“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Is there something else you haven’t told me?”
“I think this was a sign, Ophelia. The story broke the same time I planned to come back home and see you. The script isn’t the only reason I wanted to stay here. Didn’t you ever wonder about us? If we were too young to really understand what we needed from each other? We’ve both grown up and changed. We know who we really are now. And no matter how hard I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to forget you.”
“Don’t.” Her voice broke, but then the anger hit and strength flooded back. “Don’t play games with me. You can’t waltz back to your first girlfriend almost a decade later and decide to try things out again just for the hell of it.”
“Wife. You’re my wife,” he said forcefully. “So yeah. I’ve been thinking about second chances. We spent our childhood together. Fell in love, got married, and tried to build a life. We were each other’s safe place. You want to throw away all of that just because it makes you uncomfortable thinking about what went wrong?”
She gripped the file and practically hissed back, “Are you forgetting how you locked yourself away for days on end, only emerging to kiss your so-called friends’ asses?”
“I had the opportunity to work on a script that became a hit and changed my life. You didn’t give it time. You didn’t give me a chance, or the lifestyle, or your own career. And I think that’s what you’re really mad about, Ophelia. You gave up your singing—your one true dream. Why? What really made you run away?”
Emotion choked her. She never let herself remember. Only in short glimpses. Sharp, rapid scenes that played behind her closed lids late at night, forcing her back. It had been so classic. They had been the perfect trope: young lovers who eloped and tried to conquer fame and fortune, only to be torn apart by the cruel world around them. Except she’d figured out something that could never be fixed—no matter how hard they tried.
The man she loved had blossomed in the land of dreams, but meanwhile, she had crashed into a million pieces. When she looked over, she’d realized he wasn’t around to pick her back up. He’d already checked out long ago, confident they still wanted the same things.
So she’d acted on her only option.
She’d come home.
When she answered, it was with the desolation of knowing how high they’d climbed together, and how completely their relationship had shattered—and way too soon.
“I didn’t run. I finally saw the truth right in front of me. But you still don’t see it, Kyle. You never did. And that’s why it will never work between us.”
Frustration carved out his features. “You’re talking in riddles. The only thing you ever wanted was to be a singer. You were offered that reality-show spot where you could reach millions. The producers and judges loved you! There was buzz at Entertainment Tonight that you were the one to beat. You had it all at your fingertips, but you turned it down because you were scared. Your fear destroyed us.”
Grief pounded at her like violent waves attacking a pier in a storm.
How could she explain how her path had played out, allowing her to clearly see where she was headed? How many times had she tried to talk to him, but he was caught up in his own world, until there was only silence left between them? She’d felt so alone and confused, but he’d refused to see, assuming it was nerves or fear of failure.
It had been so much more.
The fight faded from her body.
He’d never believe the truth. He was still stuck on his side of events and refused to alter his viewpoint. After all this time, why try to convince him otherwise? No, this was a reminder that they could never heal the broken rift between them.
“Believe what you want. It doesn’t change the outcome anymore.”
He flinched, but his lips set in that stubborn line she knew so well, even after all this time. He tilted his head, studying her. “How do you know? It’s still there.”
She stiffened. “What?”
His voice dropped to a low, velvety growl. “Our connection. My body remembers yours. Every inch of your skin is ingrained in my memory. The scent of that lavender-and-honey lotion you wore, and the way your eyes turn to blue fire when you’re mad, and how your smile can make a whole room hold its breath.”
He was killing her, and she was allowing it to happen. Each word was like a knife slicing another cut into her flesh.
He leaned forward, his hands lifted in supplication to drive his point home. “When you got sick and I took care of you, I remembered how we were part of each other. It hasn’t changed for me. Yes, it all fell apart, but we had so much going against us. We ran away and cut our friends and family off, thinking we could do it all alone. We didn’t know what the world would be like, or who to trust, or how to balance our relationship with the need to make a mark. Don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to begin anew? We’re adults now, and we’re married. I’m asking for a chance, Ophelia. As I write my script, I want to get to know you again.”
Hysterics bubbled up from her throat.
This whole conversation felt like Twilight Zone material. Why would she open herself up to more heartache when she already knew the ending?
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I can’t go down this road again. It’s too . . . much.”
