Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
There’s the lie again. The whole family. I hate the way they pretend Colbert’s son from his first marriage doesn’t exist.
Granted, Cutter hasn’t been around in about seven years, but I remember the day I met him, when my mother brought me to the ranch to meet her new cowboy boyfriend and his son.
His dark eyes matched the waves of his hair. I remember thinking he looked more like a dad than a brother. He was already twenty-seven to my twelve, and I didn’t work the numbers until years later realizing Colbert was only sixteen years old when he became a father for the first time.
Cutter’s shoulders were so broad, I was sure he could fight a bear and win. I asked what he did, and Colbert hemmed and hawed while Cutter just told me plain: “I’m a cowboy. And I build fences. Ride them too. For miles. I like being outside.”
He crouched right down to me as I shuffled my feet feeling awkward and uncomfortable in this strange new world of bear rugs and log walls, and made me feel like I was the only person in the room.
“I’m Cutter.” He’d said, extending his hand for a shake. “What’s your name?”
The memory makes me feel like I’m being wrapped in a warm blanket. I only got to know him for a few weeks before he disappeared. But in that short time, I came to dislike how my stepfather treated him. He slept in the bunkhouse instead of the house, and I put together quickly that he was not a source of pride for Colbert. Instead, it was almost like how they put poor Harry Potter under the stairs.
Then, poof he was just gone.
It wasn’t until a year later, after Mom and Colbert were married, that they told me he was in prison. As far as they were concerned, he was no longer a part of our family.
Colbert musses Isabel’s brown waves, leaning down to kiss my mother’s offered cheek and nodding at me.
“Glad you’re home, Sadie. How’re your grades?”
I return his nod as he slides into the chair next to me, a perfect amber Macallan scotch appearing in front of him without having to ask. “Grades are top-notch. Dean’s list.”
“Again!” Isabel claps as Colbert hisses after a sip of the scotch.
“That’s my girl.”
Overall, as stepfathers go, Colbert is okay. He’s far more interested in making money than making waves, especially with my mother. He lives by the motto ‘happy wife, happy life,’ and luckily, his credit card can support what it takes to make that a reality.
That’s not my path. I’m not entirely sure what my path is, but I know what it’s not.
And that’s enough.
For now.
CHAPTER 2
We order dinner, my mother holding her tongue when I ask for extra sour cream and butter on my baked potato. Isabel keeps the conversation fun and civil. Colbert is on his phone half the time, talking about surface leases and per-barrel crude prices, along with a long conversation with someone about buying a cutting horse that costs more than what most people make in five years.
“Now.” He lodges his cell phone into the front pocket of his jacket. It’s the kind of now that says, ‘This is serious, so listen up.’
He reaches over and grabs Isabel’s hand in one of his, then mine in the other, bringing the four of them together in the middle of the table as my mom sits up straight, arms crossed, and I feel an ambush coming on.
“I need to let you girls know that—” He clears his throat, tossing a look at Mom, then back to us. “I knew this day would come, I just didn’t know when, but Cutter, my…” He pauses, and I hate that he has to think about what to call him. “…my son, as you both know, has been away paying his debt to society. Well, we got notice that he’s been approved for parole. Now—” He releases our hands and holds his up, lowering his voice just in case, God forbid, anyone should overhear. “He’ll be meeting me outside in about...” He punches his fist forward, then twists it so the face of his Schaffhausen watch is visible. “Five minutes, actually.”
His demeanor darkens, and my mother throws back the last of her second martini.
From the corner of my eye I catch the movement of an enormous man in black jeans, a denim shirt, and a tan felt cowboy hat stepping into the traffic on Main Street, a car honking as he walks straight forward without stopping, stepping up on the curb just outside the club’s restaurant, and my heart feels like it’s going to break through my chest and shoot through the glass.
He’s here. Cutter.
He looks tired and so much older, I barely recognize him.
But that’s not all. He’s bigger. Thicker. He’s grown a lumberjack-style beard that covers his cheeks, chin, and under his nose. He’s changed so much since those early days, I wonder what else life in prison might have changed.