When We Were Us (A Timber Forge Series Book 1), page 1
when we were us
MADISON NOELLE
Copyright © 2024 by Madison Noelle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or 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.
Cover Design: Madison Noelle
Editing: Stevi Mager
Proofreading: Callista Morgen
Interior Formatting: Grace Elena Formatting
Created with Vellum
To the ones who doubt themselves: Take a deep breath and do it anyway. You are capable of so much more than you realize.
author’s note
This book is intended for readers 18 and older and includes multiple explicit, descriptive sexual situations and explicit language. It also includes, but is not limited to alcohol consumption, mentions of alcoholism, child abandonment, parent/grandparent death, cheating and manipulation (not between MMCs), and brief, non-detailed emergency animal care.
While this book is set on a cattle ranch, there are also instances of equine veterinary care. Working under the scope of my limited knowledge and through extensive research, it is my hope that I have depicted both hard-working professions with the attention to detail and accuracy they respectively deserve. Any liberties taken by me are for literary purposes only.
playlist
If I Didn’t Love You - Jason Aldean, Carrie Underwood
You - Sam Grow
Going, Going, Gone - Luke Combs
Bad Memory - Nate Smith
Love You Anyway - Luke Combs
Raining On A Sunday - Keith Urban
Don’t Let Me Let You - Mitchell Tenpenny
I Found You - Nate Smith
Good By Now - Nate Smith
Take It Slow - Conner Smith
Saying Goodbye - Kameron Marlowe
No Time Soon - Jordan Davis
She Ain’t Takin Your Call - Chase Wright
More Than Whiskey Does - Mitchell Tenpenny
This Town - Sam Grow
What If I Don’t - Shaylen
Yours - Russell Dickerson
Heads Carolina, Tails California - Jo Dee Messina
It’s A Great Day To Be Alive - Travis Tritt
Amarillo By Morning - George Strait
World On Fire - Nate Smith
Back At It Again - Nate Smith
Any Man Of Mine - Shania Twain
Small Town Friday Nights - Kaylee Bell
Shelter - Ray LaMontagne
Over And Over - Russell Dickerson
She’s Why - Russell Dickerson
Girl On Fire - Kameron Marlowe
Forget About You - Bailey Zimmerman
Cowboy Back - Gabby Barrett
Miss Summer - Redferrin
Ways to Miss You - Tyler Braden
Bulletproof - Nate Smith
Chasin’ You - Morgan Wallen
contents
Prologue
1. Wrenley
2. Hank
3. Wrenley
4. Wrenley
5. Wrenley
6. Wrenley
7. Hank
8. Wrenley
9. Hank
10. Hank
11. Wrenley
12. Wrenley
13. Wrenley
14. Wrenley
15. Hank
16. Hank
17. Wrenley
18. Wrenley
19. Hank
20. Wrenley
21. Wrenley
22. Hank
23. Wrenley
24. Hank
25. Wrenley
26. Hank
27. Wrenley
28. Hank
29. Wrenley
30. Wrenley
31. Hank
32. Hank
33. Wrenley
34. Hank
35. Wrenley
36. Hank
37. Wrenley
38. Hank
39. Wrenley
40. Wrenley
41. Hank
42. Hank
43. Wrenley
44. Wrenley
45. Wrenley
46. Wrenley
47. Hank
48. Wrenley
49. Hank
50. Hank
51. Hank
52. Wrenley
53. Hank
54. Wrenley
55. Hank
56. Wrenley
57. Wrenley
58. Hank
59. Hank
60. Wrenley
61. Hank
62. Wrenley
63. Hank
64. Hank
65. Wrenley
66. Hank
67. Wrenley
68. Wrenley
69. Hank
70. Wrenley
71. Hank
72. Wrenley
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
prologue
HANK
THEN
Summers in Timber Forge are the absolute best. Up before the rooster crows to rush through chores, grab a quick breakfast, and then run outside, with the screen door slamming shut behind us as we race toward our bikes. My siblings and I are wild things. Riding the back roads for hours on our bikes. Or heading to the barn bright and early in our swimsuits to grab fishing poles and tackle boxes, with our mother’s voice ringing out to “make good choices”.
Being the oldest of six kids, I am usually in charge, which I both love and hate depending on the day. Between my two younger brothers, Hudson and Hutch, and our younger twin sisters, Natalie, and Norah, it’s enough to drive me nuts some days. And now that the baby of the family, Hayley, is old enough to tag along, we usually stick close to home.
But today, it’s just me and my best friend, Jasper. We spend hours shooting cans with our BB guns, looking at comics in the heat of his attic, and playing cards on his back deck. His little sisters are two towns over, spending the night with his aunt and uncle. So, we are free.
My skin is sticky with dried sweat. It's that golden hour close to suppertime, when the heat of the day starts to wear off, and the crickets are just starting to chirp. My stomach growls. I’ve been going nonstop since five-thirty this morning, but I am still full of energy. If I hurry, I might have time to read a few more pages of the comic I borrowed from Jas after I wash up and help my mom set the table.
