His dad being inebriated was nothing new. It happened almost every evening. He started drinking in the morning, and by the time he got home from the office it didn’t take long to pass out. At least he’d taken to passing out at home in recent years instead of at a saloon.

With a sigh, Jericho pushed away from the door and crossed to his dad. With his arm draped across his eyes, his mouth hung open and emitted a rattling snore. Jericho was reminded of Nash every time he looked at his dad’s face and wished again, as he had over and over, that Nash was still around to try to talk some sense into their dad.

As it was, Jericho could only grab the afghan from the back of the settee and drape it across his dad. Once he finished tucking the blanket, Jericho bent and picked up the flask. If only he could find a place to hide it where his dad wouldn’t find it.

The liquid inside sloshed around. There was enough left in the bottle for another long sip. . . .

Jericho lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Scotch whiskey.

His throat and mouth dried up. He tipped the bottle higher. Did he dare take a drink? Maybe finish what was left?

He put his lips onto the rim and tasted the bitter residue. For just tonight he wanted to lose himself in the drink. Seeing Flynn’s letter, hearing Dylan’s accusations, and learning about Ivy’s pain was too much to bear. It only opened the wound he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, a wound that had been tearing him apart inside since the day he’d let her brothers take her away from him on the trip down from Windy Peak.

He was so tired of the ache of missing Ivy, so tired of the heaviness that resided inside him and had since his mom’s death, so tired of the endless search for justice.

What if it wasn’t possible to ever find peace? What if drowning himself in drink was the best way to get relief? Maybe that’s why his dad did it.

The truth was, Jericho hadn’t found peace yet any other way. He’d thought by focusing on his work and keeping people at arm’s length, he’d eventually gain satisfaction. But leaving Ivy behind hadn’t worked, had only made him more discontented.

He started to pour the whiskey into his mouth, but at a loud snore from his dad, Jericho halted. What was he doing?

A furious panic rushed through him. He’d been one sip away from becoming his dad totally and completely, something he’d vowed would never happen.

With a cry of self-disgust, he threw the flask against the brick wall above the fireplace.

The bottle shattered. Glass and whiskey sprayed everywhere.