Someday (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 2)

by Susan Fanetti

  No, he hadn’t been. He’d been thinking about the exit, knowing he should go for it, but instead turning away from it, turning toward her. Again and again. That was why he’d gone straight for her at the banquet tonight, why he’d come running when she’d called. All those exits, ignored while he charged headlong at the danger of her.

  He looked at the exit now, twisting his neck, casting a backward, sidelong glance to her front door. Three locks, all engaged. Her alarm, set. To leave her now, he’d have to leave her vulnerable, on a night she’d been threatened, attacked.

  To leave her, he’d make her vulnerable.

  But staying with her, he made himself vulnerable.

  That was the danger, and the fear. Honor made him look at himself in a way he never had, and he didn’t like what he saw. He was too old to change. He’d been content, he was content, with himself and his life. He didn’t want anything different from, or more than, what he already had, who he already was.

  But Honor made him feel lacking, made him doubt himself, made him yearn for more, and he hated it.

  She sighed softly and squirmed, arranging herself in her sleep so that she was fully stretched out on the sofa, still tucked against his chest. Her hand came up and rubbed unconsciously at her face, a charming, girlish gesture, and then it dropped, resting on his chest, right where his stupid tuxedo shirt was open. Her fingers were fire on his bare skin.

  He pressed his face to her head and breathed in the scent of her, felt the silk of her hair against his cheek, catching in his beard. Body and soul, he was drawn to her. Helplessly.

  Moving slowly, careful not to wake her or disturb her, Logan stretched for the fold of a knitted throw hanging over the end of the sofa. He managed to arrange it over her, and then, ever so gently, he shifted so he could stretch out, too.

  With his arms around her, he rested his head on the arm of her sofa and closed his eyes.

  Honor sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer.

  Yeah, she made him yearn.

  Chapter Seven

  Logan woke alone on Honor’s sofa, with the strong aroma of fresh coffee coiled around his head. He opened his eyes to a room bright with morning, the light cheerful and encompassing but not harsh; her wall of windows faced northeast, toward his mountains, and the rising sun cast its light just sidelong enough to be gentle.

  With a deep breath to clear the sleep from his head, he sat up and looked over the back of the sofa. Honor sat at the bar, still dressed as she’d been last night. She was reading on a tablet, drinking what he assumed to be coffee from a purple stoneware mug.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She turned on the stool and smiled at him. “Good morning. I guess you’re probably stiff and still exhausted.”

  He was stiff, yes, but he was always stiff in the mornings. Exhausted? No. He’d slept soundly, with his arms around her. “I’m okay.” He stood and arched his back, easing out the usual creaks. When he lifted his arms over his head to stretch out his shoulders, he remembered he was still in most of his tuxedo.

  “You want coffee? It’s fresh.” She’d gotten up and gone around to her coffeemaker.

  “I can tell—smells good. Yeah, I’d love a cup.”

  He was at the island when she had his cup—another purple stoneware mug, similar but not identical to hers—ready. He took a sip of the hot brew; it was good, strong but not like the paint remover his father preferred.

  “I don’t really have breakfast food. I don’t eat it often. But I could make toast, if you’re hungry.”

  “Coffee’s fine, thank you.”

  Just like that, everything that had been awkward and uncomfortable about the night before was all that was left between them. Honor felt it, too—she cleared her throat and turned away, wandering back to the other side of the island. A safe distance.

  She cleared her throat again. Staring down at her mug, she said, “Thank you, Logan. For staying. It helped. I needed a friend, and you were here.”

  He didn’t want to be her friend. Last night, he’d made himself face the truth about what he wanted from her, or with her. But he didn’t want to want it. He didn’t want to feel the way he felt about himself when he was with her.

  Setting his half-full mug of coffee on her countertop, Logan picked up his tuxedo jacket and pushed his arms into it. “I’m gonna go.”

  “Logan ...”

  Before she said anything more, before she asked him to stay again, turned him away from the exit again, he jumped in. “I don’t want to be your friend, Honor. So I’m going now.”

