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Alive and Wells (Wells Ranch Series Book 1), page 1
Alive and Wells
Wells Ranch Series Book 1
Bailey Hannah
Copyright © 2023 by Bailey Hannah
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form – by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Acacia at Ever After Cover Design
Editing by Naomi Edits
Editing by Editing by Andrea
Print ISBN 978-1-7381076-0-5
eBook ISBN 978-1-7381076-1-2
For the city girls in their cowboy romance era. And for the country girls who know a fictional cowboy is always better than the real thing.
Author's Note
This story is set on a working cattle ranch, and that’s not something I wanted to shy away from. Because of that, there is mention of slaughter and castration, as well as on-page calf branding. Ranchers do these things with good reason, and it’s never intended to be cruel (nor did I set out to write it as such—my cattle ranching family would not be happy if I did).
Wells Ranch uses hot branding, which is a traditional way of marking/identifying livestock. In some areas of the world, freeze-branding has become the more popular approach. And, in other places, neither is considered humane. Hot/fire branding is typically done with a steel branding iron that’s heated by a wood or propane heat source. It burns a brand into the hair follicles, preventing future hair growth. With freeze branding, the cold iron kills the colour follicles, causing them to turn white permanently. Both methods have pros and cons.
Though Wells Ranch is fictional, it’s based on real cattle ranches in British Columbia. Hot branding is still the most common method here, so it felt like the more appropriate choice for the story.
If you ever attend a day of branding, don’t eat the Rocky Mountain Oysters.
This book ends with a pregnancy announcement – if that’s not your jam, feel free to skip the bonus epilogue & know that you aren’t missing anything <3 Taking care of yourself is more important.
Content/Trigger Warnings:
Domestic violence - mental, emotional, and physical (on page)
Gun (present but not used)
Physical violence (on page)
Death of a parent due to cancer (discussed, not shown)
Death of a grandparent (discussed, not shown)
Troubled parent-child relationships (discussed, not shown)
Alcohol consumption
Ranching activities - roping, branding, castration, vaccination (on page), animal slaughter (discussed, not shown)
Explicit sex scenes including spit play, cockwarming, praise
Welcome to Wells Ranch!
Contents
1. Cecily
2. Cecily
3. Cecily
4. Austin
5. Cecily
6. Austin
7. Austin
8. Cecily
9. Cecily
10. Austin
11. Cecily
12. Austin
13. Cecily
14. Austin
15. Austin
16. Cecily
17. Austin
18. Cecily
19. Austin
20. Cecily
21. Austin
22. Cecily
23. Austin
24. Cecily
25. Austin
26. Cecily
27. Austin
28. Cecily
29. Austin
30. Cecily
Epilogue - Austin
Bonus Epilogue - Cecily
Acknowledgements
About the Author
1
Cecily
I’ve spent the better half of the day listing all the ways I could kill him on the back of my grocery receipt. Now, glancing up from the tiny scrawlings to the microwave clock, I light a match and burn the evidence. Perfectly on cue, KJ’s headlights beam through the small window over the kitchen sink. I rush to wash charcoal dust down the drain.
“How was work?” My fake smile comes naturally when he walks through the door.
Practice makes perfect.
“Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.” He plants a rough kiss on my forehead, and I’m pulled into an unpleasant embrace. I suck in the strong cologne as my cheek smashes against his chest, every muscle in my body rigid in his arms. He sniffs the air and I pray the vanilla bean candle’s enough to cover up the smoke.
Clearly not noticing anything off, he focuses instead on the brown paper bags from his favourite restaurant. “You’re so good to me, babe. Seriously, how did I get this lucky?”
It’s the same song and dance. His pathetic attempt at grovelling because we argued before he left for work this morning. Rather, he yelled, and I stood like a statue until he gave up. A similar pose to the one I’m in now, clutching the marble countertop, waiting for an inevitable critique of something. My appearance, the dinner order, the state of the house… there’s always something.
KJ waltzes toward the restaurant containers and lifts a lid to peek inside at the hundred-dollar sushi order. It’s not even the best sushi restaurant in town—he likes it because it’s the most expensive.
Running a hand through his short, black hair, he turns to me. “You must’ve been really busy today if you couldn’t even cook.” There’s the comment. “Pour yourself some wine and sit down, babe. I’ll dish us up.”
After a brief hesitation, and no further comments from my husband, I open the cupboard. My perpetually shaky fingers wrap around a teal mug. Not the classiest way to drink a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, but my last wine glass shattered against the dining room wall on Sunday. Nerve endings buzzing with the memory, I fill the mug and tiptoe out of the room. The moment I enter the dining room, I’m drawn to the burgundy stain splashed across the greige wall above the table. Noticeable scrub marks linger where I spent an hour crying and cleaning.
