Page 79 of Where I Should’ve Been

“Who the fuck are you?” Logan bellows at the same time.

My eyes are still closed firmly shut as another wave of nausea clutches me, and the edges of everything blur. The sound of them—three men, all muscle and ego and tension—feels far too loud for the pounding inside my skull and the nausea wreaking havoc on my insides. My stomach rolls again, and I grip the table in hopes it will anchor me.

“I expect a fucking answer,” Tad spits, ignoring their questions entirely. “What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with Breezy?”

“Excuse me?” Bennett’s voice booms, and I try to calm him before he can fly off the handle. “You demand an answer in my fucking house? Are you—?”

“Bennett,” I plead, my voice dull, even to my own ears. It has nothing of the take-charge woman I’m used to, and her absence is worrisome, given the circumstances. I have a feeling things are about to get a heck of a lot more volatile, and, perhaps more horrifying, the sting in my eyes foretells a soon-arriving wave of more tears.

“Yeah, I do demand answers!” Tad shouts, not catching my let’s-calm-shit-down vibe. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s it to you, Farmer fucking Ted?” Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip, and more tears flood behind my lids.

I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It’s never really been in my DNA—something about being a Bishop and dealing with all the family-induced trauma hardens your soul or something.

But I don’t open my eyes because I can’t. I don’t say anything else because the world is spinning, my pulse is hammering somewhere between my ears and my ribs, and the tears start up again before I can swallow them back.

What on earth is going on with me?

31

Tad

I didn’t exactly plan on getting in the crosshairs of a shitstorm in Bennett Bishop’s house.

But my sheep had other plans.

Crosby figured out a way to unlatch the new gate Randy and I installed on the side of the fence that butts up toward the Bishops’ house a week ago. We thought it was bulletproof. Evidently, it wasn’t Crosby-proof.

Half my flock was in Bennett’s yard before I knew it, some in his driveway, some in the pasture near his studio, and I headed over that way to get their asses back over to the farm.

But then I heard screaming and hollering.

The yelling wasn’t of the toddler variety or a happy family house boisterous with noise. It was sharp. It was angry. It was strong enough to shake the fucking walls and urge a gallon of adrenaline to pour into my veins.

And I swore I could hear Breezy’s soft voice somewhere in the violent mix.

I didn’t think. I acted, and I ran as fast as I could across the yard and straight to the house.

My boots hit the porch hard enough to rattle the boards, and I didn’t even bother knocking. I turned the knob and yanked the door open as my pulse climbed straight into fight mode. And I busted into the house, eyes searching frantically for Breezy.

Any manner of burglary or attempted kidnapping or Breezy being held at gunpoint was running through my head, but what I found was entirely confusing and infuriating, considering she looked more upset than I’ve ever seen her.

And that’s how I ended up here with a livid Bennett and a dude I’ve never met staring me down while a now-sobbing Breezy hops up from the kitchen table and runs over to the trash can to puke her guts out.

“Earth to Farmer Ted, what are you doing here, in my fucking house?” Bennett asks for the second time, but I’m too focused on Breezy to listen or care or respond. I’m also feeling really pissed that she’s in this state, and I have to assume someone in this room is the cause.

“Breezy?” I question, walking over toward her and gently putting my hand on her back. “Are you okay?”

When she doesn’t answer, probably because she’s too busy hurling and dry heaving between sobs, I turn toward Bennett and the other dude I don’t know. Both still look angry as fuck, but guess what? I’m fucking angry too. “What happened?”

“Why the fuck should we tell you?” the man next to Bennett asks. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“He’s the fucking sheep farmer from next door,” Bennett interjects, just as I crack back.

“Yeah, well, I can say the same about you. Who the fuck are you, and why’ve you got her crying?”

“Why don’t you leave our sister to us, Farmer Ted?” Bennett intervenes, but his words are all the clue I need to put the rest of it together. Our sister. Our.