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  An arm wraps around my shoulder, I’m pulled into a strong chest. A hand cups my face holding me to him. I know it’s him. He’s holding me with his forehead pressed down on the top of my head. I feel his tears drop right along with mine.

  I take several long minutes to regain my voice. I focus in on my grandpa’s famous words to me. “Get back up in the saddle, Hop. Cowgirls don’t cry.”

  I repeat it over and over in my head. Even though it doesn’t fit the circumstance, I focus on that simple message. It’s the cowboy way.

  I force my head back up to look out into the crowd, but stay in Guy’s arms. It’s a place I never want to leave.

  “My heart has never hurt like it does today. Amos Marshall was a big brother, son, grandson, athlete, soldier, and a hometown hero who sacrificed his life for our freedom. He’ll always be with me whether in my heart, soul, or drifting around in the air my lungs consume. Amos, always know that Molly Stinky Annoying Marshall will always love you.”

  I don’t remember the few steps back to my seat. The firing of the rifles are the final shattering pieces to the hardest day of my life. None of our lives will ever be the same.

  11

  Molly

  “Ho. Lee. Crap.” -Amos

  “Thank you for coming.” Dad shuts the door.

  The last visitor just left. Our house is overflowing with food and flowers. Neither of the items capable of easing any heart aches.

  The floral scent is overwhelming. I hate it. I hate all of it. It’s a bitter reminder of the family member we lost forever. I rise from the couch and grab a large vase of flowers. The arrangement is gorgeous with various types of flowers in all assortments of color. The flowers frankly piss me off.

  I hurl it toward the door. The glass vase shatters to bits. It feels good to see the reminder of death break. I grab another vase and throw it even harder producing the same results. I continue throwing the flowers over and over until no more flowers remain perched in our home.

  I walk over to the mess on the floor and feel the shards of glass pierce the tender flesh on the bottom of my feet. I sit down in the broken glass letting it slice the backs of my legs and tear into my short black dress. I pick up one thick, sharp piece of glass and bring it to my wrist.

  I wonder what Amos was thinking during his last breaths. What was he doing? Was he scared? Did he suffer? Who watched my brother die? Who killed him? I want to know every single last gruesome detail.

  The glass pierces the underside of my wrist. The pain and blood makes me feel closer to Amos in an odd way, so I cut deeper until my own blood spills all over my lap. I remember the baby I lost and now my brother. I dig deeper with the glass until it slips from my hand from the wet blood coating everything.

  I bring my wrist to my chest and let it flow down. I hear my mother yell for my dad. People race into the living room, but I don’t care. I keep my wrist to my chest and feel the only thing I can. Death. I feel death.

  “What in the hell?” I hear a voice roar.

  “Molly.” My mother screams over and over.

  I go for another piece of glass, but I’m scooped up in someone’s arms before I have the chance to cut my other wrist. I crave more blood. I need blood. I need to hurt and feel. To feel again…I crave it.

  The front door flies open when my father steps back with me in his arms. I come eye to eye with Guy Webb who’s steadying himself on a cane. My eyes mirror the same stone cold of his. I turn my face not wanting to see him. He hasn’t been here for me. Didn’t come to me, hug me, and let me know we’d get through this. No, he only held me while I fought to finish a speech honoring my brother’s life.

  It’s a speech that will never come close to honoring my brother. Nothing will ever come close. Time won’t even be able to heal these wounds. Ever.

  My dad holds me to his chest while my grandpa drives me to the hospital. The fir trees lining our drive don’t warm my heart and make me feel at home like they typically do. Everything around me slowly dies.

  12

  Molly

  “Of course life is a bitch. If it was a slut it would be sloppy and easy.” -Amos

  Whoever says time heals all wounds clearly never had their life shattered. Months have gone by and life has resumed with the familiar heartache looming on the ranch. The horses still need to be fed and trained.

  I’ve sunk myself neck deep into work taking on more horses than typical. I haven’t turned down one customer. The barn is full, a sheer opposite of my heart.

  Hauling the last wheelbarrow out of the barn, I look over to Guy’s closed door. It’s always closed. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since returning. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes the night my dad carried me out of the house covered in blood. I was committed to a hospital for a week for observation.

  Outpatient counseling was highly recommended, but I refused it. I find my therapy on horseback and within our ranch. The days seem to get more painful, but at least the tears have stopped and I’m pretty sure I went through the rage stage of grieving as well.

  “Hop.” I look up to my dad and grandpa standing near the corrals with coffee mugs in hand.

  I give them a nod and then dump the wheelbarrow. They’ve found their peace in the land of our ranch as well. It seems Momma and Guy are struggling worse than any of us. But I’ve also learned how easy it is to mask pain.

  I wrap my arm low around Grandpa’s waist and reach in for one of my favorite caramel chews.

  “How’re the horses?” Dad asks.

  “Going good. The Paint of Williams is ready to go. I’m going to give them a call today.”

  “Is that the barrel horse for their young girl?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, going to make one hell of a starter horse.”

  “Good work, Hop.” Dad pats my back.

  “What’s up with you two old farts?” I ask, knowing they want to talk about something.