  She said nothing. But her eyes showed emotions he easily recognized: Surprise. Hurt. Anger. He was good at making women hate him when he wanted them to.

  And even when he didn’t.

  While he settled his jacket over his shoulders, she walked to her door and disarmed her alarm. She turned the locks and opened the door.

  He paused at the threshold, thinking he should say something, already regretting leaving like this, but she tipped her head down, refusing to look at him. Getting the message, he went out, toward the elevator.

  As he pressed the button and stood waiting, he heard soft words at his back.

  “You’re a coward, Logan.”

  And then the firm click of her latching door, and the slide of locks engaging.

  *****

  He arrived at his suite of the Grove Hotel and shed his tux at once, leaving the pieces scattered in heaps across the floor as he went straight for the shower. He stood in near-scalding water until his skin was brick red and the heat and steam had sapped his strength enough to calm his insides down.

  Shit, he felt bad. Deep down bad. To the bone.

  This was what he had to avoid. This existential angst bullshit was Heath’s acreage. Logan’s approach to life was uncomplicated and clear: he loved his family, the Twisted C, and Jasper Ridge. Period. In that order. His life and heart were full corner to corner, and he was worthy in that life. He was a good son, a good brother, a good uncle. A good friend. A good boss. A good neighbor.

  He had family and friends who loved him, the respect of people across the state of Idaho, and all the sex he wanted when he wanted it. His life fit him just right. It was good.

  How the fuck could that one woman wad all that good up like so much trash and leave him feeling like he had nothing, was nothing?

  When he couldn’t stand the heat any longer, he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked, dripping, into the bedroom. His duffel was still on the bed; only his tuxedo bag had been opened. The clothes he’d shed to dress for the banquet last night were wadded on the armchair. His blazer was tossed haphazardly over the back.

  Looking at his grey tweed jacket—a bit upscale from his usual attire—he remembered his business errands of the day before. He’d done some legwork for his brother-in-law, Wes, to get the appropriate signatures and file the permit to add a retail shop at the Moondancer.

  Wes was the general manager up there. Logan tried to stay out of Moondancer business—he had a complicated history with Catherine Spelling, the minority owner and operations director, and they both tried to give each other lots of space—but since he was going to be in Boise anyway, he’d offered to trot some paperwork around. Plenty of safe distance between the Moondancer and Boise.

  Thinking about family business errands reminded him of the big one he’d bailed on last night. The announcement of the Cahill Fellowship. Shit, he’d really let his old man down.

  Logan’s father had started his family late in life, not marrying until he was in his forties—a bit older even than Logan was now. In his eighties now, he’d largely handed over the running of the family business to Logan, but he hadn’t retired entirely. Without the daily operations to see to, he’d turned his head to other avenues to extend his legacy. Charitable endowments, on small and grand scales. He’d set up college scholarship funds for students from Jasper Ridge and the Sawtooth Jasper Reservation of the Shoshone tribe, of which Logan and his siblings were memb
ers. He was spearheading a drive to build a library in town.

  And he’d created the Cahill Fellowship, intended to fund research into conserving and preserving Idaho’s natural resources. Last year, during the course of Heath’s trial, they’d learned that the Twisted C was literally sitting on a gold mine, a large untapped lode worth millions or more. Mining devastated the land, and the Twisted C had made the family wealthy enough as a ranch. Logan’s father wanted the gold to stay right where it was, under the earth, undisturbed, until somebody invented a way to mine without raping the world that lived on the vein. The fellowship would be awarded to people doing that research.

  Responsible sourcing, it was called in the business world. Tapping resources without tearing the earth apart. Usually, that was PR bullshit, but the Cahills really meant it.

  Last night, Logan’s father had entrusted him with the responsibility of introducing the Cahill Environmental Research Fellowship and announcing the first application period. Instead, he’d left the mayor’s public relations shill to do it.

