Three Brothers

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  Three Brothers

  Copyright © 2014 by Nicole Williams

  Cover Design by The Cover Lure

  Editing by Cassie Cox

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  IF I’D KNOWN then what I knew now, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him. If I’d known at thirteen what I’d learned in the twelve years since, I’d have known that the people who need the most help either don’t want to be fixed or are past the point of fixing.

  The people who seem to be making the biggest cries for help aren’t really crying out at all. They’ve accepted who and what they are, and it’s those of us who stumble along by them—wanting, needing, and having to fix them—who are the ones who need help when all is said and done.

  At least that was my experience. In the seven years since I’d left Red Mountain Ranch, I’d found help in distance, independence, and reinventing myself as a competent, capable woman. I wasn’t the same scared, impressionable girl I’d been when I walked through those doors the first time. I’d never be that girl again.

  But the closer I got to the place where I’d spent five of my most impressionable teen years, I felt the twenty-five-year-old woman I was shrinking away and the girl I’d once been shoving to the surface. It might have been the familiar gravel roads the cab was crunching over—the first time I’d traveled them in years—or it might have been the reason I was coming back after living with the impression that I’d seen my last of the jutting peaks and sweeping valleys of Jackson Hole. Or it might have been because in the call I’d gotten a few days ago, pleading me to come back before it was too late, I’d learned that he would be here. The he I’d toiled five years away trying to help—trying to fix. The he I’d wasted five years trying to fix.

  My hands twisted in my lap as I worked to empty my mind because I needed a clear head for what was waiting for me. I needed a clear head to face him and make sure those same misguided feelings I’d had for him wouldn’t drain me of energy and hope as they had before. I needed the strong woman I was to be at her best from the moment I climbed the porch steps to the time I bounced down them when I left.

  It was June. The days were long, but they had never seemed as long in that part of the world. My flight had gotten in a bit late, so it was closer to eight than seven when the cab took the left turn at the end of the road. Already shadows were creeping across the green fields. That was because of the mountain. By itself, it seemed monstrous in size, but Red Mountain didn’t hold a candle to the sharp, snow-capped spires of the Tetons surrounding it. But it was tall enough to swallow the sun early, so everything in the valley spent more time veiled in shadow than most places. It was the mountain’s fault the long summer days were cut early, and the owner of those fields and the thousands of acres stretched out around it claimed the mountain was at fault for just about everything that had gone wrong in his and so many others’ lives.

  Maybe it was true that the mountain hadn’t been named Red Mountain just because the soil at the top was reddish, and maybe it wasn’t. But I had learned in my years spent in Jackson Hole that whether people used the mountain as a ramrod for tragedy or if it really was the origin, something was tragic about that mountain.

  I turned my gaze away from the looming mass of rock and superstition as the car crawled to a stop. I was there. I’d spent more time away from that place than I’d spent there, but I’d learned that some places and people leave a deeper impression than others, regardless of time. That place and the people inside it had done just that—left an impression on me that went so deep that sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference between where I ended and they began.

  The driver was already unloading my luggage from the trunk and walking the bags up the very porch steps I’d been having nightmares of for three nights. Despite the nightmares, this place was the origin of more happy memories than unhappy ones. But for some reason, the unhappy memories had a way of towering over the happy ones, punctuating my time at Red Mountain Ranch. I hoped this visit wouldn’t be defined the same way. I hoped this visit would be different. Entirely different.

  I wasn’t off to a good start though. My hands still twisted in my lap, my back pasted to the seat, my body almost clammy with fear . . . I was more that girl than that woman. I was more the same girl who’d first arrived at this place than the woman I’d spent years gritting my teeth to become. I might have been in a peony-pink eyelet dress then instead of the worn-in jeans and WSU School of Veterinary Medicine shirt I was in now, but the same nervousness settled in my stomach. I felt the uncertainty and fear of the unknown trickle into every corner and crevice inside me.

  When the driver knocked on my window, I flinched, but by the time he pulled open the door, I’d collected myself enough to swing my legs out of the car and take my first step in the right direction. Or the wrong direction, if history was any indicator of my future.

  After tipping the driver, I stood at the base of that porch. It led to a door as vast and solid as the rest of the place, which led to the rooms where I’d find the four men I’d spent my teen years with, one as a father-figure and the other three as brothers . . . in a way. John had been a decent enough father-figure, although I didn’t really have anyone to judge him against. Even though I’d never had a brother, I did know enough to accept that my “brothers”—one in particular—had behaved as much as a brother as they had not.

  Chase, Chance, and Conn Armstrong—all strong, one-syllable C names. It probably should have taken me a year of calling them all the wrong name before finally getting it straight, but it hadn’t. Each of them was so unique—as different as the relationships I formed with each one—that I don’t think I got their names confused once. There was plenty of confusion in other areas however . . .

  One of the few grains of wisdom I’d gleaned from my mom before she ended her life the summer I turned thirteen was that there were three types of men: The kind who appealed to our heads—the good guys who w
ere safe, smart picks who’d never hurt us but would never really excite the hell out of us either. The kind who appealed to our hearts—typically the broken, damaged ones we couldn’t help but fall hard and fast for and the ones we yearned to fix. And then there were the kind who appealed to the below-the-belt region. Those were the guys with swagger in their step and a knowing glint in their eyes. They lit our worlds on fire, but like any fire that burned through its tinder, it extinguished as quickly as it had erupted. Mom had also said there was a fourth kind, although they were so rare they were more myth than reality: the kind who appealed to all three parts of a woman. She said if I ever came across one of those, I should tie myself to him so tightly, no matter what storm came, we’d never be ripped apart.

  The three Armstrong brothers fit into those categories. Unlike the rest of the girls in Jackson Hole, I hadn’t fallen hard and fast for the hip brother who oozed unhealthy amounts of sex appeal. Chase was more the big brother meets aloof next-door-neighbor type to me. I did fall hard and fast for a different brother though—the youngest one, Conn. I’d gotten tangled up with the heart brother for so long it had taken me years of separation and determination to free myself. During all of that, the head brother, Chance, had been my best friend.

  But that had been then. I’d let years of radio silence and isolation sever whatever bonds I’d formed with them all. It was the only choice I’d seen at the time, and I hadn’t given it a second thought.

  The relationships I’d formed with the men inside that house were as frayed and twisted as a rope that had spent a century rolling along the ocean floor. That was the past though, and as far as I was concerned, that was where those relationships could stay. I was there to say good-bye. After that was done, nothing else would tie me to Red Mountain. I would finally be able to pretend the place I’d spent five years of my life was nothing more than a memory that had become so distant it might have been a dream.

  But before I could say good-bye and put that part of my life behind me, I needed to walk through that front door, which meant I needed to get myself up those steps . . . but like all beginnings, it needed to start with a first step.

  The moment I’d taken mine and the heel of my boot connected with the weathered wood of the first step leading up the porch, I was transported back in time. I was swept back to the summer I’d been thirteen and thought wide-open spaces and real-life cowboys only existed in books and movies. I’d felt so grown up, so wise to the ways of the world. All it had taken was one summer to discover just how naïve and innocent I really was.

  IT HAD BEEN twelve years since Chance and I had become best friends, and it had been close to seven since we’d seen each other. That wasn’t his fault—he knew the ins and outs of being a true friend better than anyone. It was my fault. After how I’d left things there, having any connection with Red Mountain was difficult, Chance included. So I’d done my best to dodge his calls and take my time replying to his emails, always answering as vaguely as possible without coming across as rude.

  Chance had been the best part of my experience at Red Mountain—he’d been the sunshine in a place where it rarely seemed to shine—but even Chance and all his smiles and sincerity couldn’t lure me back. When I thought about what finally had brought me back, it seemed strange that a looming death would do the trick, but I couldn’t let John leave this world without saying good-bye and thanking him for what he’d done for me.

  Chance had left the message on my phone earlier that week, letting me know that John was nearing the end. I’d gotten online and purchased an airline ticket the minute after. John had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s shortly after I moved to Red Mountain, but he’d gotten along pretty well while I’d been there. Of course, that could change in a matter of months, not to mention the passing of a decade. When I’d heard Chance’s recorded voice mention the time the doctors had given John, after restarting my heart, I made it my mission to get to Wyoming as soon as possible.

  But now that I was here, stalling on the front porch steps, I could imagine a hundred other places I’d rather be. My time here had made me tough though. Five years spent with four Armstrong men, living through five grueling winters, had been more effective at toughening me up than five years spent in the military’s basic training.

  I wouldn’t turn and run away when I’d made it this far, not even if I had a dozen other demons waiting to confront me as soon as I stepped inside. So I climbed to that second step and forced myself up the third. By the time I’d made it to the fourth, I’d found my stride. The stairs still creaked as though they were ready to give out, and the front door was so tall and wide a giant could have passed through without having to stoop. Everything looked the same except for a note taped to the door.

  Please knock in lieu of ringing the doorbell.

