They’re beautiful but chaotic. Like all the perfect notes of a symphony but with discordant undertones that keep it from its pureness.

And those feelings have also given rise to the intense anger that consumes me now.

“I want to meet him,” Donny says once again.

“All right,” Dad says.

“And just so you know, he’ll never be my real dad.” Donny smiles.

“I know that.” Dad returns his smile. “Trust me, I’m not in any way feeling displaced.”

“Good,” I say. “You’ll never be displaced.”

“Are you boys hungry?” he asks. “We can hit up one of Denver’s fine restaurants.”

“Starved,” Donny says.

I regard my brother. He just had news that could have upended his life, but he’s jovial as ever, starving as usual.

I worry about him sometimes. Though I took the brunt of abuse while we were in captivity, he still took a lot. Yes, we had the finest therapy money could buy once we came to the ranch, but I fear something remains in my brother that he doesn’t let anyone else see.

And I fear it could come out with a vengeance.

If it does, I’ll no longer be able to protect him.

Dad and I return to the ranch at noon the next day. We eat a quick lunch with Mom at the house.

“I had the pleasure of dining with Ashley last night,” Mom offers.

“Oh?” Dad says.

I say nothing. Of course she ate with Ashley last night. Ashley lives here, Dad and I were in Denver, so they ate together. I fail to see the point in my mother’s assertion.

“Yes,” she continues. “We went into town and ate at Lorenzo’s.”

“Lisa Lorenzo’s new place?” Dad says.

Mom nods.

Lisa Lorenzo is several years younger than I am. I remember her, as she hung out with Henry and Brad sometimes.

“We stopped at Murphy’s for a drink first,” Mom continues.

Dad nods. “How’s Sean?”

“We didn’t see him.”

“I suppose not, now that he’s retired.”

“He’s around sometimes, but last night Brendan was manning the bar.”

“How’s Brendan, then?”

“He’s good. Busy. He seemed quite taken with Ashley.”

The bite I just took of my sandwich lodges in my throat. I can’t respond. I wouldn’t anyway, but I physically can’t.

“That’s not surprising,” Dad says.

“Not at all,” Mom agrees. “She’s a lovely girl. Like a ray of sunshine around here.”

I take a drink of water and swallow hard, dislodging the ball of bread and meat from my throat.

A ray of sunshine.

Everything I’m not.

God, I have no business dragging her into my life, especially now that I’ve let loose the hell inside me.

Ironically, she was the catalyst.

Or rather, the feelings she brought out in me that I can’t control—those are the catalyst.

I like Brendan Murphy. He and I went to school together from fifth grade on. We weren’t best friends, but then I wasn’t best friends with anyone. He’s a good guy—smart, nice, hardworking.

And right now I want to fucking pummel his face into the ground. Punch his nose until an artery spurts blood.

“Both she and Brendan could do a lot worse,” Dad says. “Though I think Ashley should be focused on her internship.”

“I agree,” I say gruffly.

“What makes you think she’s not?” Mom queries.

“I didn’t say that,” Dad argues.

“She’s certainly entitled to a social life.”

Dad stiffens slightly. Only slightly, but I see it in his facial muscles. This bothers him, and I don’t have a clue why.

It bothers me too. A lot. But why should it bother Dad?

I wipe my lips with my napkin and rise. “I need to get back to work.”

“You left half your sandwich,” Mom says.

“Not that hungry.” No lie there. The thought of Ashley and Brendan Murphy effectively killed my appetite.

“Honey…” Mom begins.

“Let him go, blue eyes.”

Yeah, Dad gets me. He knows when I need to leave a situation.

He knows when I need to think, or when I need to be alone.

And now, more than ever, I want to know exactly how he knows.

I’ll figure it out. Somehow. But at the moment?

I’m going to find Ashley and do whatever I must to make sure she never sees Brendan Murphy again.

Chapter Nine

Ashley

Cutting clusters of ripe grapes from a vine is harder than I imagined it could be. I didn’t realize how sore I was from yesterday’s work until I began doing it again this morning. Now, having just finished lunch, I’m at it again, sweat dripping from my brow even though it’s not even seventy degrees outside.

Dale’s still in Denver. What would he think if he knew I’m having dinner with another guy tonight? Dinner and a bottle of Château Latour?

I wipe my forehead with the back of my leather-gloved hand.

He won’t care.

As much as it hurts, I have to face reality.

He won’t freaking care.

I hold the cluster of grapes gently in my hand and then cut the stem with my sharp pruning shears. Next, I lay the fruit gently in the trays sitting next to me.

Other harvesters work diligently—and a lot faster than I do. I’m all theory and no practice as far as this step in winemaking goes. Sure, I’ve had classes about what I’m doing, but I’ve never actually participated in the process until now.

I hold back a chuckle. Dale would be loving this. He’d expect much more from a doctor of wine.

Is he back from Denver yet? I have no idea. Jade told me at breakfast that she expected them back today, but she didn’t say when. Then she and I both went off to work, and I’ve heard nothing since.

Does Dale ever participate in the harvesting? He must. As far as he’s concerned, these vines are his.

Of course, these aren’t the Syrah vines. I’m cutting Cabernet Sauvignon grapes today. I remove another cluster from the vine and lay it gently alongside the others. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my forearm and begin again.