I’ll have to swing by the hardware store for some more paint before our Friday night dinner plans with our friends, Sara and Mike. God forbid anybody asks why our dining room now has a port-wine stain feature wall.
“Fuck!” His booming voice reverberates through the walls, and I swear the house shudders as hard as I do. My breathing falters in the slow seconds that tick between his shout and my mouth opening.
“Are y-you okay?” It comes out meek and screechy.
“I fucking cut myself. Get the first aid kit.”
Springing to action, I hurry past the kitchen and down the hallway to our ensuite bathroom. Once there, I leisurely poke around in the medicine cabinet. Rearranging pill bottles and making a mental list of what needs restocking. Pretending I don’t know where the bandages are. Staring right at them.
What a tragic accident it would be if he bled out.
“Cecily!” he screams. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”
I finally grab the box and stroll back to the kitchen to find his woeful face waiting for me. He holds his hand outstretched, a pained expression furrowing his brows. It’s the tiniest slice in his flesh; no deeper than a paper cut.
Good god.
So much for hoping I’d find him missing a finger or two. He probably cut himself on a plastic take out lid or something equally stupid.
“Sorry, I couldn’t,”—I fidget with the wrapper, and gently place the bandage over the minor cut—“find the bandages. But, there, you’re good as new. What happened?”
“Why are our chopsticks in the same drawer as the kitchen knives? We have a big enough fucking kitchen. I shouldn’t have to stick my hand in a knife drawer for motherfucking chopsticks,” he snarls before storming away.
I stare down at the opened drawer—specifically, at the large, freshly sharpened chef knife—then at his back.
Better not—too much cleanup.
Taking my place back at the dining table, the burned receipt list consumes my every thought and the weight of a potential first-degree murder charge diminishes my appetite. I lazily push a piece of ginger around. Half-listening to him complain about how hard it is to be CFO at his father’s company. Despite how apathetic I feel, I must nod, hrmm, and gasp in all the right spots. Dinner goes off without a hitch. After three years, I suppose I’m finally learning how to keep the peace.
“Great dinner, babe.” Dropping his napkin on his empty plate, he pushes away from the table.
Once the TV surround sound blares from the next room, I take a relieved breath. It’s the beginning of the end—another day nearing completion. In trained silence, I clear the table and, for the next hour, take my time cleaning the already spotless kitchen. With any luck, he’ll be asleep on the couch by the time I’m finished.
With any luck.
The drop in his respiration signalling sleep is one of my favourite sounds, second only to his car tires leaving our driveway each morning. Confident he’s out for the night, I slip from under the covers, unplug my cell phone, and pad to the bathroom. Sinking to the cold tile floor, I text one of two phone numbers I’ve committed to memory—adding it to a proper contact profile simply isn’t an option. For we
Cecily: Is that job still available?
Time ticks on, and I wonder if I waited too long. It’s nearly one in the morning, after all. KJ found John Wick on cable, which ruined my routine. Rather than falling asleep before the nine o’clock news, he drank four whiskey neats and stayed awake until midnight. When I half-heartedly suggested he get some sleep, he accused me of trying to force him to bed so I could sneak around behind his back. Like a whore.
He’s not entirely wrong. For six months, I’ve been secretly talking to a woman named Beryl. We met on a forum I definitely shouldn’t be on. I can’t bear to imagine what might happen if KJ ever finds out. A support group for women in abusive relationships; I honestly don’t belong there, though.
KJ doesn’t hit me like the spouses of the women in that group do. He calls me names when he’s angry, but he doesn’t hit me. He screams in my face, but he doesn’t hit me. He smashes wine glasses, plates, and the drywall directly next to my head, but he doesn’t hit me. And maybe he’s threatened it a few times or grabbed me with enough force to leave a mark, but he still hasn’t actually hit me.
I’ve been daydreaming about murdering my husband for days—surely that makes me the violent one. Right?
(555) 276-9899: It’s yours whenever you’re ready, honey.
Cecily: OK. Thanks.
(555) 276-9899: Are you ready?
Cecily: I mean, I was planning how I’d kill him today. I should probably leave, shouldn’t I?
(555) 276-9899: You say the word and you’ll have help. You’re a strong woman and you can do this, Cecily.
Heavy footsteps move toward the bathroom, and my fingers tap hard on the screen. Delete, delete, fucking delete. The text thread disappears in an instant, without a moment to spare. As the doorknob turns, I silently pray Beryl doesn’t text me again. She doesn’t message unless I’ve reached out first but, given we’re in the middle of a conversation, I can’t be certain she won’t send another reply.
With any luck.
“The fuck are you doing?” KJ blinks rapidly, adjusting to the bright bathroom lights.
“Period cramps. I couldn’t sleep.” I clutch my stomach for believability. We rarely have sex, and he’s definitely not interested in my bathroom habits. Despite being married, I doubt he has any idea when my cycle should be. Hell, I have an IUD and can’t remember the last time I had a real period, but he doesn’t even know I’m on birth control.