  It wasn’t familiar handwriting, not that I needed to see that to know one of the boys hadn’t written it. “In lieu” weren’t words in the Armstrong boys’ vocabularies. I guessed the no-doorbell policy had to do with John sleeping throughout the day and not wanting to be disturbed, but from what Chance had said in his message, the drugs his doctor had put him on to ease his pain were strong enough to keep a man asleep even if a symphony were playing Beethoven’s Fifth a foot from his bed.

  Knocking lightly, I listened for the chorus of voices I’d been used to hearing. All four men had voices that carried and, when raised, could seem to rumble a room. But I didn’t hear anything. Waiting a minute to see if anyone would come, I knocked again. I’d let Chance know what time my flight would be in, so they should have been somewhat expecting me. I’d been delayed, but even if I’d missed dinner, the guys should have been sprawled in John’s library, throwing back expensive scotch and smoking equally expensive cigars. At least, that used to be their tradition after a big family dinner. Chance, who rarely drank or smoked, would make an exception and join in, and Conn, who avoided his father and brothers as much as possible, would put aside their differences and tolerate them long enough to throw back a couple and snuff out a few Cubans.

  It was as if John’s library and the Armstrong tradition built within brought with it some kind of neutral territory, a place where they remembered they were more ally than enemy, and a tradition that gave them permission to laugh together instead of argue. They’d been drinking and smoking inside that library for as long as I could remember, far before any of the boys were at the legal age to drink. As I realized those library traditions would end when John took his last breath, the sadness I’d been trying to keep at arm’s length finally shoved through and blanketed me. I felt tears stockpiling, just waiting to be released. But not yet. Not tonight. Hopefully not even tomorrow. But they could only pile up so far before they had to spill over.

  When no one came after my second knock, I just opened the door and let myself in, leaving my suitcases on the porch. I’d haul them up to my room later. The foyer looked the same, almost exactly as it had the first time I’d walked through it. The timbers lining the walls still gleamed, and the animal heads still loomed eerily on the walls.

  “Hello?” I called softly, just in case John was asleep.

  No answer.

  Even if John was asleep, one of the boys should have been close by. Maybe Chase was playing pool in the cavernous library. Conn was probably wrapped around his guitar, hiding in some quiet, dark corner. If he wasn’t just finishing up dinner, then Chance got a free pass because he was likely out somewhere on one of the thousands of acres owned by the Armstrongs, fixing some piece of machinery, fence, or animal.

  Red Mountain Ranch wasn’t a working ranch by necessity, but as an homage to the past in that part of the country. The devil only knew how much money was stuffed in accounts bearing the Armstrong name, but the bulk of it hadn’t come from raising cattle. The bulk of it had come a century and a half ago and, in John’s words, had been earned by spilling innocent blood and rewarding immoral men. The story wasn’t exactly bedtime-approved, but it was one of the few John knew by hea
rt and never seemed to grow tired of telling. Especially when he’d been heavy-handed with the scotch pours that night.

  Finding the foyer empty, I headed down the hall toward the dining room. If it was just as empty, my next stop would be the library where I was hoping I wouldn’t find four men passed out from the libations. Well, three men. Chance’s idea of excessive drinking was having a second beer. That policy, combined with his impressive stature, meant he’d been drunk a total of zero times. Conn and I used to give him a hard time that their parents must have adopted him from a Quaker community—because being an Armstrong and drinking yourself close to a coma went hand-in-hand—but Chance had always laughed it off. He was good at that—laughing things off and making sure he never took himself too seriously. It was something one of his brothers could have benefitted from emulating.

  When I rounded into the dining room, I caught sight of the first signs of life in this house . . . although life wasn’t quite the right word. John stooped in that big, old high-backed chair he had once seemed to overtake; it had now overtaken him. His full head of hair that had been more pepper than salt the last time I’d seen him had changed into spotty clumps of white. Shoulders that had seemed as though they didn’t know how to hunch were sagging, wanting to curl together. He was dressed in his typical dark jeans and wool blazer, but where before he’d filled them out, he swam in them now. His skin was pale, his cheekbones sunken, and his hand looked more like a skeleton’s than a man’s. He’d seemed like the size of a bear when I’d first met him, and now he was a shadow of that man. The tremble of Parkinson’s I’d grown used to in my later years had evolved into violent, intermittent quaking.

  I was afraid to take another step. His back was to me, and from the looks of it, he was asleep in his chair. I realized I could just turn around, slip out the door, and life at Red Mountain would continue to go on just as I had remembered it. I didn’t have to face this new reality.