The back of my throat tasted metallic. My grip slipped on the photo frame and it clattered onto the wooden floor. A crack spidered across the glass.
“Shit,” I muttered, pressing my hands flat against the shelf to steady myself. “Get it together.”
I closed my eyes, waited for the nausea to pass, and then, slowly, the old house faded in around me again. The past was just that: past.
I went back to unpacking, one book at a time, lining them up on the bookshelf with machine precision. The sun crept higher up the wall, painting long, sharp-edged rectangles across the scuffed wood floor. The quiet was so thick I could hear the blood move in my ears.
Then the doorbell rang and nearly sent me through the ceiling.
I straightened, wiping my palms on my jeans, and walked to the entryway, careful to keep my footsteps even. The bell rang again, twice this time, impatient. I half expected to see Gray or Damon on the other side, ready to finish what they started. Or maybe just Sutton, delivering a bag of cinnamon rolls with a side of annoyed sympathy.
But when I opened the door, it was Mason Bridges standing on my porch, shifting from one mud-crusted boot to the other, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a gunfight.
He of course looked older than the last time I’d seen him—hard lines around his eyes, sunburn along the cheekbones, a little more thickness through the neck and arms—but his hair was still dark as fresh asphalt, and his stare still had the weight of a man who knew horses better than he knew people. He wore a snap-front shirt, sleeves rolled past the elbow, and his jeans were stained with the sort of grime that only comes from real work.
“Mason,” I said, voice flat but not unfriendly.
He didn’t answer right away, just reached up to adjust his hat. It wasn’t the “aw shucks” move some people did. More like he needed both hands to hold back what he really wanted to say.
“Ford.” He said my name like he was tasting it for poison.
We stood there for a second, neither of us blinking.
“I, uh,” Mason started, then stopped. He hooked a thumb in his pocket. “Just heard you were back. Thought I’d say hi before the rumor mill had you running a dog-fighting ring or selling organs on the internet.”
I almost smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Still in the planning stages.”
He laughed, a single sharp breath. “Good. That’s more your style anyway.”
We both seemed to notice at the same time how awkward it was, two grown men hovering in the threshold with their hands in their pockets, like kids about to get hauled in front of the principal.
I stepped aside and gestured him in. “You want a drink?”
He hesitated, just a second, then nodded. “Sure.”
The inside of the house didn’t improve much with company. Mason took it all in, eyes flicking from the half-assembled couch to the bare floors to the stack of books still waiting to be put up. He didn’t comment. He just headed for the couch and perched on the edge, boots planted square and knees spread wide.
I went to the fridge and found two beers wedged behind a sack of takeout and a carton of eggs. I tossed him one, kept the other, and sat across from him on the arm of the loveseat. For a few seconds, the only sound was the pop and hiss of bottle caps.
“So,” I said, trying not to sound like I was bracing for a blow, “what’s new at Red Downs?”
Mason tipped the bottle to his lips, swallowed, and then shrugged. “Not much,” he started, and then realizing that couldn’t possibly be true, smirked. “Well, yeah I guess a lot. Gray’s running the place since his daddy passed. Moved to the big house and married a celebrity.”
“Heard about that.” I didn’t think there was anyone in the whole country who hadn’t heard about heiress and influencer Eryn Blake moving to Montana and settling down with a horserancher. I just never could have imagined the horse rancher in question would have been one of my former best friends.
“Walker's still trying to set world records for how fast he can go through ranch hands,” he continued. “Ain’t been the same without you.”
I snorted. “You survived two decades without me. I doubt you need me now.”
“Nah, maybe not need you. But we had a good crew there for a while. Things were good.”
“Yeah. They were, I guess.”
He looked down at his beer. “Yeah, well. People are saying things. About you. About why you left.”
I let the words sit there. Mason wasn’t the gossiping type, and if he was bringing this up, it meant things were about to get real uncomfortable.
“People always say things,” I replied.
