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76 - The Scar Beneath

Part 77

Raised Fair Share of Hell

- Tag list @bvbwestfall @hcwthewestwaswcn @child-of-of-the-sunshine @elenavampire21 @keep-the-wolves-close @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @whateverthecostner @lover-of-books-and-tea

There will only be four more chapters and then this story will be completed. I already have outlines for the rest but if there’s anything you want included send a message to my ask box 😉 As always comments really appreciated ❤️

Alissa’s pov

The scent of stale coffee and old paper was becoming the defining aroma of my new life. Not the fresh hay and honest dirt of the ranch, but the claustrophobic air of Helena, Montana’s Livestock Commissioner’s office. Three weeks in, and I felt less like a Dutton and more like a sacrificial lamb. John hadn’t mentioned the endless paperwork, the political backstabbing, or the constant threat of losing my sanity.

My desk was a warzone of pending legislation, zoning disputes, and petitions from ranchers who thought their neighbor’s cattle had coughed in their general direction. I ran the Yellowstone, for Christ’s sake. I dealt with land developers, environmentalists, and family drama on a daily basis. But this? This felt like trying to lasso a ghost in a hurricane. Each day, I’d peel myself out of bed, kiss Madeline and Lee-Marlowe goodbye, remind Faith to take it easy with her morning sickness, and check on Tate, who was already out with the hands. Then I’d drive the long stretch, leaving the familiar comfort of home behind, into this concrete jungle.

“Commissioner Dutton, Senator Caldwell’s office is on line one again,” my assistant, Brenda, chirped, her voice too bright for the grim reality of state politics.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Tell him I’m in a meeting, Brenda. A very, very important meeting.” My only meeting was with a mountain of unread files.

The phone rang again instantly. Brenda mouthed, "He hung up and called right back."

I sighed, picking up the receiver. “This is Commissioner Dutton.”

“Alissa, darling, I understand you’re busy, but this fence extension in Gallatin County simply cannot wait. My constituents are up in arms.” Senator Caldwell’s voice, oily and condescending, grated on my nerves. He saw me as a greenhorn, a ranch wife playing dress-up in a man’s world. He wasn’t wrong about the greenhorn part, but I was no doll.

“Senator, I’m reviewing the legal precedents, but there are conflicting property lines. I need more information than a few angry phone calls can provide,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. My gaze fell on a framed photo of my children – Tate, Faith, Madeline, Lee-Marlowe. They were my anchors. They were why I was doing this. Why I wouldn't break. Their father might be a ghost in my life, an ache in my heart, but I had to keep fighting for their future. Kayce… his absence was a gaping wound. Not knowing where he was, what he was doing, or even if he remembered us. It was a constant hum of grief beneath the surface of my daily life.

“Information? My dear girl, I have all the information you need right here in this office. Just sign off on it. It’s a formality.”

Before I could retort with the sharp, acidic truth of his political maneuvering, a knock sounded on my open office door. I looked up to see a man standing there, broad-shouldered, with eyes that held a familiar, distant past. Jake Brecken.

“Senator, I have to go. My very important meeting has just arrived,” I clipped, and before he could bluster, I hung up. “Jake? What are you doing here?”

Jake offered a wry smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Heard you were in a bit of a bind, Commissioner. Thought I’d offer my services.” He was dressed in a crisp button-down, a subtle contrast to the ranch gear I usually saw him in, but he still carried that easy confidence.

“My services?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. My memory of Jake was mostly through Kayce – their time in the SEALs, the occasional visit to the ranch, a good friend. He was a man of quiet competence, but this…

“Yeah,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Heard through the grapevine that the state was looking to bolster the Livestock Commission. Someone with a bit of a military background, good with logistics, maybe some experience with… let’s call it ‘conflict resolution’.” He gestured around my chaotic office. “Looks like you could use a hand with some of this conflict.”

I stared at him, my mind racing. “You’re serious? You… you’d work here?”

“Someone’s gotta keep the wolves from the door, Alissa. And from what I hear, you’ve got a whole pack circling. John reached out, actually. Said you might be too proud to ask for help, but that you definitely needed it.”

A laugh escaped me, a genuine, relieved sound that felt foreign in this sterile office. “That sounds like John. And he’s right, I’m drowning. But I didn’t know you were… looking for work.”

“Just trying to make myself useful. And honestly, this part of the job description – ‘protecting Montana’s most vital industry’ – that sounds a lot like protecting the Yellowstone, indirectly. Sounds like something a Dutton would do.” He met my gaze, and I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a shared understanding of the weight we both carried, even if for different reasons.

And just like that, Jake became my shadow, my shield, my sanity. He had an uncanny knack for cutting through bureaucracy, for anticipating political gambits, for finding the overlooked detail that turned a losing battle into a victory. He reorganized my chaotic office, streamlined my schedule, and even managed to make Brenda less perky and more efficient.

