For a long while after that day, he’d attributed Nash’s death to the wild horses that roamed South Park, mainly Hades, and he’d done his best to rid the area of the creatures. In fact, he’d quit working for Flynn at Healing Springs Ranch and had taken the position as foreman of Elkhorn Ranch because the owner there hated the mustangs and wanted to eliminate them too.

In hindsight, Jericho knew he hadn’t blamed the wild horses as much as he blamed himself. But at the time he needed to avenge Nash’s death, and killing mustangs had been the only way he’d known how.

Jericho breathed in deeply of the night air, catching the hint of smoke and ash from the wildfires to the north. He still held himself responsible for the loss. If only he hadn’t pushed on, had turned back sooner, had paid better attention to the treacherous conditions.

“I’m sorry, Nash,” he whispered harshly to the star-studded sky. “I was a selfish fool. I realize that now, and I’m trying to be a better man the way you wanted me to be.”

Although Nash had never spoken ill of their dad, he’d made it clear Jericho was to leave alcohol well enough alone. After watching the way it had destroyed their dad’s life, Jericho hadn’t argued with his brother. He’d resisted the urge to drown his problems in a bottle, knowing the drowning out of one problem only created a dozen more. He’d seen that truth play out in Dylan’s life as well. And Jericho would much rather do the rescuing than struggle with having to be rescued.

As he rode up to Flynn’s white-painted two-story farmhouse set amidst a sprawling yard with a large barn and other outbuildings, he shook off the angst of the past and forced himself to think on Ivy. Her well-being was the most important thing right now. All he had to know was that she was safe, and he’d ride away satisfied.

He hopped down and didn’t bother looping his horse to the hitching post before bounding up the steps and pounding his fist against the door.

Flynn answered, his limp hurried, his green-blue eyes rounded with worry. He was still attired in his dusty work clothes—dark wool trousers and a loose cotton shirt under his vest. His hat ring was visible in his brown hair, which was a shade lighter than Ivy’s. “What’s wrong?”

“Is Ivy here?” Jericho peered past Flynn into the hallway and front parlor. Linnea and five-year-old Flora with their curly red hair were close on Flynn’s heels, clearly sensing from his urgent knock that something wasn’t right.

“Haven’t seen her all week,” Flynn replied. “Think she’s in trouble?”