  By now, his father had no doubt heard about that.

  Logan dragged his hands through his wet hair and wandered over to his tuxedo jacket. Fumbling in the pockets for his phone—he’d turned off the ringer on his elevator ride to Honor’s apartment—he snagged it loose and checked the messages.

  Two texts, both from Heath, one last night and one this morning—short and sweet, in his brother’s typically economical style. Last night: Hey. All good? And this morning: You should call Dad.

  So yes, his father had gotten word that Logan had let him down. He had three voice mails, so he girded himself and listened. The first was from the mayor, late last night, asking about the ‘family emergency’ and hoping Morgan was okay. The second was from his father, this morning. I need to hear you’re okay. Then I need an explanation. I need it fast, son, or I’m calling in the troops.

  As soon as he heard the voice on the third message, he closed out of voice mail and dialed home. His father answered on the first ring.

  “Logan. You’re okay?”

  “I’m okay, Dad. A hundred percent.”

  “Then what the hell happened?”

  “Something came up. It’s too much to explain over the phone”—actually, he needed some time to concoct a likely story—“but I’ll explain when I get back. I’ll be home this afternoon.”

  “I thought you were staying till tomorrow. Aren’t you meeting friends or some such tonight?”

  The third message: Darnella Compton-Hill, socialite and trophy wife of a Boise CEO, purring into his ear. He wasn’t in the mood to be Nella’s dirty secret tonight. “I’m going to beg off and come home.”

  His father, who knew Logan’s predilections and, though they’d never discussed it, probably understood quite well what Logan was usually doing when he went to Boise to meet with ‘friends,’ was quiet for a few seconds. “You alright, son?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m good. Just want to be home. I’m sorry about last night. I asked Emily Gomez to cover for me.”

  “She did. The fellowship was announced. It would’ve been better if a Cahill had done it. If you’d been there like you said you would.”

  Logan closed his eyes and dropped into the armchair, on top of his discarded clothes. Even when she wasn’t near, Honor’s presence in his life made him feel like shit. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “We’ll talk when you’re home. But you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good. I’ll see you.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  With the call over, Logan sat there, still wet from his shower, his skin still ruddy and stinging, and stared at his phone. The recent calls screen was up, and Honor’s name was right there in the center.

  He deleted it, and went into his contacts to delete her number there as well. Then he stood up, dried off, got dressed, packed his shit. Before he left the room, he sent Darnella a text cancelling their date.

  He just wanted to be home. Where his life made sense. Where he was comfortable in his skin.

  *****

  Logan woke on Sunday morning in his own bed. The heavy black-out drapes were drawn so he could ease his way into the morning. Lying there in the dusky dim, barely bothering yet to keep his eyes open, he reflected on the day before.

  After a long talk with his father, in which he’d woven a fiction about a college friend who’d been in a wreck, he’d had a mellow afternoon at home. The lie he’d told his father had been detailed enough to put some distance between his own mind and the truth. After a light dinner made by their housekeeper, he’d met up with friends at the Apple Jack Saloon and had a good time, but he hadn’t overdone it. For most of his adult life, his brother had provided a solid and frequent object lesson on the dangers of drinking to excess, and Logan had learned the lesson. Where he could, he tried to learn from others’ mistakes as well as his own.

  Besides, when Heath had been drinking, Logan had had to make sure he was clear-headed so he could be ready to pull his baby brother out of trouble at a moment’s notice. He’d built up a habit of moderation and saw no reason to break it now that Heath had gotten sober.

  Checking the time, he saw that he’d slept in. He’d planned to get out for a morning ride before Sunday breakfast, but that window had slammed shut. When he went downstairs, he was sure to find Emma, his sister, and Gabe, Heath’s wife, in the kitchen already, making the big family feast. No matter; he’d ride out after breakfast, and maybe get the whole clan involved. Hell, maybe a picnic for lunch, on the rise overlooking Cahill Creek.

