“Fuck you, brother,” he spat out before his fist connected with my jaw again. I reeled back and then I threw my own punch, connecting with his cheekbone. He grunted and threw himself at me, and we scrabbled on the ground for a few minutes, sweating and yelling, fighting for dominance the way we’d done when we were boys.
I felt hands on my arms and someone was pulling me backward and when things cleared around me, I saw someone pulling Cole away, too. We simultaneously shook the hands off us, facing each other from a few feet away in a standoff. The men who’d separated us were two of the farmhands we’d been able to keep on the payroll and they were saying words about calming down and no way to solve problems. I tuned them out, not knowing if Cole was going to come at me again and preparing for it if he did. His right eye was red and already swollen shut and there was some blood dripping from his lip. I felt the sick punch of shame to my gut as if it was a second attacker. I wanted to start this whole conversation over, to do it better, to make him understand what I felt in my heart, but I’d fucked it up and now it was too late. We were staring at each other as the adversaries I never wanted to be.
I let out a harsh breath, stepping back as I nodded to the men. “We’re okay.” They glanced at both of us and nodded, turning away and walking back toward the fields where they’d been working the bone-dry, ravaged earth.
Running a hand through my damp hair, I took a second to calm my still-ragged breathing. “Jesus, Cole. I love Lia. You’ve got this all wrong. I loved her that day we ran the race for her. It wasn’t just because I thought she was pretty, or because I was sort of interested. It was never as casual as that. I’ve always loved her—as long as I can remember. I’m sorry I never told you.”
Cole stared at me from his one-sided gaze. “The day we ran the race?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t just a contest to me. I loved her and I gave her up for the honor between us, the honor I tried so hard to hold on to despite my feelings. It’s tortured me for years, Cole. Please try to understand.”
He shook his head slightly as if he wasn’t computing what I was saying. He stared at me again for one silent moment, a myriad of emotions moving over his face, too quickly for me to discern. He took his head in his hands as if it hurt before he whirled around, striding away.
I suddenly felt as stripped as the land, standing alone under the blazing sun, as the sound of that damn rusted motorcycle sputtered to a start.
I caught sight of Cole as he rode out of our yard, his head turned strangely and I realized it was because he could only see out of one eye. “Fucking idiot,” I mumbled, feeling a stab of anxiety in my chest. It rumbled loudly down the dirt road in front of our house, dust flying up in its wake, until I couldn’t hear it anymore.
It was the last time I saw my brother alive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Present Day
Annalia
It still seemed surreal that I was really back in Linmoor, that I’d gone to Benny’s diner the night before and had seen Preston for the first time in six months. It seemed surreal that I’d ever left. As if the last year and nine months had never even happened. As if I’d woken the morning after Preston made love to me, gone to work, and Preston had been waiting there afterward as we’d planned and we’d walked off hand in hand to begin our forever.
Oh God, if only. If only . . .
But it hadn’t happened that way. I’d waited for him on the bench outside IHOP, the time going slowly by, the dusk sweeping in and scattering a handful of stars into the sky, my heart thumping with worry and insecurity and fear.
And then . . . oh, then the sinking horror. The news that a man had been killed on the highway not too far from where I was. And the ambulances that had screamed in the distance earlier suddenly made sense.
When I’d heard it was a motorcycle accident, the driver riding some small rusted thing that didn’t stand a chance against the truck that came up too quickly on its right side, my blood had frozen solid in my veins and I’d known.
Cole.
I pulled myself from the past, from that terrible, gut-wrenching day, stepping from my car parked in the Sawyers’ driveway and walking slowly up the two stairs to their front porch. You can come out on Sunday morning, he’d said. Nine o’clock. So here I was.
I raised my hand to knock on the farmhouse door for the second time in the space of two days, my heart racing with nerves and anticipation just as it had the last time. Then, Mrs. Sawyer had answered. Her expression had hardened, and her hand fluttered to her chest as if she’d opened the door to find a demon returned from the dead and back to haunt her—which was probably pretty accurate as far as what she was thinking. This time, the door opened to reveal Preston, and I let out a controlled breath, pulling myself straighter. “Good morning.”
He nodded, his expression blank, and opened the door wider, moving back so I could enter.
I stepped through the wide doorway, glancing around as Preston shut the door behind me. Everything looked the same as it had the day I left. It made me ache because I loved this house. I loved the high ceilings and the wide-planked pine flooring. I loved the curved staircase and the view of something lovely through each window. I loved the sounds the old house made as it settled around me at night—the tiny creaks and the soft groans as if it was telling the tales of all those who had lived and loved here before.
Once, I’d walked slowly through every room of this house, my eyes finding each beautiful detail and taking it all inside: the pretty glass doorknobs, the elegant chair rails, the charming built-ins. The quiet grace of the old house had spoken to my soul and I had hardly been able to believe it was my home.
My belly had been slightly rounded with early pregnancy, and I’d still had dreams in my heart. I’d still had hope that things would be okay.
I’d stood in front of the gallery of family photos in the upstairs hallway and was drawn to each one, intrigued by the people, what they were wearing, the stories their expressions told, how the farm had changed from one generation to the next.
The Sawyers were solid, stoic-looking people who wore practical clothes and even more practical expressions. Camille Sawyer, whose picture graced a spot near the bannister, was the exception. She brought glamour to the wall with her coiffed, golden hair, red pouty lips, and seductive eyes. And though her boys were both tall and strong, and at least one of them looked into the lens with the dispassionate Sawyer stare his ancestors had perfected, their mother had bestowed upon them a level of physical beauty the generations before them didn’t possess.