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Prologue
Better As a Memory - Kenny Chesney
Wyatt
The October rain pounded down, soaking through my lined Carhartt jacket, as Finn and I struggled to repair the broken fence. My fingers were numb, the wire cutters slipping in my grasp as I tried to twist the rusted barbed wire back into place. It was a losing battle, just like everything else on this godforsaken farm.
“This is useless,” I muttered, throwing down the cutters in frustration. “The posts are rotten. We need to replace the whole damn thing.”
Finn wiped the rain from his eyes, his expression grim. “Your old man’s really let things go.”
I snorted. “That’s an understatement. He’s been too busy drowning himself in whiskey to give a damn about what’s left of our cattle or the land.”
We’d been out here for hours, trying to patch up the neglected fences, but it was like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound. The farm was falling apart, and my father seemed content to watch it crumble.
Finn dropped the tools he’d been holding. “Come on, let’s go talk to him. Maybe we can knock some sense into him.”
I shoved open the door to the old house, the scent of stale beer and regret filling my senses. My father lay sprawled on the couch, holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the flickering television screen.
“We need new fence posts, Dad.” My voice was tight. “And we need to buy hay soon.”
He didn’t even turn his head. “Nope. No need.”
“What are you talking about?” I forced out the words between clenched teeth.
He finally turned, his bloodshot eyes fixing on me in a drunken haze. “I sold it. I sold it all.”
My blood ran cold. “Sold what?”
“The farm,” he slurred, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “I’m done. Richie’s buying the whole damn thing.”
The name hit me like a punch to the gut.
Richie Marcano was the loan shark my father had kept himself indebted to for years. The same man who’d had his thugs beat me to a pulp the last time my dad couldn’t pay what he owed.
“You can’t sell the farm,” I protested, my voice rising in disbelief. “Especially to that monster.”
“I can, and I did,” he countered, his hand groping for a can of beer on the coffee table. “Go back to your rodeo. Hell, maybe I’ll go back to the rodeo. Free myself of this shithole. Those were the days.” He laughed—a hollow, broken sound.
“You son of a bitch.” I lunged at him, driven by a surge of anger and betrayal. My hand clamped onto the front of his shirt to pull him off the couch, and my fist drew back, aiming for his smug, drunken face.
“Wyatt!” Finn’s voice cut through my rage as he pulled me back, his grip firm on my arm.
My father, caught off guard, scrambled clumsily to his feet, his eyes wide with shock. “Get out.” His voice was surprisingly sober for once.
“You really think you can make me leave, old man?” I towered over him, the advantage of height and sobriety on my side.
His gaze shifted to Finn, standing behind me, a silent plea in his eyes.
“You should leave.” I told him. “You do nothing for this place.”
“Wyatt.” Finn’s voice tone was warning.
“Richie’s getting the paperwork ready. These fingers”—my father held up his trembling hands—“are signing it, and there’s not one damn thing you can do about it.”
My fists clenched and unclenched at my side, the urge to strike wrestling with the restraint Finn had on me.
“Wyatt, let’s go.” Finn’s voice was calm but firm.