“Okay, so the Langford case,” he’d say late into the night, leaning over my desk, a map spread between us. His finger would trace a property line. “They’re trying to claim riparian rights based on a 1920s survey that clearly favors the Miller family. But the creek shifted course in ’88. The new survey holds up, but Langford’s got a cousin on the county council.”

“So, we need a judge who can’t be swayed by family ties, and a surveyor who can stand up to political pressure,” I’d respond, my mind finally sharp enough to keep pace. The darkness outside the window was a constant reminder of the long hours, but with Jake, it didn't feel so heavy.

“Exactly.” He’d look up, our eyes meeting across the plans, a quiet understanding passing between us. He’d often bring me coffee, strong and black, just how I liked it, without me having to ask. Sometimes, he’d find me staring blankly at a document, my mind drifting to Kayce, to the ghost of our life, and he’d just drop a file on my desk with a gentle thud. “New problem, Commissioner. Keeps the old ones from festering.”

We’d laugh, a quiet, tired sound, but it was real. His presence was a steady hand in the storm. One evening, after a particularly brutal session with a state committee, Jake had driven me back to the ranch. The kids were asleep, the house quiet. We sat on the porch, staring out at the familiar, star-dusted landscape.

“You’re doing good, Alissa,” he’d said, his voice low. “You’re a natural. Even with all the crap they throw at you.”

“I don’t feel like a natural. I feel like I’m constantly one step away from setting fire to the whole building.”

He chuckled. “Believe me, I’ve felt that way more times than I can count. Especially when Kayce and I were… operating.” The unspoken weight of their shared past hung in the air, a reminder of the man who wasn’t here.

“I miss him,” I whispered, the admission aching. “Every day. And it’s not just for me. It’s for the kids. Faith’s married, pregnant. Tate’s practically running the ranch. Madeline and Lee-Marlowe - Madeleine asks about him all the time. How do you explain to a child why their father doesn’t remember them?”

Jake was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know, Alissa. I truly don’t. What he’s going through… it’s a different kind of hell. But you’re doing right by them. You’re everything a mother should be. And a damn good Commissioner.” He reached over, briefly covering my hand with his. It was a gesture of platonic comfort, of shared burden, but it still sent a shiver through me. A small, unexpected warmth in the cold void Kayce had left. It wasn’t love, not like that, but it was connection. It was something to hold onto.

A few days later, a particularly thorny water rights dispute had consumed us. We’d been up all night, Jake poring over historical land grants, me cross-referencing with modern environmental regulations. The sun was just peeking over the mountains, casting long shadows into my office when we finally found the loophole.

“There!” I exclaimed, pointing to a faded passage. “The 1952 amendment concerning subsurface water diversion! They can’t do it without a secondary permit from the state historical society!”

Jake leaned back, a tired but triumphant grin spreading across his face. “You did it, Commissioner. You pulled a rabbit out of a hat.”

“We did it, Jake. I’d be lost without you.” I met his gaze, and for a moment, the exhaustion, the stress, the world outside faded away. There was just the two of us, a shared victory, a quiet camaraderie forged in the fires of political battle. His eyes, usually sharp and analytical, held a softness I rarely saw.

Just then, my office door creaked open.

(Kayce's POV)

The wind whipped across my face as I rode Comanche, the familiar tug of the reins a grounding force. Eight years. Eight years gone, like a whisper in the wind, like smoke from a dying fire. Monica tried to help, tried to paint a picture of the man I was, the life I’d lived. But the fragments that came to me were like shards of glass – sharp, painful, and never forming a complete image. I saw a woman, fierce and beautiful, with light hair and eyes that blazed. I felt a powerful, protective love, a bond deeper than blood, but her face often blurred, her name a phantom on my tongue.

Monica called her Alissa. Said she was my wife. That we had children. Four of them. Tate, Faith, Madeline, Lee-Marlowe. My children. The words felt foreign, yet they resonated with a primal ache in my chest. I knew Tate from Monica’s pregnancy, a quiet, strong kid, too familiar for a stranger. But the others… they were shadows in my fragmented mind.

Monica, bless her heart, had pushed me to go to Helena. “You need to see them, Kayce. Your kids. Alissa’s the Livestock Commissioner now, John put her in charge. Go see her. See the kids.”

The thought was a confusing mix of fear and an inexplicable pull. Who was this Alissa? This woman who was my wife but felt like a stranger? This Livestock Commissioner who was apparently fighting battles I couldn't remember.

The drive to Helena was a blur of highway and unfamiliar landscapes. My mind kept trying to connect the dots, but there were too many blank spaces. I parked my truck outside the state building, a modern monstrosity that felt out of place in Montana. My gut was churning, a sensation I couldn’t quite place. Was it anxiety? Fear? Or something else, something deeper, more possessive?