  “You’ve taken on way too much, Hop.”

  “Naw.” I try to brush them off, but know it will do no good.

  “Yes, you have. I’m not going to argue with you.” My dad’s voice is harsh. “You need help and Guy needs to heal.”

  I step from my Grandpa’s arm. “We all need to heal. This is just about him.”

  “He’s starting tomorrow. You two need to figure out your shit.”

  “This is bullshit and you know it. Guy has stayed holed up in his room. He doesn’t want help.”

  My grandpa pats the top of my shoulder. “Those who need help the most don’t want it. We’re a family, Hop, and we take care of each other. Amos would want us to.”

  I’ve never had the urge to yell or talk back to my grandpa, but now that too has been shattered. How dare he bring Amos into this? Guy has had plenty of opportunity to talk to me, but has chosen not to.

  “Fine,” I finally grit out. “Anything else?”

  When neither of them responds, I stomp back into the barn pissed off. Time is up and I’m ready to rip the motherfucking bandage off this seeping wound between us. I bust into Guy’s room not taking time to knock.

  Guy’s on the ground in the middle of push-ups and from the beads of sweat pouring off his forehead he’s been at it for some time. He’s in gym shorts, barefoot, and no shirt. His body is familiar, but that’s it, nothing else is. I notice the ink on his back. It’s swirling in all different directions with the silhouette of a monster on it.

  “Need something,” he growls.

  “Yeah, I need to talk.” I put both of my hands on my hips.

  He falls down onto his stomach catching his breath before he slowly sits up. He leans against his bed with his arms relaxed on the top of his knees.

  “Talk.”

  “What’s going on?” I throw my hands up in the air.

  “Nothing.” Guy refuses to make eye contact.

  I slide down the wall opposite of him. “You’re not the only one hurting.”

  “No shit, Molly.”

  “Don’t use my name. I
refuse to hear it come from your mouth like that, Guy.” I slap the floor. “You took everything from me.”

  He grinds his teeth together. “You don’t think I know that, Molly? I live with it every fucking second of my life. Amos died in my arms.”

  I’m ready to yell at him again for using my name, but his last sentence forces my mouth shut.

  “That’s right, Molly. It was a routine fucking mission. We came under fire and Amos jumped into the lead. I yelled at the asshole to get back, but he didn’t listen. He took a bullet right to the neck. I held him while he took his last breath. He made me promise to come home and take care of shit.”

  He pauses, choking on his own words. The next set comes out as a whisper.

  “How in the hell am I supposed to take care of my family when I don’t even deserve to be alive?”

  I climb over to him on my hands and knees, wrap him up in my arms, and let him cry. He shudders under my touch, leans his head on my shoulder, and lets everything go. The pain is incredible. I finally find words after several long moments.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I see his dying face, the blood gurgling from his mouth, and then his eyes rolling back in his head.”

  “Were you shot?” I ask him.

  “In the leg far from my fucking heart.”

  “How can I help?” I allow myself one tiny kiss to his cheek.

  “I want to go back, Molly. I need the constant loud noises, adrenaline, feeling trapped, I need all of it. I hate it here.”

  His words slice me right back open. Touching him feels vile all of a sudden. I back away from the man I once knew. He’s not there anymore. Nothing is left of his kind heart, warm smile, and genuine love for life. Our love is gone.

  “Then go.” I stand to my feet backing away. “Clearly there’s nothing here for you.”

  He raises his head and stares straight up at me. He remains silent with no remorse in his cold eyes.

  “Bye, Guy.”

  I slam the door, let my back fall on it, and cry for the loss. The love of my life officially ripped away from me even though the skeleton of the man remains in front of me.

  13

  Molly

  “The problem with being empathetic is you feel sorry for a$$h0l%s too.” -Amos

  We work side-by-side every morning and evening cleaning out the stalls and hooking up the horses to the exercise machine. Guy’s a natural with the horses. My dad told me the Army wouldn’t take Guy back due to his injury. He tried to share more with me about his struggle, but I stopped him.

  Mom delivers him his meals. Guy hasn’t stepped foot in our house since I was covered in blood. Hell, you wouldn’t even know he was on the ranch the way he keeps himself secluded. He goes for daily runs keeping his body conditioned and leaves at night.

  I have no clue if he’s drowning himself in alcohol, women, or drugs, but he’s up bright and early every single morning to do chores. I see more and more ink on him all the time. His entire right arm is covered now with swirling patterns. It’s sexy as hell on him and I try not to stare at it or him for that fact.

  “Piece of shit.” I kick the four-wheeler in front of me.

  It’s taken its last ride and I still have ten bales of straw to bring into the barn. I climb back up the stack and buck off all the bales I need. Then I start hauling them in one at a time. My back and fingers ache from the heavy lifting.

  “Four-wheeler broke?” Guy asks me from the stall he’s working in.

  “No, I thought this would be fucking fun.” I turn my back on him and walk back out of the barn to pick up another bale.

  I pass Guy on my way back to the barn.

  “Smart ass.” He smiles at me.

  “Dickhead,” I mumble to myself.