I push the pedals of my bike faster until I am flying down Chicory Lane. On my beat-up Huffy, I skid around the bend, and I spot her.
I’ve never seen anyone cry that hard before. That kind of sorrow makes you stop and look. I’ve seen heifers die in childbirth. Seen calves die, too. But I’ve never cried over it. I’d seen my mom’s face when we had to bury an old barn cat or two that died from old age. How she wiped a tear away from her eye while she watched Pop bury it behind the barn. My brother Hutch’s goldfish died last winter, and he barely shed a tear. All of us have been born and raised watching the struggle of life on a ranch.
At thirteen, I haven’t yet experienced true heartbreak myself. But, when I turn my bike down the dirt road that separates her house from our land, I know from the look on Wrenley Jo Hardcastle’s face that she has to be heartbroken.
At first, I think maybe she is just tying her shoe. As I ride closer and see her dirty cheeks streaked with tears that still cling to her lashes, her quivering lip, and the shaking of her shoulders, I know something is seriously wrong.
She’s only ten, and in the same grade at Timber Forge Elementary as my younger brother, Hudson. I don’t know her that well, and haven’t paid much attention to her, but she comes around the farm sometimes with her granddad, Mr. Hardcastle.
Timber Forge is a small town, and everybody knows everybody in small towns. Wrenley lives with her grandparents and her dad, Tom. Her mom left and moved out of state a few years ago.
I heard Pop and Wren’s granddad talking in the barn one day. Wrenley’s mom remarried, and according to Wren’s granddad, she hadn’t ever been a “fit mother.” But even without a mom around, every time I see her, Wrennie Jo—as her granddad calls her—is always smiling, laughing, and never quite sitting still.
Now though, her pale blond hair is tangled and hanging straggly. There’s a bit of bedhead just above the nape of her neck, like my five-year-old baby sister, Hayley, always has in the mornings.
She looks up from where she’s sitting cross-legged in the dirt as I approach, and then quickly dashes the back of her hand under her nose. I stop next to her and throw down my kickstand with the heel of my foot. Swinging my leg over the seat of the bike, I look up and then down the lane.
“You ok?” I ask, a little breathless from my ride. Looking down on her, my brows draw together, and my hands hang at my sides.
She sniffles and shakes her head once, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. The knees are ripped out of the old jeans she wears, and the skin there is freshly scraped. A small trickle of blood runs down her right knee into her pant leg.
“You fall off your bike?” My voice cracks on the last word. Puberty sucks.
Another quick shake of her head.
“How’d you get those scrapes, then?” I lift my chin in the direction of her knees. The soles of my tennis shoes crunch on the loose dirt and g
“I fell running out of the house,” she says so quietly that I almost don't hear her.
I nod and reach for her pant leg, inspecting her injury. She winces like she’s bracing herself against the inevitable pain. The cuts don't look deep, but they’re dirty and definitely need to be cleaned.
She turns her face up to mine. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with unshed tears.
“Come on, then. I’ll help you with your bike. Let’s get you home so your dad can get you cleaned up.”
A sob breaks from her chest. Her lip trembles again as a torrent of tears tips over her lower lids and courses down her cheeks.
“My dad’s dead!” she blurts out and then launches herself at me. Her arms fling around my neck, and she nearly topples me over as the seat of my jeans hits the dirt.
Barely thirteen-year-old me doesn’t know what to say. So, I just grab her around her waist and pull her in for a hug like I do for my sisters when they get hurt. She presses her face into my shoulder as sobs rack her body.
I don’t know how long we sit there, with me intermittently patting and rubbing small circles over her back, and her crying a river of tears into my shoulder. By the time Pop pulls up in his old blue pickup, the sun is setting, my shirt is soaked through on one shoulder, and Wrenley’s sobs have turned to slow, hitching breaths.
We both look up as he rolls to a stop with his arm propped on the open window frame. A look of concern creases his forehead. He throws the truck in park and climbs out, leaving the door open behind him.
“Throw the bikes into the back of the truck, Son,” he says to me and then turns his attention to Wrenley.
My pop is a huge, hulk of a man and hardworking, with calloused hands and arms like cannons. He is one of the strongest men I know. But I’m also not surprised that after I untangle Wrenley’s tanned, little arms from around my shoulders, he tenderly scoops her up and carries her, baby-style, to the truck, where he slides her in next to him. I lift her bike and then mine into the truck bed, shut the tailgate, and climb into the passenger side.
“Let’s get you home,” Pop says quietly as he pats her knee and pulls away.
Another sob escapes her throat, and she nods, her gaze fixed on her lap.
Pop knows, then.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, glance down at her, and reach over to take her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s ok, Wrennie Girl. You’ll be ok.”
I can’t know that, and she doesn’t say anything, but her tiny hand flexes lightly in mine, returning the squeeze.
It isn’t until I come in from chores and sit down to breakfast the next morning that I learn Tom Hardcastle went out drinking two nights before, drove his car into a canal, and drowned.
