Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Growing up here was idyllic, to say the least.
Until we kids—though we’re all grown now—learned the secrets of our family history.
Until I learned that my grandfather basically bought me from my birth mother and gave me to my father.
Not that I have a problem with that.
I love Marjorie Steel Simpson as much as Dave, Sage, and Angie do, and I consider her my mother.
But lately—maybe it’s because of what I’m going through—I’ve been thinking a lot about my birth mother.
It’s not a good story.
She was a Las Vegas showgirl whom my father impregnated. They got married, and she ran off with—seriously—a pizza delivery guy.
My uncle Joe, Dad’s best friend, once joked it was like a bad porn flick.
Then he saw me standing in the doorway—I was thirteen or so at the time—and he shut up.
To this day, I don’t know if he knows I heard him.
I never asked my dad about it. We don’t talk about her. In his eyes, she never existed, and I always belonged to him and Marjorie.
My grandfather—my father’s father, Tom Simpson—was an attorney and one-time mayor of Snow Creek.
He was also a pedophile and a rapist.
My other grandfather, Bradford Steel, wasn’t exactly an honest businessman.
As for my birth grandfather on my mother’s side, I know nothing about him.
It’s not all wine and roses in the Steel family, though to the outside, it certainly looks that way.
Our ranch is the gold standard for Colorado. For the nation, really. If people only knew our true history.
Angie and Tabitha return to the deck, leaving Sage in the kitchen.
“I thought maybe we could show Tabitha around the ranch,” Angie says.
“That’s a pretty big undertaking,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Not the whole ranch. We can’t get to the orchards or the vineyards by walking. But we can get to the nearest barn. We could show her the horses.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse,” Tabitha says.
“Henry’s a great rider,” Angie says. “I bet he could give you some pointers.”
I see where this is going. “A few pointers doesn’t make you able to ride a horse,” I say dryly.
“That’s not what I mean,” Angie says.
I glance at Tabitha.
Her pretty face is crestfallen.
Now I feel like a jerk.
“All I mean is that if you’ve never been on a horse, a few pointers aren’t going to do you any good.” I swallow. “If you actually want to learn to ride—”
“No,” Tabitha interrupts me. “I wouldn’t want to put you out in that way.”
Okay.
Now I’m a jerk times ten.
“Come on.” Angie tugs on Tabitha’s arm. “We’ll take a walk over to the nearest horse barn. It’s not far, and that’s where my horse lives. She’s a gorgeous mare named Penelope.”
“If it’s no trouble,” Tabitha says. “I’d love to see them.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
I let out a sigh. “I’ll take her.”
“You will?” Angie says.
“Yeah. I’m sorry,” I say to Tabitha. “I didn’t mean to sound like such a jerk. I mean, if you really want to learn how to ride a horse, it’s not that difficult. I’d be happy to teach you.”
She looks into my eyes for a few seconds before blinking quickly and answering. “No, I’m here for the wedding. Someday, maybe. I understand you can’t learn to ride a horse in an hour or anything. I’m not stupid.”
“I would never think you were stupid.” I attempt a smile. “Anyone who can get into medical school is far from stupid.”
Tabitha merely shakes her head. “But I’d still love to see them, if you’d like to take me.”
Angie looks to me and then to Tabitha. Then to me again. She tilts her head—only slightly, but I notice.
She’s asking me if I’m sure.
But I am. It’s the least I can do for being an asshole.
“You mind going without me?” She bites her lip. “I just remembered there are some phone calls I need to make about the wedding.”
Phone calls in the evening? The night before the rehearsal dinner?
But Tabitha seems to buy it. “Okay, sure.”
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Part of me wants to take her hand. In fact, all I can think about is her hands dangling at her sides.
And mine. They seem like extra appendages that I don’t know what to do with.
I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.
Summer evenings on the Western Slope are typically cool and sometimes cloudy, like tonight. I lead the way across the backyard toward the barn. Zach stays close to my heel, his tail wagging.
Tabitha keeps pace beside me, her steps slightly hurried to match mine. Her hair bounces against her shoulder blades with every step like a blond waterfall. She’s quiet, but not in an awkward way. She looks around a lot as if she’s taking it all in—the sprawling ranch, the lowing cattle in the distance, the scent of hay and horses from the barn.