I've spent years mourning my mother's death, and countless days trying to uncover the truth about her murder once I learned of it. I thought finding out what really happened that day would bring me peace and let me come to terms with her death. I never expected it to leave me feeling this way.
So empty. So hollow. So alone.
I guess I ought to realize by now that nothing is ever what you hope for it to be. My entire life has been one disappointment after the next. After all, it's no surprise I'm a highly educated lawyer suck in a rustic, rural town in Nowhere, Wyoming. The only cases I get to work are the ones I wish never arose in the first place.
And now this. This truth. This revelation. This decision.
It's probably the biggest case to land in Absaroka County, even bigger than Henry's. And as the only lawyer in town with a legitimate degree from a well respected university, it would seem that I am the best of candidates for the case, though some would argue that I'm too personally close to the case to be objective. They are right, of course. How could I be anything other than biased against the man who orchestrated my mother's murder? Even now, it's difficult to believe that Barlow Connally could be capable of such a thing. He's a business man without qualms against toeing the line in order to further advance his portfolio, fair enough. But this?
When Branch told me, I didn't believe it at first. I chalked it up to the stress. I figured he had finally completely snapped. We all did. He'd been through a lot, and no one wanted to believe that Barlow could have done such a thing.
And then Barlow went and recovered. Branch, irrefutably an excellent shot, aimed to disarm, not to kill, though by the sounds of it Barlow had had more sinister intentions himself. Even with the massive amount of blood loss, thanks to my father's quick thinking and even quicker reactions, the paramedics were able to save Barlow's life.
It's ironic, really. My father, saving the life of the man who killed my mother. His wife. I'm sure if he had known then, he wouldn't have been in such a hurry to lend a hand. The irony doesn't stop there, either. It's ironic that my ex-boyfriend's father is the man who killed my mother. Ironic that his alleged reasoning behind doing so was to enable Branch to become sheriff, instead of my father, of this do nothing county that has more than its fair share of murder and crime.
It's poetic, really, that Barlow's reasoning hardly sounds like reasoning at all. That killing my mother was the best way to try to sit Branch upon the throne of Absaroka County law enforcement.
It's hard to think about Branch.
It's hard not to.
For the first few days after he told me, I expected him to come by. I'm not even sure I wanted him to, but I fully expected it of him. It was certainly a surprise when he didn't show up at my front door. Even more of a surprise came when I didn't even get a phone call. Though I guess, rationally, it is to be expected. Does the family of a murderer usually reach out to the family of the victim? What are the odds that the two individuals in question would be entangled in a muddled, complicated relationship that may or may not even be defined as a relationship?
My brain wants to focus on anything but the truth about my mother since it, again ironically, offers no comfort at all. And so for the past seven days, it has instead obsessed with another topic. Branch.
I don't know what I'm supposed to feel for him anymore. I haven't known that for a while now, and things have only gotten more complicated with time. I'm thankful he uncovered the truth, that he brought absolution in the truth of my mother's murder. He could have easily kept the secret to himself, could have protected his father and chosen a different, much darker path.
He didn't. But I still don't know how that's supposed to make me feel. Especially after everything else that has been going on with him.
But I've seen him around town this past week, even if we haven't spoken directly to each other. And I see the way he's been ostracized, even though he's never had the best relationship with his father in the first place. It doesn't matter to this town that he's the one who finally uncovered the truth. All that matters in the mind of the masses is that he's the son of the man who killed the wife of the county's beloved sheriff.
The last week has undoubtedly been a shit fest for Branch, and yet as far as I can tell it only makes him stronger. I think it's helped him even, in a sick, dark way. I think he's so used to being played out as the county's villain, always pitted against my father. I think he seeks comfort in the way he's ostracized, because it reminds him of the man he was before this whole horrible business with David Ridges started.
It breaks my heart to even think it could be true, and yet I know deep down with utter certainly that it is nothing but the truth. I, myself, began to lose faith in the man he was not that long ago. I guess I just never thought that my mother's murder would somehow be the thing that might just change my mind.
This logic is what carries me to his front doorstep. It isn't the pain I saw in his eyes when I entered the sheriff's department and saw him glance up from the chair against the wall and recognize me. It isn't the pain I heard in his voice when he finally gathered the courage to tell me the awful truth. It's the strength he shows now, carrying the brunt of the county's hatred for his father and him by association. It's the reminder of the man that he really is, deep down under the madness that seeped into him when he fell too far into the David Ridges ordeal.
When he opens the door, he's wearing the same style of plain white t-shirt he was half wearing in the sheriff's department that day. This one, however, is fresh though it has the hint of a few wrinkles. Judging by the presence of his cotton lounging pants, I venture to guess that I've woken him from a nap, though it's closing in on three in the afternoon. I half expect to breath in the stale stench of alcohol wafting from him, but there's none. I find this fact oddly comforting. It's been the other way around when it comes to my father lately.
I spent the entire ride over, short as it may be, thinking of what I was going to say when I saw him. But even as I pulled up into the driveway, I was empty handed. Just the sight of him now clears my head of anything I might have drummed up anyway.
He hasn't shaved in a few days is what I notice right away. And even though the red marks beneath his eyes have finally disappeared, they've simply been replaced with dark bags sagging under the crow's feet in the corner of his eyes. It's the face of the man that I loved, and almost certainly isn't at the same time.
"Cady," he says by way of greeting. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, then strokes the stubble on his cheeks. "If I had known you were coming over, I would have made myself a little more presentable."
