The memory of Harlow’s voice the first time he caught me doing this rings in my ear. “You put too much trust in that horse, London. He’s still an animal.”

Upon reaching the gate, I slip Achilles’ halter over his massive head and cluck my tongue again. He takes off into the field, every bit the beautiful, raw power he is, and like every time, I’m mesmerized by the way he moves, elegant and graceful.

“Welcome home, Chil,” I say as he finally settles on a patch of grass to graze on.

“Still talking to horses, I see.”

Startled, I spin around on my heel, nearly falling flat on my face. His deep chuckle twists into the wind, and my lips purse together in annoyance.

“Jesus, Owen. You scared the shit out of me.” I snarl, wincing at the sting in my lower back.

My brother tosses his head back. This time, his laughter takes a stronger presence in the open area. “Nice to see you too, sis.” Then he smirks, folding his arms over his chest and nodding the tip of his black cowboy hat in my direction.

While I am the middle child, Owen is the oldest and, by far, the wildest. He’ll be thirty next year, and he’s one of Canada’s highest-ranked bareback bronc riders in the rodeo circuit. Towering over me, he leans his hip against the fence, and I marvel at how much he looks like our father. It’s uncanny, really, and for some reason, it makes my eyes water, and all thoughts of kicking him in the shins for scaring me fly out the window.

“Lord love a duck, London.” He huffs, hauling me into his arms.

Burying my face into his shirt, I let a single tear fall. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Bridge.”

My shoulders shake with laughter at the sound of my old nickname.

After giving me a squeeze, he pulls me away from him and playfully pretends to knock my chin with his fists a few times. “There she is.”

Owen started calling me London Bridge when we were little kids, and eventually, he shortened it to Bridge. Even though it’s an odd nickname, it took off like wildfire in our family. I was always falling off horses when I was younger, mostly due to the fact I thought I could ride anything. I was utterly fearless, and thus, Owen loved to chant, “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” every time I took a tumble off a horse, which was often.

“You got old,” I tease, jabbing him in the stomach. Somehow, it manages to hurt me more than him, so I shake my wrist.

The playful lines in his face disappear. “How are you holding up?”

Shrugging, I let my eyes fall to the ground. “Fine.”

“Fine, eh?” he argues. “I saw the—”

“The magazine article. It’s bad. I know.”

“The guy’s a prick, London,” he growls, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “I bet you no one even read it.”

I arch an eyebrow at him as a smirk forms on my lips.

“Okay, well, maybe everyone probably read it.”

I wince outwardly at the idea that our small town has not only seen my failure displayed on their televisions, but also read the slaughtering of my career.

“Hardly changes the fact his face deserves to make its acquaintance with your scary big brother’s fists.”

“I think it defeats the purpose if you have to call yourself scary in order to get the point across.” I laugh, walking in step with him towards the house.

“Rude,” he protests, giving me a noogie. “You shouldn’t rain on people’s parades, London.”

“London!” a female voice shrieks.

Looking up, I see my little sister come barreling down the steps of the front porch, her hair whipping in the breeze.

It’s obvious we’re sisters. We both have Momma’s white-blond hair and blue eyes and Daddy’s dark eyelashes, but where I am more slender, Aurora is a twenty-two-year-old, curvy bombshell, and her heart is nearly an exact copy of our mother’s. While I guard mine and choose to protect its breaks by being hard, Aurora is so soft. She gives and doesn’t hold her love back from anyone.

She’s about to launch herself at me, when Owen catches her midair.

“Whoa, killer. Bridge is broken, remember?” he reminds her.

Swatting at his arms, she gripes, “I know, you goose. I wasn’t going to plow her to the ground.”

“Looked like it.” I laugh at the way she beams, even when she’s trying to come across angry.

After finally breaking free from our brother, she folds her arms around me. “I missed you,” she chokes out in little sobs into the crook of my neck.

“Hey,” I say, running my hand over her hair. “I’m sorry.” For what? I’m not exactly sure. For everything, probably. For not having been here as often as I should have.

“You guys are going to be the death of Dad with all of this crying!” Owen proclaims from somewhere beside us before his boot steps sound on the porch and the screen door closes.

Pulling away from me, Aurora palms my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

I try to look away from her, but I can’t. I know what she’s sorry for. I know what everyone’s sorry for. But the look that comes with it is always the worst—pity. Instead of answering her, I nod.

Taking that as a cue, she wipes her cheeks off and nods toward the driveway. “Daddy went to get some wine for you. He’ll be back soon. You still drink wine, right?”

“Right.”

Daddy never keeps any in the house. I think that’s because it reminds him of Momma, and since Aurora doesn’t drink and Owen doesn’t live there, there’s no need to have it on hand.

“I cleaned up the apartment for you, and I put some snacks in the fridge, but I didn’t bother with too much food, as I figured you’d come eat with us most nights anyway,” she babbles, dragging me into the house.

I acknowledge her with little nods, but my senses are completely overwhelmed the moment my boots cross the threshold of our house. It looks the same as always, knitted couch pillows still adorn the various furniture and given Aurora’s love of baking, which she got from our mother, the smell of baking cherries still reaches your nose as you walk in the door. After toeing off my boots in the entryway, I follow her into the kitchen.

“Get your filthy man-hands away from my pie,” my sister snarls, picking up a serving knife and waving it in Owen’s direction, “or you’ll become the next episode of Criminal Minds, you hear me?”

Sibling banter has always been unique with the three of us. Hovering somewhere between loving and then hoping people don’t overhear us because they’d likely want to lock us up. Nonetheless, hearing it makes my heart swell.

“Has anyone here even gotten wine from that liquor store in the last decade?” my father huffs, setting his twelve-pack and a bottle of wine down on the counter. “It’s absurd. Bloody Google Maps in that joint if you ask me,” he announces before dramatically growling off the countries that have their own wine sections at the local Liquor Barn. He’s nearly finished most of Europe when he finally sees me standing in the kitchen.

“Hey, Daddy,” I whisper, feeling somewhat out of place in the home I grew up in.

“London Bridge,” he says before swallowing against the lump in his throat. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” I let out lamely, shifting on my feet.

Opening his arms, he grins, showing off the wrinkles of a life well lived. “Well, give the old fart a hug, would ya?”

There are men—salt-of-the-Earth, work-hard, love-hard, honest men who’d give you the shirt off their back when you really needed it—and my dad is the very finest of that bunch. While, to us kids, he’s a loving yet burly teddy bear who protects us from the monsters under our beds, to the outside world, Larry Daniels looks like a grizzly bear—the kind you absolutely do not mess with. Not that I’m suggesting messing with any bears is a particularly wise life choice, but for argument’s sake, you get my drift.

He’s nearly six-foot-four, always sporting a five-o’clock shadow, and the epitome of rough around the edges. His frame is hulking—not just in height, but size in general, after years of working on a farm. That, coupled with the fact he’s nearly always carrying a buck knife on his belt, means he’s pretty intimidating. And while I may have gotten my dainty European looks from my mother, I definitely got my mouth from my father. Heaven knows I have a mouth like a sailor, despite years of people telling me women oughta sound like a Hallmark card.