A False Start: A Small Town Brother’s Best Friend Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 4)
A False Start: Chapter 39

Itap my pen against the textbook laid out in front of me. Midterms are upon me. Halfway through my first semester of vet school.

I feel accomplished. I feel challenged. I feel over-fucking-whelmed. What was I thinking? I had a nice, safe job. Was on the path to make a great living. I had a man who loved me.

And I gave it all up for this.

Stress. Never-ending reading. And late nights spent with that dick-wad voice who lives in my head and tells me I’m not good enough. He sounds suspiciously like my dick-wad father, which makes me want to crush him even harder.

I lean back in my chair and press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. Swear I can’t even see straight anymore. I’m about to hit that point in studying where you think If I don’t know it by now, I’m probably not going to know it at all.

For a change of scenery, I grab the stack of mail I pulled from the little locked cubby in the lobby of my building. I lucked out getting a furnished place near campus on short notice. I could have commuted the forty-five minutes to and from Emerald Lake, but with traffic I could have potentially added almost two hours into my day—two hours I’m now glad I have to study.

Burying myself in my books here means three things. One, I don’t run into Griffin Sinclaire around town. Two, I don’t read any tabloids that might discuss Griffin Sinclaire or his divorce, which, according to my brother, has become a popular tabloid story—even without the existence of a sex tape. And three, I spend slightly less time obsessing about Griffin Sinclaire.

My blood still boils at the memory of that woman. That spark of anger I’ve worked so hard to control dances in my chest. I really hate that bitch.

Right around when I got here, Stefan called to tell me Griffin had checked himself into a twenty-eight-day rehab program and that they were pretty sure she didn’t have a tape at all. When I hung the phone up, I cried. I missed him, like some part of me was left behind. But more than anything, I was relieved.

He owes himself so much more than he’s been giving. I wanted that for him so badly that it hurt. I wanted him to know in his bones what I already do—he’s worth it. He’s worth everything.

I shuffle the envelopes.

Bill.

Bill.

Junk mail.

I stop with a pink envelope clutched in my fingers. The blocky all caps scribbled across it, not a match for the feminine color.

My heart races as I stare at it, already knowing who it’s from, even with no return address. I feel the hum of his touch on the paper as I slide a shaking finger beneath the fold and rip it open. On a shaky inhale, I pull out a small slip of paper and a smaller envelope with a photograph of a white flower that has light pink stripes on the wide petals adorning it. I open the smaller envelope, but it’s empty. I’m sure it once held seeds for the flower labeled Spring Beauty.

I flip the paper, where the blocky scrawl continues.

Spring Beauty

Alpine wildflower. Comes up right after the snow melts. Blooms within two to four weeks. Can use energy reserves to produce heat and melt through the last of snow. Strong as fuck. Reminds me of you.

A tear drops onto the page, and I panic, wiping it off frantically. Not wanting to mar the note. I don’t know what it means, but I know he’s called me Wildflower since the first day we met. And the nickname has become incredibly meaningful to me.

That night I sleep with the note clutched in my hand and pretend that Griffin is here with me.

I miss him.

It’s been two weeks since midterms. The midterms I absolutely slayed. I’ve shed a good chunk of that self-doubt I’ve been toting around with me for years, and I’m thriving.

I wipe the sweat off my brow as I walk into my building after a run. My new hobby. A way to burn energy and clear my head. I’ve always hated running, but I forced myself to keep going, and now I look forward to it. It’s weird.

The key clicks as I turn it in my mailbox to check for another pink envelope. Like I have every single day for the past two weeks.

I burned off enough steam during my run that I’ve convinced myself already that I won’t be seeing one today. Which makes the sight of it in the slot so much better.

I don’t even wait until I get up to my unit to rip the envelope open. I’m too fucking excited.

This time I see a hot pink flower that’s all fuzzy in the middle. I definitely dig the color. I swap it over for the note, smiling like a maniac before I’ve even read it.

Monkey Flower

That fuzzy part in the middle is called a stigma. Apparently, it’s the female reproductive organ. These flowers have especially sensitive stigmas, and they think that might help with pollination. I still think about that little whimpering noise you make. Reminds me of you.

I bark out a laugh. Fucking perv. I smile at the note the entire ride up in the elevator and into my unit. I smile all the way into the shower. It’s not until the water scalds my skin that I let my tears pour out and wash down the drain. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I miss him.

Finals are upon me, and I’m stoked. Like actually excited to prove how good I am at this. I’m at the top of my class and not slowing down. What started out as a semester of me feeling scared and alone has turned into one of the best times of my life. I’m learning. I’m making new friends who don’t know me from Adam. They don’t know my brother. They don’t know my reputation from high school. They don’t know Griffin. The experience just wouldn’t have been the same had I lived in Ruby Creek and commuted every day. I’d have dragged a little bit of baggage out this way with me every day.

But now I just get to be Nadia Dalca. The girl who wants to be a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine.