  The Cahill family all lived on the Twisted C, the centerpiece of which was this big old monster of a house, built by Matthew Cahill about a hundred and fifty years ago. Every Cahill since had been raised up in this house, or close enough to it. When Emma and Wes had gotten married, their father had built her and her husband a house a few hundred yards up the ranch lane. They lived there with their two kids, nine-year-old Kendall, and seven-year-old Anya. Then Heath had remodeled an unused bunkhouse on the other side of the lane. He’d lived there with his first family, and now he lived there with Gabe and Matthew.

  Logan, still single and not planning to be otherwise, had stayed in the big house, which now housed only him and his father. Not counting his college dorm room, he’d had the same bedroom since he was two years old and had been moved out of his crib. The furnishings and décor had changed several times, of course, but the room was the same. The house was the same. The ranch was the same. Every morning of his life, he’d walked down the same staircase and walked into the same kitchen, looked out the windows at the same view.

  He liked it that way. Home was home. People who up and moved every few years baffled him. That was no way to thrive. Once any living thing had taken good root, it needed to stay where it was.

  Thinking about Sunday breakfast—a Cahill tradition, with the whole family together for a feast worthy of a magazine cover—Logan stood and stretched out his kinks and creaks. As he walked to the windows to pull back the drapes and let the morning in, his eye caught the tuxedo bag, hooked over the door of his closet, and the dismal start to his weekend tried to settle like a shadow over his Sunday morning mood.

  Nope, not going there. He shook it off. Here, at home, where he belonged, he was a hundred miles from Honor Babinot. Safe distance.

  He unhooked the tux bag from the door and shoved it into the closet, hanging it on the rod. During the coming week, he’d try to remember to get it into town for a cleaning. But it would be a long time before he had need of that zoot suit again.

  Grasping the drapes, he yanked them open, both sides at once—and found a grey day, a low sky full of dour, dark clouds pregnant and ready to birth storms.

  Rain had not been in the forecast.

  As he stood there, disappointed, feeling that nasty shadow creeping close again, a black cloud lit up with lightning and let loose its load in a downpour.

  Logan yanked the drapes closed.

  ****
*

  As he arrived at the top of the sweeping old staircase, the clamor of his family swelled from below, a happier thunder than what rumbled outside. By the time he made the foot of the stairs, and Chester, their old border collie, hobbled up on stiff legs to greet him, Logan was smiling. It felt good on his face.

  “Uncle Logan!” Anya bounded up from the kitchen as he ruffled Chester’s ears. She had a spot of some kind of batter on her nose.

  “Mornin’, honeybee. You helpin’ your mama today?” He picked her up and held her close. She was getting a little big to be carrying around; it looked like she was going to have her mom’s plumper shape.

  “Uh huh. I got to stir the pancakes!”

  “I see that.” He kissed her nose, and tasted pancake batter. “Mmm. Yum.”

  She giggled and hugged him, and he set her down and followed her into the huge kitchen.

  It still showed its history as a pioneer farmhouse kitchen, but now it had all the modern appointments. Though they both had their own kitchens in their own houses, Emma and Gabe were the only ones who really put this kitchen through its paces. The Cahill men could cook well enough not to starve, maybe a bit better than that, but none of them would ever be mistaken for a chef. The housekeeper fed them well enough, but she didn’t get fancy, either. Emma and Gabe, on the other hand, both knew their way around every inch of a kitchen. They had dramatically different styles and tastes—Emma was a traditional country cook, and Gabe cooked with the Mexican flair of her heritage—and either one on her own made a meal worth cleaning one’s plate. But together, damn. Logan had said more than once, and only mostly joking, that they should do one of those cable cooking shows.

  They were both too busy to take him seriously, of course. Emma had Kendall and Anya, who were both involved in just about every kid activity Jasper Ridge and the state of Idaho had to offer, and she was sort of the domestic manager of the clan as well. Gabe, who was only twenty-two years old, fifteen years younger than Heath, had a brand new baby and was trying to take college courses as well.