Cal nodded. “Nice work, bro. But my original advice stands. Don’t mess with her. We like to hang out there, and you could ruin it for all of us.”
Dalton stared out into the night. A cloud of depression settled over him. He knew his brothers loved him and respected his work. But sometimes they treated him like he was a clueless, insensitive asshole desperate to stick his dick in any female who moved. Hadn’t they learned more about him this past year? Or was he fooling himself? Maybe they’d just see what they wanted to see, believing him to be the weakest link.
He’d worked his ass off to prove himself and his worth and thought he’d gotten there. Now?
Not so much.
He rose from the chair and headed in. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Hey! I was just kidding.” Cal’s voice held confusion.
“Come back and finish your beer,” Tristan called out.
He ignored them both and shut the handmade wood door behind him. He remembered his grandfather carving it years ago. Dalton had watched him piece together segments of rare wood, from redwood to mahogany, creating a masterpiece. Dalton had sat every day by his side, handing him tools, watching the door transform into a legacy that would welcome people into their home long after his grandfather had passed. It was another thing he loved about woodworking. It was a form of art that not only thrived, but lasted.
Nothing much else did.
He was just turning when he caught the heavy breathing. Moving real slow, he lifted his hands in a warning and lowered his voice. “Gandalf. Balin. Down.”
The two massive mastiffs shook with fervor and banked joy at his arrival. Since they both came to shoulder height, their enthusiasm usually knocked him over, covered him with hair, and dripped saliva on his clothes. Their mottled fur held tinges of dirt and mud from exploring the woods and chasing squirrels.
“I mean it, guys. Stay down or you go back to training. I—ah, shit!”
They leapt.
He had just enough time to block the attack, but the force of their love staggered him backward against the door. Half laughing, he dodged licking tongues and furiously wagging tails. At least the dogs didn’t give him crap about his sexual choices or his work methods. They thought he was perfect.
Dalton gave them a few scratches and pushed his way through the wriggling fur. He headed up the spiral staircase, noting the quiet of the house. Morgan must be out with Sydney for girls’ night. Funny how the absence of a female changed the atmosphere. Morgan had brought back a zest and joy they’d all been sorely lacking since—
A raw pang hit his chest. Damn, he missed his mother. He remembered how she used to sit on the edge of his bed, ruffle his hair, and just talk. She didn’t even care when he got moody or didn’t respond. She had a lightness of spirit that cloaked him and made him feel okay again. As if she filled an empty part of him inside that he didn’t recognize until she was gone.
Memories hit. Oh, how she loved to tell him his birth story. Within a few hours of his birth, he’d come down with severe jaundice. But even after time spent under the therapy lights, he’d grown worse, until the doctor said the jaundice had reached such a dangerous level they needed to conduct a blood transfusion.
The process took hours, and he’d been in the NICU for seven days afterward to heal. He remembered how his mother described sitting by his side every day, watching him through the plastic bubble, unable to hold him for long periods of time. When he was finally brought home, he’d cried every night for over six months, refusing to sleep unless rocked in his mother’s arms.
Oh, how his brothers teased him for that. His father had blamed Diane Pierce for babying him and making him a sissy. But his mother always said the needed touch and snuggling those first precious days had been ripped from both of them, and they spent the rest of their time trying to make up for it.
Even years afterward, his mother’s soft voice always managed to settle that aching place inside and let him know it would all be okay. It was odd to have such a deep connection with one parent and feel completely ostracized from the other. His father had spent most of his time with Cal and Tristan, leaving Dalton behind. What Dalton rarely admitted to anyone was how much he enjoyed spending time with his mother alone. She was always telling him adventurous stories or making up elaborate games. She’d bake cookies with him in the kitchen, build pillow forts in his parents’ king-size bed, or share her love of old musicals while she sang along in her off-key voice. She taught him to enjoy every moment of life and make the most of it. She taught him about being happy with who you were.
Until she left. And he realized she’d been lying to him the entire time.
Because he hadn’t been important enough to her.
His feet hit the top step and his eyes stung.