I’ve been asked out a couple of times, and I’ve kindly declined. I don’t even have to think about it. Are Griffin and I torturing ourselves and each other by taking this self-imposed time-out? Absolutely. But I know in my heart I needed this. I told him I didn’t expect him to wait for me, which is true. But I try not to think about that.

Not waiting for him just feels wrong.

And I know in my bones that we aren’t done.

Especially when I get home from my last exam and find another baby pink envelope waiting for me. This time I race up to my condo to open it in the privacy of my space. I plop myself down onto my bed and really savor opening this envelope.

I realize that I don’t know how many of the wildflower themed notes he might send. He might stop one day. He might move on. He should move on. I would never expect him to sit around twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me.

But the insecure girl inside of me desperately wants him to be okay with waiting for me.

I drag it out of the envelope. This time I’m met with spiky red and yellow flowers at the top of tall green stalks.

Paintbrush

Hummingbirds depend on these alpine wildflowers. The nectar sustains them as they migrate. These flowers keep them going, keep them moving forward in their lives without even trying. Just by being themselves. These flowers are the reason the hummingbirds survive. Reminds me of you.

My eyes burn, but I don’t cry. Because his message isn’t lost on me. I’m what’s keeping him going, and that motivates me more than anything he could have told me. Blinking rapidly, I put everything back in the envelope and tuck it into my bedside table with the rest of his notes. Then I go to my desk, crack my books, and get to studying. I focus on the task before me, but still . . .

I miss him.

My brother and Mira took off for a tropical vacation over Christmas. Hawaii. They begged me to come with them, but the thought of taking that particular vacation with their little family and without Griffin felt like more than I could bear. I’ve waited this long to take that vacation. When I do it, I want it to be perfect. As perfect as that day in the field.

Plus, one of my professors offered a student placement at their prestigious vet clinic in the city over the holidays. And by prestigious, I mean working overnight shifts, so the other vets and techs get their holidays off. No one wanted it—surprise, surprise—except me.

My memories of Christmas growing up aren’t warm and fuzzy, so I guess I’ll work my ass off and run myself into the ground in celebration. At least it’ll look good on my resume. And it seemed like the perfect way to pass the time between term one and term two.

On Christmas Eve, I sit at the emergency vet clinic, taking care of other people’s furry family members surrounded by employees I don’t know. It’s my doing, but I miss my family and friends something fierce. I miss my horse. I’ve gone back on the weekends to see him and cashed in on my riding lessons from Violet and Billie. I’m getting pretty good.

When I go back, I avoid town and hole up on my brother’s farm, not wanting to run into anyone. I spend hours grooming Cowboy to a perfect gloss, dreaming of the day I’ll be able to ride him. I massage him. I cuddle him. I tell him all my most embarrassing secrets.

If Cowboy were here right now, I’d tell him I was secretly hoping Griffin would reach out to me for Christmas. I told Griffin a clean break, but I thought he might send me a text message or something. Something.

According to Violet, who has reached out to me more than ever since I left, Griffin will be picking Cowboy up and taking him to his place to start his training in the new year. I’ve learned so much about rehabilitating racehorses since Griffin bought him for me, and I can see myself doing this over and over again with other horses in the future. Ones who need a second shot at life—a fresh start.

Kindred spirits.

I’m at the front desk watching the clock on the wall move toward midnight. The ticking sound is almost hypnotic in the otherwise quiet clinic. All the staff has warned me Christmas is a real shit show. And that starts in the middle of the night usually with people’s pets who have eaten something they shouldn’t have.

So, I soak up the peace while I can, watching Christmas Eve melt into Christmas Day. At a few minutes past midnight, the front door jangles and a tired-looking man walks through.

He holds up a pale pink envelope and says, “Is Nadia Dalca here?”

I point at my chest, right where my heart is rushing uncontrollably. “That’s me.”

He smiles briefly and drops the envelope down on the countertop between us. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say, unable to pull my attention from the best gift I could have asked for.

When I open the envelope, I see small blue and purple almost spherical petals growing along a tall stem in a spear-like shape. I recognize them from the field at Griffin’s house.

Arctic Lupin

These wildflowers produce a neurotoxin called Sparteine. In the afternoon, they produce nearly five times the concentration they do at night. It’s a defensive tactic against the grazing patterns of the snowshoe hare. Smart as fuck. Reminds me of you.

Sitting here, holding this note from one of the most profoundly thoughtful men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, I feel distinctly not smart. Smart girls wouldn’t leave someone like this behind.

What if I made the wrong choice? The question has crossed my mind more than once.

I tuck the envelope into my purse beneath the desk, and then I lock myself in the bathroom and let myself shed tears for one minute. I actually set a timer. And then I take a deep, deep breath and walk back out to the front desk and prepare myself to save some lives.

Because I am smart. Smart enough to know I’m here to work hard and prove to myself that I can do this life on my own if I need to. That I don’t toss away every hope and dream for a man. I’ll always wonder if I’m capable of it if I don’t do this. He knows it, and I know it, too.