She rose from the chair with the folder clenched in her fingers. “I’ll go over these and do some research so we can come up with a plan of action to move forward with the divorce. For now, I think it’s best if you concentrate on the script.”
This time, he allowed her to leave and lock herself into the safety of her room.
Ophelia closed her eyes and slumped against the door.
How was she going to get through the next few months now that everything had changed?
It was more than the divorce papers. It was the look of determination glinting in his green-mountain eyes, the set of his square jaw, the hardened features of his face. He was curious enough to poke at the bee’s nest to see if he’d gain honey.
Too bad. She could’ve told him it would only wreak stinging pain and little sweetness.
Chapter Nine
Kyle sat in the lingering silence and fought the impulse to follow her. The pain in her face almost drove him to his knees.
God knows, he didn’t want to hurt her.
He cursed under his breath and headed up to his room.
Better to give her some space. He’d try again later with a gentler approach. He’d really fucked things up by yelling the truth at her, but he’d been so frustrated by her refusal to even talk with him after the strain of seeing his father.
The image of his father trying to apologize stirred up a black cauldron of junk he didn’t want to investigate. He’d been sober, at least, but that didn’t count for much. It was the way Patrick had talked to him that really cut deep.
Gently. As if he actually gave a fuck. What a concept.
Memories assaulted him like a bunch of gleeful gremlins bent on torture: the little boy dying for one approving glance, one kind word, one decent gesture to remind him he had some worth to Patrick Kimpton. Instead, he got slurred insults muttered between sips of Clan MacGregor Scotch. He got emotionless grunts and blistering accusations. He got an occasional punch to keep him in line.
But it was what his father lacked that gave him the most trouble.
Kyle could’ve taken the abuse if he hadn’t had the shroud of guilt hanging over him. He’d been pretty tough, and his consistent escape into his writing helped soften the hard edges of his existence. So had the Bishops’ farm, where there was always a hot meal, a warm hug, or a good conversation to be had with guests or family.
No, he would’ve managed if there’d been no real reason his father hated him.
Books had taught him young that the world wasn’t fair, and that plenty of bad things happened to good people. Pick up Dickens or Hemingway to get a peek at the truth. It had actua
lly helped. If you had no expectations, the good stuff was savored and held tight with gratitude. It built character, persistence, and fortitude. Not a bad bargain. He’d never been afraid of patience or hard work since it got him all the way to the heights of success.
But now he was here to look back. Unfortunately, his father was part of the story whether he liked it or not.
Kyle stumbled to the keyboard.
He came in from the barns, sticky with sweat and smelling of manure. Worry twisted in his gut, but he couldn’t show it. He had to talk to his father, and Kyle had no idea if he was passed out yet with an empty bottle at his feet, or if he had managed to stay sober and actually do some work that day.
Kyle dragged his arm across his forehead to clear his vision. He began searching the house. “Dad? I need to talk to you,” he called out, ignoring his pounding heart. Usually, he wouldn’t care what type of mood Patrick was in—they all tended to be crappy—but this time he needed something. Something important.
He heard a grunt from the office.
Good. If he was doing paperwork, maybe he was in a decent enough space to just give Kyle what he wanted.
“What is it?” Patrick was at his desk, but instead of focusing on the screen, he was slumped in the chair, staring out the window. Definitely not a good sign. Shit.
Kyle stepped in. “Got a problem with Lucy.”
“Did you make all the deliveries this morning before you decided to play? ’Cause that’s what’s keeping a roof over our heads now—not your pretty horses.”
“I did them all and even managed to score another account. Tantillo Farms wants to switch to us since they’ve been having problems with their produce. We start delivering next week.”
His father grunted again, swiveling around to look at him. His hard gaze flicked over Kyle’s mud-encrusted body.
“They can promise anything to you, but without a contract—”
“Got one signed. Along with a deposit.”
He waited, but his father just nodded. “Make sure the booth will be ready for the Strawberry Festival in Beacon,” he said. “I’m getting killed here with bills. We need all the help we can get.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. We don’t need any more problems on this damn farm.”
He threw out the words before he chickened out. “There’s a problem with Lucy’s leg.”
His father flinched.
Lucy was strictly Kyle’s horse, since his father avoided her at all costs. The sweet mare was the offspring of Kyle’s mother’s horse—Sunny—who had died years ago. