ONE
june
In the greathierarchy of wedding responsibilities, the Maid of Honor falls slightly beneath the bride. The groom is third, the Mother of the Bride fourth, and as far as I could tell, the Best Man rattled around somewhere at the bottom of the barrel.
I was currently second in command for my favorite cousin’s wedding, in addition to designing and decorating it, and I took all these jobs seriously. I’d spent months putting together a suitably bookish aesthetic for librarian Eden and her high school teacher fiancé, complete with custom color palette, props, and detailed floor plans. I’d helped her choose the bridesmaids’ dresses, the catering menu, and the reception playlist. I might have had a tiny hand in encouraging her toward their honeymoon bungalow in the Florida Keys. In short, I wasinvestedin this wedding.
The Best Man, though? Debatable. Ty Hardy hadn’t responded to my texts with anything more than “I’m on it”, so here I was, slogging out to his ranch to verify that he was indeed “on it.” Most likely, he’d stopped reading my texts weeks ago and just pasted “It’s covered” or “Don’t worry so much” in response to anything I messaged him.
Not that I expected a warm reception to my messages. As his younger brother’s ex-girlfriend, I probably didn’t rank as one of his favorite people in the world. We’d been friends once, or so I thought, before his cheating brother went and cheated on me like a cheater. Everybody took sides in break-ups, and I couldn’t very well expect Ty to side with me over his brother. Still, we needed to work together on this, and I was done being blown off byMr. I’m Too Busy to Get Back to You Rancher Man.
I turned my little hatchback onto the dirt road that wound to Ty’s house, running through his checklist in my head. At T-minus seventeen days to the ceremony, he hadn’t confirmed with me the groomsmen’s suit rentals, the groom’s gift, or what he’d planned for the bachelor party. I hadn’t asked for details on the last one, assuming the worst when it came to a group of mostly single men in their early thirties. For all I knew, Ty would have the groomsmen show up to the wedding in jeans and button-downs, and toss Booker a wad of cash at the reception. He’d hire Dave’s Discount Dancers for the bachelor party, obviously.
Me? I’d sent him briefings on the successful bridal shower, not-so-subtle hints about my plans for the bachelorette party, and polls on his reception playlist opinions—all of which he’d ignored. The man could have faked a little polite interest, at least.
But this trip out here wasn’t just about me going all maidzilla. Each day closer to the wedding date, Eden’s panic level went up another notch, and no amount of reassurance could stop her endless texts and emails. Were the decorations too subtle, were they too much, did we order enough flowers, was the cake over the top, was the book theme too obvious? She hovered one canapé decision away from a breakdown, and the lack of communication from Ty didn’t help. I’d do anything to make sure my cousin’s wedding went perfectly to plan, and that included pinning down the Best Man.
Metaphorically speaking.
Plus, we had the wholebrother’s exthing to deal with. I’d never known Ty to be the vindictive sort, but we were supposed to spend a whole weekend together smiling, laughing, and making nice for the guests. I needed to be sure that what happened between me and his brother last year wouldn’t throw a wrench in that.
The GPS told me I’d reached my destination as soon as I’d pulled off the main road a mile back, but I hadn’t reached Ty’s farmhouse yet. A lot farther from the turnoff than I remembered, it lay hidden somewhere down a long drive through green pastures and shade trees. I’d been out here a few times growing up, back when it still belonged to his grandmother, but I didn’t recognize anything. For all I knew, I could have been inching closer to a serial killer’s cabin and not the horse ranch of my childhood dreams.
Oh, the horses. Ty's grandmother had helped my Girl Scouts troop get our horse-riding merit badges when I was twelve. Over five or six Saturdays, Abigail Hardy had taught us the basics of how to mount, dismount, how to hold the reins, the different parts of a saddle, and a hundred other things that made being around horses seem like glitter and fairy dust. As far as I could tell, horses only had one real drawback. I’d long forgotten the details of saddles and halters, but I still remembered every pungent minute of mucking out the stalls. You couldn’t pay me enough to do that again.
The farmhouse finally came into view, and my stomach twisted so hard, it might as well have been the murder cabin. Ty’s beat up old truck sat out front like it had gone there to die. The kind of heavy-duty truck popular on farms, it stopped just short of being a classic, but was still well past its prime. Surprisingly clean, though. I parked next to it and got out to survey the area. Not much had changed in almost twenty years. An old red garage sat across from the house with its doors wide open to reveal the all-terrain vehicle inside, but no sign of the man.
A bead of sweat inched down the middle of my back as I climbed onto the wide porch. Punching down a shiver of nerves, I smoothed my skirt, threw my shoulders back, and rang the bell. Somewhere inside, an old-fashioned chime echoed like nobody was home, and nobody would ever be home again.
I really needed to stop watching true crime documentaries.
I knocked on the door, but the house stayed silent. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I tried to peer in the front window, but the sun punished me with temporary blindness. I moved to push the bell again, but before I reached it, a man’s voice drifted to me from the yard.
Following the sounds, I marched toward the barn behind the house. Probably should have tried there first. Ty wasn’t a man to sit around with his feet propped up in the middle of the day. I didn’t love the idea of creeping around on his property, but if I wanted to find him, I’d need to creep.
His central Texas property stretched for I didn’t know how many acres, with giant elms and ashes dotting the green pastures beyond the farmhouse. Here in the yard, though, tire tracks cut through the grass, and dust blew up in little eddies every time I took a step. I regretted my bold choice to boost my confidence by wearing heels and my favorite skirt more by the minute.
The property’s smell took me back to my time here as a girl. Not manure exactly, but the strong aroma of large animals mixed with the sharp scent of hay. And okay, plenty of manure. Yet, it also proved oddly comforting, like the fruity whiff of my dad’s orchards mid-summer.
I rounded the corner of the barn and stopped cold. In the center of a large, circular paddock, Ty faced off with a horse in a battle of wills. Hard to say who was winning. He held a coiled rope in one hand as he encouraged the horse to move its feet, his broad back to me, his attention fixed on the horse’s motions. Something skittered around in my chest at the sight of him, but I ignored it. It would go away.
It always did.
Standing in Ty’s back yard watching him work, I had second thoughts about my great plan to confront him here. Even in my cute outfit, I had the weaker footing. Here, he was in his element, full of power and confidence. I should have texted a request to meet at a coffee shop or a diner. Some nice, neutral spot where we wouldn’t be under the blazing sun, and nobody looked like they’d been sculpted out of muscle and denim.
Not that he would have responded to that text.
Unaware of my presence, Ty’s silent instructions to the horse led them in a strange sort of dance. If the horse moved away, Ty closed the distance once again. I’d never seen anything like it, and couldn’t tear my eyes away from the power and patience on display. After a minute, he stroked the horse’s muzzle, soothing him the way I might comfort a nervous kitten. The horse endured his touch, but stood at an awkward angle, as if he might bolt away from Ty at any second.
You and me both, horse.
The horse took a few steps away from him, kicking out his hind legs in a clearYou’re not the boss of memove. Ty shifted right back into the animal’s space, stopping him from going too far, and rubbed his muzzle again.
“You can kick all you like, you’re stuck with me.”
His firm but affectionate voice turned my insides warm and gooey, like a lava cake I hadn’t expected.
Best to ignore that, too.
