***
The celebration is in full swing by the time we arrive at The Whiskey Barrel. Dad holds court at our usual table, regaling anyone who'll listen with increasingly embellished versions of my ride. Mama laughs at his antics, occasionally cutting in to correct the more outlandish claims.
I nurse a beer, nodding and smiling at the steady stream of well-wishers who stop by our table. My shoulder throbs in time with the country music blaring from the jukebox, and I find myself counting the minutes until I can escape.
Lily slides into the seat beside me, pushing a glass of water my way. “Take these,” she says quietly, discreetly passing me two pain pills. “Don't worry, they're just over-the-counter. But they might help until you see the doctor.”
I accept them gratefully. “How'd you know how much I needed that right now?”
“Your tell is showing,” she says, nodding toward my left hand, which is unconsciously rubbing my right shoulder. “Plus, you've turned down three beautiful women tonight. That's not like you.”
“Maybe I'm growing as a person,” I suggest dryly.
Lily snorts. “Or maybe you're in too much pain to consider adding athletic sex to your evening.”
I choke on my water, earning a satisfied smirk from my sister. “Fuck sakes, Lily.” I sputter out.
“What? I'm just speaking the truth.” She pats my good shoulder and stands. “Get some rest, cowboy. You look like hell.”
By eleven, I've made my excuses and slipped away from the celebration. The drive back to my ranch house on the edge of the family ranch is quiet, the radio turned low as Riley Green sings about wanting someone in the worst way. You and me both, man. You and me both.
Once home, I kick off my boots and head straight for the bathroom, dry-swallowing two more pain pills before stepping into a scalding hot shower. The water pounds against my aching muscles, providing momentary relief.
Afterward, wrapped in a towel, I stand before the mirror and examine my shoulder. The scar from the surgery is a jagged white line against my tan skin. I rotate my arm carefully, wincing at the stiffness.
“Stupid,” I mutter to myself. I should have listened to Mason when he suggested sitting this one out. But I couldn't. Not with the whole town watching, expecting their golden boy to perform.
In my bedroom, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and sink onto the edge of my bed. My gaze lands on the framed photo on my nightstand—me and Jake at the lake, both of us grinning widely, his arm slung around my shoulders. He was fourteen in that picture, I was seventeen. It was taken three weeks before he drowned.
I pick up the frame, running my thumb over Jake's face. “You'd be laughing your ass off at me right now, wouldn't you, buddy?” My voice sounds hollow in the empty room. “Your big brother, the supposed tough guy, done in by a shoulder injury.”
Setting the photo down, I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of exhaustion and something heavier—a loneliness that no amount of admirers or family celebrations can fill.
My last thought before sleep claims me is that Dad is right about one thing—Taylor men are hard to tame. Because to be tamed, you have to be willing to be caught. And I've spent the last eight years making sure that never happens.
Chapter 3
Grant
The next morning dawns clear and bright, the kind of Texas day that promises heat by noon. I’m in the cow pens by six am, checking on the herd and helping Ryan run a few calves through for routine health checks. By eight, I'm on the road for my appointment with Dr. Malan, before heading out to Wellington.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I’m driving my truck one-handed, sipping from a travel mug of black coffee and trying to ignore the persistent ache in my shoulder.
Out here, everything stretches wide and quiet—land we’ve worked for generations, lined with houses that all share one name: Taylor. Well, mostly.
First up on the left is Connor’s place—newest build on the ranch. His brand-new Hummer Pickup in the drive, almost as shiny as his sparkly bleached teeth. Always parked at a perfect angle like it’s posing for a damn commercial. Two horses graze in the small pen out front, a big ol’ barn to the side and that ridiculous rooster—his “guard chicken”—perched on the porch rail like it owns the place. Loud little bastard, probably crows at squirrels.
Taking a sip from my coffee, I pass Christian’s place. tidy enough to make a drill sergeant weep tears of pride. The grass is trimmed like it’s trying to win a medal, tools lined up so straight they could be measuring sticks, and I swear you could bounce a quarter off his porch swing. Wouldn’t be surprised if he buffs it with military-grade polish every Sunday. Man’s got a checklist for everything… except cooking. Put him near a stove and the fire department starts stretching just in case.
Then comes my place. Freshly painted. Rustic, warm, practical. Wraparound porch with black railing, big windows that catch the Texas sky, and warm Edison bulbs Mama and Lily insisted on stringing up. Two rocking chair’s sit side by side. Out back, just past the trees, the river glimmers behind the dock I built with Ryan one summer when we needed more quiet than company.
Ryan’s place is tucked beside mine, always humming with low country music and the smell of something grilled. And Mason’s—well, his house sits just down the way from mine, unofficially part of the lineup, unofficially part of the family.
Finally, at the far end of the lane, where the road bends and the trees open wide, is our parents’ house. Big, welcoming, the kind of place that still smells like cinnamon and coffee no matter the hour. Wraparound porch like mine, shutters painted deep green, a large barn and a vegetable garden out back that Mama insists we all help with, even though she’ll redo everything we touch. The house sits like a guardian at the end of the road—part home, part stronghold, the anchor to everything.
This road? It’s more than dirt and straight fence lines. Each house holds its own story, its own rhythm. And together, it’s the beat of the Taylor ranch. Steady. Unshakeable. Home.
I tap the steering wheel with my thumb, coffee in one hand, sunlight cutting through the windshield as I hit the paved road that marks the edge of our land.
