach hurts because isn’t this par for the course? Isn’t this how I’ve felt since Fletcher died? Like I have everything under control when someone else is there to remind me that I don’t?
If I didn’t think I’d gone crazy before, now I certainly do. Laughing and crying and hating and regretting.
I shake my head. Well played, Jack. Even though I hate him, I still have to admire him for having the last word.
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