  We pass each other again when I go back out for another bale.

  “I don’t need your help, Guy. Just get your shit done.”

  “I don’t need your attitude, Molly.” He continues in with his bale.

  My fingers itch to pick up a rock and huck it at him. It would wipe that smile off his face. Before long, Guy laps me carrying the final bale into the barn. I don’t bother with a thank you or even an acknowledgement before bedding the stalls with the straw.

  Guy also doesn’t wait for one as he goes right back to mucking out a dirty stall. I find myself glancing over at him more than I like. He never catches me staring at him and for that I’m thankful.

  “Your new horse is here.” I hear Grandpa holler and then the sound of a trailer rattling.

  I dust off my hands and walk to the front of the barn to see Trig getting out of his truck. I roll my eyes and want to turn him away, but the love of my job is too strong.

  “Trig,” I nod.

  “Molly.”

  “I’ll let you two be.” Grandpa walks off.

  “Didn’t know you were back in town.”

  He shifts from leg to leg and then tips his straw cowboy hat. “College life ain’t for me.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m starting my own rodeo string and have a solid set of bucking horses.”

  “Nice,” I nod.

  Trig is one of the most talented cowboys I know. He went to college on a full-ride scholarship on his roping abilities.

  “I came across a real nice mare. I’d like to see if you could break her. I think she’d make a fine barrel horse. A bit strong headed.”

  “Ha, like me, bet we will get along just fine.”

  “You said it not me.” He opens the back of the trailer.

  A large black horse fills the inside. Her eyes are bugging out of her head and she’s skittish to the movement, kicking back on the trailer walls.

  “Where’d you get her?”

  “Horse sale in Austin, Texas. She was being trained to be a barrel horse, but the old owner gave up on her hot temper.”

  “Trig, are you telling me that you bought me a horse?”

  He extends his arm out to rest on the trailer, crosses his legs at the ankles, and sends me a sexy smile. “Would that score me points in your book?”

  “You know me all too well, Trig, quickest way to my heart.”

  The horse has mellowed down a bit in the trailer with the two of us standing at the open gate talking.

  “You don’t rodeo anymore?” I ask him.

  “Got my pro card and travel up and down the road, but having my own rodeo stock is a dream.”

  “And you’re living it.” I playfully smack his chest. It feels good to talk to someone who isn’t stricken with the grief of our loss.

  I hear someone clear their throat from behind us and turn to see Guy staring daggers in Trig’s direction. It might be a bitch move, but it makes me feel good.

  “Want to back up to the loading chute and we’ll unload her. I’ll just let her get settled in for a few days before starting to work her.”

  “Sounds great, Molly.” Trig shuts the gate of the trailer.

  I catch him checking out my ass and it causes me to blush. I may or may not have added an extra pep to my step waltzing over to the chute to back him up. The horse bucks and runs off the trailer. She throws her head around her new pen sniffing it out.

  “You up for dinner some time?” Trig asks and then looks over my shoulder nodding his head. “Hey, Guy.”

  Trig extends his hand. “How’s it going, man?”

  Guy only grunts out a response and briskly shakes Trig’s hand. I finally turn to Guy. “You need something?”

  “You.” It’s a one-word response.

  I look away from his face because with just one glance the man has the power to pull me right back into his vortex.

  “I’ll let you two get back to work,” Trig winks at me. “Let me know if you’d ever like to go out, Molly.”

  “I will,” I smile back at him. “Have to thank you for bringing me a new horse.”

  Trig hops up in his Dodge and pulls out of the driveway. I watch the dust cloud follow his truck and gooseneck trailer down the
lane.

  “Are you fucking serious, Molly?”

  I don’t respond to Guy, instead I hop up on the fence rest my chin on my forearms and look at the new horse. She’s gorgeous with a clean slate in front of her. I know nothing of her old habits or tendencies; I just see a bright future for her. It’s ironic how I see so much in the horses while my life remains stale and stagnant.

  “Hop.”

  I pivot enough to see Guy who is holding his ball cap in his hands staring down at it.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For?”

  “I can’t be the man you need me to be.”

  He walks away never looking up at me. It’s more than he’s ever given me thus far.

  14

  Molly

  “I’ve never lost a game of Russian Roulette.” -Amos

  “Son of a bitch.” Guy throws a wrench across the lot.

  “Good seeing some of the boy’s old temper.” Grandpa rocks next to me in his rocking chair.

  “He’ll come around,” my dad adds.

  I avoid the topic at all costs and finish off my fried chicken. Guy has spent three days trying to fix the four-wheeler with no success. He must haul in enough straw bales late at night because every morning since the four-wheeler broke down I have a stack of straw in the barn to bed down the pens.

  We’ve avoided conversation while working side-by-side in the barn. It’s clear he’s taken our relationship off the table. He doesn’t want to be the man for me. He sure in the hell has the power to, but it’s his demons he has to work out before we will go any further.

  The front door slams and my mother walks across the emerald green grass carrying a plate of food and a cold beer. Guy sits on the four-wheeler to eat his dinner. I watch him carry an easy conversation with my mom between bites and long pulls of his beer.