I found her office on the third floor. The door was slightly ajar. I stopped, my hand hovering over the frame, an invisible barrier. Through the gap, I saw her. Alissa. She was laughing, a warm, genuine sound that resonated in my chest, stirring something long dormant. She was leaning over a desk, her face animated, her light hair falling forward. My gaze drifted to the man next to her. Jake.

Jake. The name clicked. A memory, fleeting but clear: Jake, a beer in his hand, laughing with me around a campfire. My friend. My brother-in-arms.

But the way he was looking at her… the way she was looking at him. It wasn't the easy camaraderie of colleagues. It was something softer, more intimate. His hand, as if on instinct, reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Her smile, already wide, softened further at his touch.

A jolt ran through me, sharp and unexpected. It wasn't just a pang of unfamiliarity; it was a hot, clawing sensation that tightened my chest, making it hard to breathe. What was this? Why did the sight of my friend touching my wife feel like a violation? My wife. The words echoed, hollow and strange, yet the feeling was undeniably powerful.

I pushed the door open, the creak of the wood interrupting their moment. Alissa’s head snapped up, her eyes widening as she saw me. Her smile vanished, replaced by a complex mixture of shock, pain, and something I couldn't quite decipher. Recognition, certainly, but also a wall.

Jake, too, turned, his expression shifting from relaxed ease to a guarded neutrality. “Kayce. Didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice was even, but I heard the subtle change, the slight tension.

“No, I guess you didn’t,” I muttered, my voice rougher than I intended. My eyes were fixed on Alissa, searching for something, anything, that would connect the woman in front of me with the fragmented memories of fierce love. But all I saw was a stranger, and a wall of carefully constructed distance.

Alissa cleared her throat, her gaze flickering between Jake and me. “Kayce. What… what brings you to Helena?” Her voice was polite, formal, like she was talking to a distant acquaintance, not the man who was supposedly her husband.

That formal tone, the way she held herself, it only fueled the fire in my gut. “Monica said you were Commissioner now. Said I should… check in. See how you were doing.” The words felt hollow, a lie I was telling even myself. The truth was, I’d been drawn here by an invisible string, a primal instinct.

“I’m fine, Kayce. As you can see, I’m quite busy.” She gestured vaguely at the desk, at the papers we had just been poring over.

“Busy with Jake, it seems,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. The jealousy, raw and untamed, was a beast I didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.

Jake stepped forward, a subtle warning in his posture. “I’m her Special Advisor, Kayce. John asked me to help her get settled in the position. It’s a lot to learn in a short amount of time.” His tone was calm, but his eyes held a challenge.

“Special Advisor,” I repeated, a sneer I didn’t recognize on my own face. “Looks like a lot more than advising going on.” My gaze swept over them, remembering the shared laughter, the quiet glance, the almost-touch. It was an intimacy that scraped against something deep inside me, a place where a memory of possession, of belonging, still pulsed.

Alissa bristled, her chin coming up, that familiar Dutton fire flashing in her eyes. It was a flicker of something I recognized, a spark from the fragmented images. “You have no right, Kayce. Not after… not after all this time.” Her voice was low, laced with hurt and anger. “You don’t remember, you said. So you don’t get to comment on my life, or who helps me do my job.”

“It’s my job to protect this family, Alissa. Or at least it was,” I countered, the irony of my own words bitter in my mouth. I didn’t even remember the family, not really. But the feeling, the need to protect, that was still there.

“Your family is at the ranch, Kayce. They’re fine. We’re fine,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I’m doing my best to protect them and the ranch right here. With Jake’s help.”

The emphasis on 'Jake’s help' felt like a deliberate stab. The unfamiliarity of Alissa, the constant ache of the missing years, the sight of my friend, my brother, in this intimate moment with my supposed wife… it was too much. It was a suffocating wave of foreign emotions.

“Right,” I said, my voice flat, hollow. “Well, glad to see you’re… well taken care of.”

I didn’t know what else to say. My mind was a jumbled mess of fragmented images – a wedding, a newborn’s cry, a shared sunset, all tangled with the present, with Jake’s hand on her hair, with her soft laugh. The jealousy was a live wire, sparking unpredictably, painfully. It was a ghost emotion, a memory of a feeling I couldn’t fully grasp, for a life I couldn’t recall. I backed away from the door, my eyes still fixed on Alissa. She stood there, regal and hurt, her gaze unwavering. Jake, ever watchful, remained by her side.

“Kayce, wait,” Alissa started, a softer note entering her voice, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay there, watching them, feeling this raw, unidentifiable pain.

I turned and walked away, the sound of my boots on the polished floor echoing in the sudden silence of the hallway.

Eight years might be gone, but some instincts, it seemed, ran deeper than memory. And I now knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that whatever I had with Alissa, whatever we were, was profoundly threatened. And I hated it. I hated him for it. And what scared me the most was that I hated myself for not remembering why.

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