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BarChi, shamed by his own jealous actions, betrayed by his wife, hated by the man he loved. When he’d left the BarChi to claim the Austin ranch as his own, he’d made sure to go alone. He’d sat in the small, silent cabin, all by himself.
And he’d let the night come.
He’d waited for death, hoping for that ultimate release from the mess he’d made of his life. He’d wondered if it would be fast or slow. He’d wondered if, as he took his last gasping breath, he’d regret not having turned on the generator. He’d wondered how long his body would lie in the cabin and who would finally find him.
He’d wondered if Deacon would mourn him.
Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, and much to his dismay, he’d woken again the next morning, very much alive.
He should have gone on then, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t face those men at the Austin ranch. He didn’t know how much they knew. More importantly, he couldn’t face a future away from his home. The BarChi brand seemed to burn on his arm as it had so many years ago when his brother had pushed the scalding metal to his flesh. He’d wear that brand for the rest of his life, a reminder of what he’d lost.
If he’d had a gun with him that trip, he would have used it. He would have walked out into the woods, so as not to make a mess in the cabin, and he would have put the barrel in his mouth. But there was no such easy way out.
That night, he hadn’t even gone inside. He’d dug out the jug of whisky he and Brighton had stashed in the wood pile only a year before. He’d sat on the ground in front of the cabin. And he’d waited.
Still, the wraiths hadn’t come. Finally, when the bottle was long empty and the moon had set, he’d walked into the woods. He’d raged at the heavens and the Saints. He’d sworn and screamed and begged the wraiths to take him. But once again, they’d refused to oblige.
In the end, he’d fallen to the ground and wept. He’d wept as he hadn’t done since he was a boy. Not since that fateful day so long ago when his granddaddy had caught him in the barn with Deacon and beaten him bloody. He’d wept for that boy, who had lay bleeding in the straw, wondering what exactly he’d done wrong. He’d wept for Deacon, who he’d always loved, but never had the balls to claim. He’d wept for his father, who had been hurt, and for Brighton, who was dead. He’d thought about Aren. Dante wanted to hate him, but when he’d thought about the things he’d done in an attempt to drive him off, he was ashamed. He’d gone into Aren’s house. He’d destroyed Aren’s things. He’d shredded Aren’s art. And the worst part was, it had felt so justified at the time.
That was what Dante had wept for the most—for what he’d allowed himself to become. There had been so many factors at play—his rage and his jealousy and his inadequacy as a husband. His impotence with women and his fear of allowing himself to be with men. His shame. More than anything, the shame of it all.
He’d finally accepted that the wraiths weren’t going to come. Dante had dragged himself inside and fallen, exhausted, into one of the beds. When he’d woken the next morning, he’d been wrung out. Resigned. Empty.
It had been months since the wraiths had denied him his death. He’d started to rebuild his life, but he still ached every day for what he’d lost. Could he stand to face Deacon again? To look him in the eye after what he’d done?
“Are you going to start that thing or let the wraiths take us?” Cami called from inside.
Good question. If he’d been alone, he might have decided to tempt them once more, but Cami was here. She was depending on him. “The wraiths don’t want me,” he said to himself.
He started the generator and went inside.
It turned out Cami had brought one more thing with her—a small, metal flask. She was sipping from it. Her cheeks were already a bit pink. She offered it to him, and he accepted. He expected whisky, which might have brought