Still, with every note he sends, I fall more deeply in love with him. The distance. The space. The unwavering understanding. It just makes me love him harder.

I miss him.

It’s spring break, and a good chunk of my classmates are heading south for a vacation. But partying at a resort isn’t my scene. One of the things I’ve learned living away is that certain settings work for me and my past trauma, while others do not. Big loud parties with heavy drinking will never be my happy place. People inevitably try to push alcohol on me and having to turn them down over and over inevitably gets awkward.

And annoying.

Every party I’ve been to in the past few months has just proved that there is a limit to what I have in common with people my age. It’s why I’ve joined a study group of “mature students.” Or that’s the running joke.

Marni is a mom of three who has stayed home for the past several years. Jin is already a medical doctor but has found his bedside manner may be more well-suited to animals. His intensely literal persona cracks me up. And Erin has been a vet tech for over a decade. She’s spent years thinking she’d like to be the doctor in the room but was constantly told by her shitty husband she couldn’t. That it was too expensive. That she was too old.

She ditched him and went back to school. I admire her fiercely. Needless to say, all the people who have become my real friends at school went back to their families for spring break. So here I am, doing the same. Hefting a suitcase out of my car and dragging it up the front steps of my brother’s house at Cascade Acres.

Stefan throws the front door open and rushes out to take my bag. Ever the gentleman. “Little sister.” He slings an arm over my shoulder. “Nice to have you home.”

Home. I love this place. But it doesn’t feel like home. A cozy little house in the mountains, overlooking a rocky cliff and surrounded by wildflowers is what my mind conjures up when I hear the word. But the only reason that place feels like home is because of the man who lives there.

The one who lives rent-free in my head and heart. The one who makes me smile and cry all at once. Anywhere with him would feel like home.

“Nice to be here.” I drop my head on his shoulder and smile. “I’ve missed you, Stef.”

“Ah, you’re just saying that. We both know I annoy you a little bit. It’s almost like you’ve been avoiding me these days.”

Not you, your best friend.

I chuckle. “A little bit. It’s part of your charm.”

He gives me a gentle shove just before we hit the stairs. “You love me.”

“You know it,” I reply, meaning it.

When we get to the top of the stairs, just in front of my bedroom, he stops behind me and I turn to face him, wondering why he isn’t keeping up.

“I love you, too. You know that?” He swallows, looking a little nervous.

“I know.” I smile and nod, eyes searching his face for some clue where this sudden seriousness is coming from.

“I feel like I owe you an apology. I feel like I overstepped.” My heart thuds heavily against my ribs, and the color drains from my face. “I feel like I forced you and Griffin apart without really understanding.”

My mouth is dry as I suck in a deep breath. “Understand what?”

He nods his head toward my bedroom, his expression almost stricken. “You’ve got mail.”

I turn, peering into the room. The bed is made perfectly. And on one pillow lays a pale pink envelope.

One hand falls across my chest, and when I look back at my brother, he winks before heading back down the stairs.

Suitcase forgotten in the hallway, I walk into the room and sit gingerly on the edge of the bed before picking up the envelope.

I haven’t gotten one since Christmas but avoided thinking about why. Avoided thinking that he has probably moved on like I told him to.

When I peel it open, what looks like pure yellow daisies stare back at me.

Mountain Arnica

Used for healing cuts and bruises. Considered a love charm in some cultures. Reminds me of another wildflower I know who heals a bruised heart and wounded soul so fucking effortlessly—my love charm. My reason.

If you ever need some Mountain Arnica of your own, you can find these in the field where I fell. Cowboy is here too. We’re waiting for you.

In the field where he fell. The property between this one and Gold Rush Ranch? Where he first told me he loved me?

I’m back out the door and racing down the stairs before I even settle in.

My brother calls out, “See you tomorrow!” as I blow straight back out the front door and hop in my car, the small sheet of paper still pressed between my clammy fingers and the steering wheel as I speed down the back roads, trying to remember where the access is for that property.

Things are greening up in the valley. It’s pretty much the definition of spring out my window. Bright greens, flowers blooming, pollen floating in the air. When I finally find the back road I think will take me closest, I gun it down to the spot where the trail we’d been on that day spat us out.

It’s not until I throw my vehicle in park that I look out over the picturesque valley where Griffin told me the words I’ve spent my entire life desperate to hear.

And I sob, slapping a hand over my mouth in shock. Because the entire thing is full of wildflowers. A mosaic of bright spring colors. White. Pink. Red. Orange. Blue. Yellow.

Every single kind of flower he sent me in his notes.

On the top of the hill overlooking the field is a silver trailer and a pretty new barn. Small and picturesque. Blue and white. Freshly painted.

I’m certain I see my shiny, dark bay horse grazing up there behind a bright white fence.

Without another thought, I’m out of my car, ducking through the fence and walking through the field of flowers with my stomach in my throat.

And my heart in my hand.

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