CHAPTER ONE
wrenley
I push open the door to my childhood home and step inside. Letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I look around. The house has been closed up for the last three weeks, and motes catch the light streaming in through the open door at my back. With the exception of a two-day trip when my grams passed twelve years ago, it’s been seventeen years since I’ve spent any real-time here. Even so, it’s almost exactly as I remember it.
Standing here now, I’m surprised to find that this is the first time in nearly three weeks that I feel like I can finally draw in a full breath. My shoulders relax in the biggest exhale of my life, and some of the anxiety and worry over everything that has recently happened melts away as I stand in the large foyer. And despite the years away, I’m surprised it feels like…home.
From here, I can see into the spacious dining room on my left. The draperies are closed, but I can still make out the dining table built by my great granddad. I know from years of Thanksgiving dinners at that table that the wood under the blue and white tablecloth matches perfectly with the six craftsman-style chairs—all a beautiful walnut oak.
Just beyond the dining room is a set of stairs that leads to the second floor’s three bedrooms, including the one I used when growing up. There’s also a Jack-and-Jill bath lining the hallway that tees off and runs to the back of the house. A window at the top of the stairs overlooks the side of the yard and part of the circular drive out front.
From where I stand, I can just see into the brightly lit kitchen and down the hallway. It leads to a bathroom, a laundry/mudroom, my granddad’s den, and the master suite—the door to which is firmly closed.
I drop my purse and suitcase in the entryway. Shoving my sunglasses onto the top of my head, emotion threatens to choke me as I take in the room to my right. Faded, butter-yellow curtains, Granddad's worn recliner, and the overstuffed floral sofa, complete with a crocheted multicolored afghan that my grams made. Two throw pillows sit on opposite ends of the couch: one embroidered with “What Happens at Grandma’s Stays at Grandma’s,” and the other with, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.”
It’s so quiet, I could hear a pin drop.
I clear my throat and blink a couple of times to clear my eyes. “It’s like a freaking time capsule in here,” I mutter, with a soft, wistful laugh.
A collection of porcelain plates still hangs on the wall next to the window, and a stack of years-old TV Guide magazines sits crookedly on the top shelf of the bookcase in the corner. Along with a few random knickknacks on the second shelf is the small collection of brown and tan glass birds that my dad loved to collect so much. Wrens. My namesake.
Framed photos pepper the space. A few of me alone, and some with me and my dad. There’s one with us swimming in the pond out back when I was six; one on the front porch, with both of us dressed as pirates the Halloween right after I turned nine; and another of me with my childhood best friend, Finnley, the day we graduated from high school. Seeing her goofy smile and long brown hair makes me wonder if she’s still around.
Those photos don’t evoke anywhere near the emotional reaction that a photo of my grandparents in Niagara Falls on the mantel above the fireplace does.
My granddad’s slippers sit on the floor next to the low coffee table. His reading glasses are folded and lay atop a book, which is open and lying face down on his side table. My eyes land on the cover. Lonesome Dove.
I half expect him to step out into the hall from his den or the bathroom, his voice booming out to welcome his Wrennie Jo home with one of his signature bear hugs. But he doesn’t. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes again, and this time, I let them fall as a wave of sadness hits me.
I wipe my eyes and turn, making my way toward the kitchen. My eyes briefly land on the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway. I can’t quite bring myself to go in, knowing it’s where my granddad spent the last moments of his life. I’ll save that for another day. It just isn’t something I am ready to face yet.
Stepping into the kitchen, I can almost smell the blueberry pancakes and maple syrup Grams made specifically for me the morning I left for California all those years ago.
I can almost hear her softly humming the tune of “How Great Thou Art” as she bustles around the kitchen, and Granddad’s hearty laughter as he comes in from the garage for breakfast. He’d wrap his big arms around her middle from behind and plop a loud kiss on her warm cheek, and she’d cuss him out for letting breakfast grow cold again—lovingly, of course.
In all the years I’d spent with them, I never once heard either of them raise their voices at one another. We spent so many mornings after Dad died just like that, with the three of us eating breakfast together in the sunny kitchen.
I smile at the same small, white Formica top table with three chairs and three place mats. It’s almost as if it's just waiting for Grams, Granddad, and me to come in and sit down for a meal together or for a game of gin rummy on a rainy summer afternoon. The table is too small for this room, but Grams had called it her breakfast nook. Granddad had joked that it was more of a breakfast spot, since it didn’t really sit in a nook at all.
The same salt and pepper shakers and napkin holder sit in the center of the table. The clock above the sink ticks into the silence. Ceramic, mushroom-shaped canisters line the countertop, as well as a wooden bread box, an electric can opener, and a small coffee pot.
It looks exactly as I remember. The honey-colored hardwood floor creaks underfoot as I turn and leave the kitchen, making my way back through to the foyer. I shut the front door, grab my bags, and climb the stairs, with my suitcase clunking along behind me. I reach the top step when my cell phone rings.
