chapter eleven

                                    

                                          



NIGHT HAD settled quickly over the Dutton Ranch, the quiet hum of evening punctuated by the distant clamor of cowboys in the bunkhouse. The occasional shout or burst of laughter echoed through the crisp air, but the lodge remained still, a stark contrast to the noise in the distance. Reagan stepped out of the front door, her heels scuffing against the porch as she spotted Monica standing alone, arms crossed, staring off toward the horizon. The tension between them was palpable, even from a distance, but it wasn't hostility. It was something more complex, layered in years of unspoken history.
Reagan sighed, her breath visible in the cool night air. She didn't want to be here, not really, but there was something unfinished between them, something that gnawed at her the longer she stayed on the ranch. Maybe it was closure, maybe it was answers. Either way, she knew this conversation was inevitable.
"So how 'bout that talk?" Reagan's voice broke the quiet, drawing Monica's gaze away from the distant skyline.
Monica turned, her face calm but unreadable, and gestured to the empty seat beside her on the porch bench. "Yeah. Might as well get it out now," she said, her voice soft but resolute.
Reagan hesitated before sitting down, unsure of where to start. She had run through the conversation in her head a dozen times, but now, in the moment, the words didn't come as easily. Monica seemed to sense her discomfort and, to Reagan's surprise, took the lead.
"What did you want to talk about?" Monica asked, her tone steady but not unkind.
Reagan chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, then spoke, her voice quiet. "The past."
Monica's posture straightened, her full attention shifting to Reagan. There was no malice in her expression, just a guarded curiosity. Reagan could see the question behind Monica's eyes—the same question she had asked herself many times: Why bring this up now?
"You might think it's ridiculous," Reagan continued, her words slow and deliberate, "for me to want answers after all these years."
Monica gave a small, tight-lipped smile and exhaled softly. "Emotional damage doesn't have a timeline," she said, her voice carrying a weight of understanding that Reagan hadn't expected. "If I'd been in your shoes, I probably would've gone crazy too."
Reagan nodded, her heart tightening at the unexpected empathy. It was a strange comfort, hearing Monica acknowledge the pain she had carried for so long. She wondered, fleetingly, if Monica knew how much her kindness made this harder.
"So you understand then," Reagan said, her tone softening. "How much do you know?"
Monica's eyes flickered with something—surprise, perhaps—but her voice was calm when she answered. "He never talked about your history, if that's what you're asking."
Reagan hummed softly, more to herself than to Monica. It was typical of Kayce to bury his emotions, to avoid confronting anything that might stir up old wounds. "Well, it's a long history," she said, her words trailing off as she searched Monica's face for a reaction. "Did you know we were together?"
Monica's face remained neutral for a moment, but Reagan saw the faint tightening of her jaw, the smallest shift in her expression. "No, I didn't," Monica said quietly. "I had no idea."
Reagan let out a slow breath, her mind wandering back to those years, to the mess of emotions and unresolved feelings she'd kept locked away. She had always wondered if Monica knew—if Kayce had ever let slip some hint of their past—but now that she had the answer, it brought little relief.
"I just want to hear your side of things," Reagan said after a long pause, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "Maybe it'll help me finally make peace with all of this. With myself."