Trust Fund Fiancé (Texas Cattleman's Club: Rags to Riches 4)

Most days, he struggled to remember what her voice sounded like. Time might not heal all wounds, but it damn sure dimmed the details he tried to clutch close and hoard like a miser hiding his precious gold.

“I have to tell you this is not the anniversary I imagined we’d have.” He huffed out a humorless chuckle. “I tried to call your parents yesterday and this morning, but they didn’t answer. I understand,” he quickly added, careful not to malign the parents they’d both adored. “Losing you devastated them. And I’m a reminder of that pain. Still...” He paused, his jaw locking, trying to trap in the words he could only admit here, to his dead fiancée. “I miss them. I had Aunt Ava and Uncle Trent after Mom and Dad died, but your folks... They were good to me. And I hated losing them so soon after you. But yeah, I don’t blame them.”

They all had to do what they needed to move on, to return to the world of the living.

He’d thrown himself into work and any kind of activity that had taunted fate to come for him again—skydiving, rock climbing, rappelling.

And the women. The daredevil adventures might burn off the restlessness, but they couldn’t touch the loneliness. The emptiness. Only sex did that. Even if it was only for those few blessed hours when he was inside a woman and pleasure provided that sweet oblivion. Adrenaline and sex. They were his sometime drugs of choice. Temporary highs.

When those were his ways of coping with the past, the loss, how could he hold it against the Drakes that they’d chosen to cauterize him from their lives?

“I know it’s been several months since I’ve visited, and so damn much has happened since then—”

“Zeke?”

He jerked his head up and, spying the woman standing on the other side of the grave, blinked. Surely his brain had conjured the image to taunt him. How else could he explain Reagan Sinclair here in this cemetery?

Unbidden and against his will, his gaze traveled down her slender frame clothed in a pale-yellow dress that bared her shoulders and arms and crisscrossed over her breasts. For a second, he lingered over the V that offered him a hint of smooth, rounded flesh before continuing his perusal over the long, flowing skirt that brushed the tips of her toes and the grass. She resembled a goddess, golden, lustrous brown skin and long hair twisted into a braid that rested over one shoulder. And when he lifted his scrutiny to her face, he couldn’t help but skim the vulnerable, sensual curves of her mouth, the almost haughty tilt of her cheekbones and the coffee-brown eyes.

Silently, he swore, yanking his regard back to the headstone. And hating himself for detecting details about this woman he had no business, no right to notice. Especially standing over the grave of the woman he’d loved.

“Hey,” she softly greeted him, blissfully unaware of the equal parts resentment and need that clawed at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, tone harsher than he’d intended. Than she deserved.

But if the question or the delivery offended her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she moved closer, and even though he’d thoroughly scrutinized her only moments ago, he just noted the bouquet of vibrant blue-and-white flowers she held. She knelt, her skirt billowing around her, and laid the flowers in front of the gravestone. Straightening, she paused, resting a hand on top of the marble before stepping back. Only then did she meet his gaze.

And in that instant, he was transported back eight years. A lot about the day of Melissa’s funeral had been a blur, but how could he have forgotten that it’d been Reagan who’d found him at this very same, freshly covered grave after everyone else had left for the repast at the Drakes’? Reagan who had slipped her hand into his and silently stood next to him, not rushing him to leave, not talking, just...refusing to leave him alone. She might’ve been his cousin’s friend back then, but that day, in those long, dark moments, she’d been his.

He smothered a sigh and dragged a hand down his face, his beard scratching his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “This day—”

She shook her head, holding up her hand to forestall the rest of his apology. “I understand.” She paused. “Does it get any easier?” she asked, voice whisper soft.

Did it? Any other place on any other day, he might’ve offered his canned and packaged reply of yes, time is the great healer. But the words stumbled on his tongue. Then died a defeated death. “Most days, yes. The pain dulls so it doesn’t feel as if every breath is like a knife in the chest. But then there are other days when...”

His gaze drifted toward the other side of the cemetery. What his eyes couldn’t see, his mind supplied. Two matching headstones, side by side. The people buried there together in death as they’d been determined to be in life.

I feel empty, he silently completed the thought. Unanchored. Alone. Abandoned.

He would’ve denied those words, those feelings if anyone vocalized them to him. Especially his older brother, Luke. But in his head where he couldn’t run from his denial?

Well...even if he had the speed of Usain Bolt, he couldn’t sprint fast enough to escape himself.

“I forgot your parents were buried here,” Reagan said, her voice closer. Her scent nearer, more potent. “I always wondered why they weren’t with the rest of the Wingates in their mausoleum.”

“Because they weren’t Wingates,” he replied, still staring off into the distance, squelching the clench of his gut at his explanation. Smothering the unruly and insidious thought that he wasn’t one either. That in a family mixed with Wingates and Holloways, he and Luke were still...different.

“My father was a Holloway, Aunt Ava’s older brother. He created a bit of a scandal in the family and society when he married my mother, a black woman. But in spite of the derision and ostracization they faced—sometimes within his own family—my parents had a happy marriage. Even if they remained somewhat distant from the rest of the Holloways.”

“They were protecting their world,” Reagan murmured. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“They were very careful, sheltering. But they still taught us the value of family. When they died in that car crash eleven years ago, Aunt Ava and Uncle Trent took Luke and me in...even though by then, we were both in college and technically adults. They gave us a place to call home when ours had been irrevocably broken.”

He turned back to her. “They might have taken us in, and we now work for the family company, but my parents didn’t consider themselves Wingates, so Luke and I didn’t bury them as ones.”

She slowly nodded. Studied him in that calm-as-lake-waters way of hers that still perceived too much. Unlike most people, she didn’t seem content with just seeing the charmer, the thrill seeker.