If I wasn't feeling so suddenly nervous, I would probably smile. As it is, I simply nod foolishly.
He seems to know I don't have an entire speech prepared. After only a moment's deliberation, he takes a step back into the house and pulls the door wide open, inviting me in without a word. In many ways, it feels like old times. In the beginning, I would show up late at night, too afraid of my father finding out to let him anywhere near my house. And then, after, when I would lose my resolve and show up unannounced, with only one thing on my mind.
It's hard to reason the Branch as of late to the Branch I knew before. He's always been so steady, so sound and sure of himself. Cocky, even. So emotionally cut off from everyone, except for perhaps me. Now, I can see he tries to hide his emotions from me the most. And it hurts more than I ever thought it would.
His house is far from tidy, but it's in better shape than I expected. It's certainly cleaner than both my place and my father's. Neither one of us has felt very domestic as of late. When I still don't find the words to say, he drops onto his couch, pulling the quilted blanket around his shoulders. His grandmother made that blanket. I wish I didn't know this.
I wish I didn't know a lot of things about him, now more than ever. It would be so much easier to hate him along with everyone else. To blame him. But I know this man better than anyone else in this town. And even if it would make this whole mess easier, even if it would make me feel better, he doesn't deserve it.
I slink onto the couch next to him, closer than I probably should. I kick my shoes off in a familiar way before tucking my legs up beneath me and resting my arm on the back of the couch. It takes me a moment to muster up enough courage to look at him – really look at him – for the first time in a while. "They've asked me to be the prosecutor in your father's case," I finally confess the weight on my chest.
He doesn't say a word as he stands up and disappears into the other room. When he returns, he has an opened beer in either hand. He hands me one before taking a long drag from the other. I remember the way I became after I first found out the truth about my mother, the way I would start my day with a can of beer. I only take a sip before I lean to set it down on the coffee table, pushing aside a discarded newspaper to do so.
He doesn't say a word as he fingers the lip of his bottle. I guess I shouldn't expect him to. After all, murderer or not, it is still his father I'm talking about. "How are you doing?" I ask suddenly, and I can't tell who I've surprised more with the abrupt change in topic.
"I've had better days," he says with a dry laugh. "A week ago, I was wearing a suit. I was going to join the Connally family business. I had my suspicions about my father's business dealings with Nighthorse, but I can honestly say I did not think it would lead here."
"Every time we catch up with life and finally pull ourselves together, life throws another curve ball."
He's always adored it when I managed to properly use a sports analogy. I remember that now as the corners of his lips pull into a tentative smile. He leans his head back, his long legs stretching out before him, sliding under the coffee table as he sinks further into the couch. Resting his neck against the curve of the couch back, he angles his head towards me. There's something eerily familiar about the way he's looking at me, and it sends goosebumps shooting up my arms though I can't say exactly why. There's nothing but sadness in those serious eyes of his.
"Why are you here, Cady?" he asks.
I've taken for granted the fact that I've always been the one hording the power in our relationship, whatever form it took. I'm the one who conceded into the romantic tryst after he pursued me for what felt like ages. Then I'm the one who broke it off, who up and left Wyoming without much of a good-bye. I'm the one who came back and told him that I couldn't deal with that type of relationship with him anymore. Then I got drunk and slept with him, only to push him away again. He was so much sweeter to me after my car accident than I was to him when he got shot. And even as he was healing, I used him for his money to help Henry, for his experience as a deputy to help investigate in Colorado.
"I don't know," I finally tell him, though I'm not being honest. If I reach deep, deep down I can find the exact reason I decided to show up unannounced on his doorstep. But it makes my stomach twist, and I don't think I can admit it aloud.
No matter how intense things became or how good it felt there for a while, I don't think we've ever been healthy for each other. His conflict at work with my father is reason enough. And I only seem to want him for the wrong reasons, at the wrong times. Now is a perfectly fine example of that. But sense be damned, I am drawn illogically to Branch Connally. And the fact that he's been able to shoulder the backlash of this county for the past week only crumbles my resolve.
"I think you do," he says, his eyes never once straying from me as he holds my gaze. "But I don't think you want to admit it, and I don't think I want to hear it even if you could."
How did we end up here, the daughter of a broken widow and the son of a murderer? Did we even once, just once, stand a chance against the odds stacked so heavily against us? My heart pounds in my chest as I lean my head to rest against my arm, bringing my face ever slightly closer to his. I don't think we were ever supposed to be happy here, the over educated lawyer and the nephew of the former sheriff. No wonder we try so hard to find happiness in each other.
I wish I could be better at this. I wish we could be better. I wish we could have a clean slate and start over and actually stand a chance. But his father's going to be on trial, and even if I'm not on the prosecutor's bench I'll wind up on the witness stand. So will he. There is so much hate and hurt and fear in my heart right now, and I know it will only get worse before it gets better. I look at him, and I can tell he feels the same.
"Can we…" I stop to clear my throat, take a deep breath. I reach for the beer bottle and take a large swig. "I don't want to talk about my mom or your father or mine anymore."
"Does that leave anything left?" he asks, and the corner of his lip twitches again in what could almost pass as a grin.
"Probably not," I laugh.
"I'm sorry, Cady. For everything."
"Can we just, for one night, forget that the past year ever took place?"
"I doubt it," he says, a little too honestly.
"Can we try?"
Being with Branch won't make anything better. If anything, it will only make things more muddled, more complicated. But I've never been logical when it came to Branch Connally.
I doubt I ever will be.