His dark eyes cut to the phone sitting on the tile next to me. In a flash, he moves to grab it. “Oh yeah? So the fuck is your phone doing here with you? I knew you’d been sneaking around behind my back. Do you think I’m a moron or are you such a whore you don’t care about getting caught? In my fucking house, too!” His words cover my face in spit as he crouches down, clenching my phone tight in his fist.
I struggle to breathe, waiting for his next move. His eyes bore into me from mere inches away. Pupils blown out with rage. Hot, stale whiskey breath hits me as he grows impatient, waiting for an answer. I have no idea how to respond. It doesn’t seem wise to say, “I’m leaving before I end up murdering you in your sleep.” Telling him I’ve been cheating might actually go over better than the truth. Maybe then he’d throw me out.
My bottom lip trembles out of control, and he grins maniacally at my fear.
“Nothing to say then? Nothing to say because it’s fucking true,” he scoffs. The phone screen fractures as his fingers tighten, sending out spiderwebbing cracks at every angle. “Good luck talking to your boyfriend now, whore.”
I wince. It’s not the first time he’s broken my phone. He’ll have a brand new one delivered to the house tomorrow, likely alongside another nice apology gift. It’s just a shame because, for the first time in a long time, I thought I might actually leave. Or, at least, I thought I would try. Not that my attempts have worked in the past.
Without the ability to contact Beryl, I have no way of getting directions to where she lives. Like it or not, I’m imprisoned for at least another twenty-four hours.
His face draws even closer. Close enough to kiss—not that we would. In fact, the thought of his lips on mine makes me want to vomit directly into his mouth. “Say something, bitch.”
I scramble on the slick tile, trying to get to my feet. Desperate to put some distance between us. As much as he’s trying to get me to defend myself, I know it’s stupid to open my mouth. It’s asking for a fight, and I don’t want to fight with him tonight. Not when we were having a good night. Good-ish, anyway.
A sharp pain radiates from my shoulder as his open palm blows against it, knocking me from my squatted position flat onto my ass.
Did he just? I think he just hit me.
No, that’s not fair. It was a light push, if anything.
A second blow confirms my fear.
He hit me. He finally did it—he hit me.
He screams directly into my gaping mouth, “Say something!”
I can’t help the tears welling. Even though I despise how weak their presence makes me feel.
“I’m done,” I whisper. It’s a small miracle I’m able to hear myself over the raucous ringing in my skull.
I am done. I need to get out.
“What’s that now?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” I shake my head violently. It was a stupid, stupid thing to say. Apparently, I haven’t learned quite enough over the last three years to fully keep the peace.
“You’re done? After everything I’ve done for you? This house, the car, all your fancy shit—ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “Fine. Go. You don’t think I can’t get another girl like you? Fuckin’ prettier, probably. If you think you can find better, be my fucking guest. You’ll be back—you’ve always been a gold-digging whore. Other guys are going to see right through you, babe.”
To my surprise, he stands and sulks out of the bathroom. The door slams, followed by what sounds like the closet door being ripped from the frame. I stare ahead, trying to find the strength to get up and lock him out. But my body may as well be glued to the cold, hard ground. Glass shatters and I’m melting into the floor.
This. This is why I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Then the room becomes silent. Too silent. After a few minutes, I work up the nerve to peel myself from the floor, and crack open the bathroom door.
KJ’s sitting in the middle of what looks to be a tornado disaster zone. A horrific tornado with pretty eyes and a terrifyingly wicked heart. The closet door hangs lopsided, my dresser drawers lie in a heap on the ground, and water trickles down the wall above the bed from where I assume he threw my bedtime glass. And he’s crying. Not plain crying—full-on sobbing. Heaving.
I move quickly and silently, filling a duffle bag and laundry basket with clothes scooped from the plush carpet. Ignoring his wails. I’ve tried to leave multiple times, and he’s never let me get this far. Usually, he’s barricading us in the room, ripping my clothes from my hands, and keeping a firm grip on my wrists until I agree to stay.
This isn’t how I was supposed to leave. I was supposed to plot everything out meticulously. I’ve watched countless girls share their plans on the forum, and I know the drill: have a go-bag packed, siphon money from our joint account, and have somewhere to go. At least I have a place to go and a job lined up. I just have no fucking idea how to get there.
He hit me. Three small words repeat like a mantra, driving me forward despite the pit in my stomach over how unprepared I am to leave.
Everything’s too easy as I float down the staircase and out the front door. The driveway’s dark and, for once, I’m grateful that my crappy Honda Civic doesn’t “deserve” a spot in the garage. One less obstacle in my way. The laundry basket in my arms plunks onto the car’s silver hood.
