Page 12 of Then You Happened
“Prick,” I mutter, hating Jack for no other reason than he called me out on failing at the ranch. Okay, there was also a bit of dislike that he’d walked away when I really needed him to stay. Not that I blame him after the way I’d acted.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing how crazy I sound, and yet, simply being too exhausted to care.
I’ve been busting my ass, trying to make this work and having to figure things out as I go. God forbid, anyone in this town ever offer any advice other than to tell me I should sell and move back to where I came from.
And I’m the cold-hearted bitch who’s too good for them?
The thought grates harder than the stacks of correspondence from the bank inside and the voicemails filling my phone that tell me I’m about to lose my ranch.
I storm through the house, feet stomping on the hardwood floors in an attempt to try to make myself feel better. Isn’t that the best part about living alone? You can do what you want, and there is no one there to tell you that you’re overreacting.
But I am.
Because all I hear are Jack’s criticisms and all I see is that taunting smirk on his handsome face. I bet he can’t wait to run back to Ginger’s Bar to tell everyone how much I’m failing or how I don’t even know how to store my feed correctly.
My temper rages like a damn inferno within me. My insecurity about if I’m doing this right and my stress over always having bill collectors at my throat probably aren’t helping, but Jack’s criticism on something so damn simple sets me off. Gritting my teeth, I pass closed door after closed door—memories I’m not sure I want to remember or erase contained behind the slabs of wood—as I walk down the hall, push out the back door, and head toward the stable. I only have one goal, which is to prove him wrong.
I’m out of breath when I reach it. The bales of hay are stacked neatly inside, the bags of feed dry but lying haphazardly on the floor beside them. The color-coded buckets for grain and supplements are on the floor where I threw them when I saw the text from him saying he was on his way.
“Screw you, Jack Sutton,” I mutter as I grab the first fifty-pound bag of feed and drag it to its proper location.
One bag after another, I do my best to stack and arrange them despite their weight and my small stature.
There is no satisfaction in the work, no release from the pain still burning bright inside me, and no reprieve from the chaos that the upending of my world started well over a year ago.
I do the tedious task.
The work I never thought in a million years I’d have to carry out is my only focus.
It’s either I do it or I lose the only thing I have left—this place. I gave up everything else already.
I hate you, Fletcher.
The refrain fills my mind as I force myself to ignore the sadness that comes with it. The life I thought we had versus the life we really lived. The all-encompassing truth that follows right behind it, which is that I walked into our marriage knowing what I was walking away from without ever imagining that some five-plus years later I’d be standing alone.
Shoving away the first tear that slips down my cheek, I pretend like hell that the hole in my chest isn’t real when I swear it is. It’s been there ever since Sheriff Chatsworth rang my doorbell and said the words that will forever be etched in my mind.
“There’s been an accident, Tate.”
The shattering of my heart was different then, though. I was mourning the loss of my husband and best friend. Little did I know how my feelings for him would change when the truth came out. Little did I know how my world would be forever different.
I hang my head down to try to catch my breath, shove away the anger, and I remind myself that I won’t give up, that I won’t lie down without a fight, not even when it feels like that’s all I’ve been doing for the past year. Fighting. Willing. Surviving.
Because maybe Jack Sutton was right.
I need help. This place needs help—more than I can give it all by myself. If I plan to keep it, I don’t have any other choice than to get some. That means I’ll have to continue to ignore the gossip in town and how the Destin twins and Jed from the feed store seem to thrive on spreading it.
None of them know just how long it has taken me to slowly climb out of the hole Fletcher dug us into. They have no clue that it’s taken me countless hours of sweat and tears, of questioning and blaming myself, to get the ranch and its finances to where they are . . . or that it’s still nowhere near enough.
I’m still on the verge of losing everything.
I’m not sure that I’ll ever get back above water, but I’ll never give up.
The part of me that walked away from her family for a man she was desperately in love with needs to prove that it wasn’t all for nothing. That I can take the dream my husband failed to attain and make it not only my own but also successful.
That I can show the citizens of Lone Star I’m not who they say I am.
That I can prove that I’m more than just a trophy wife.
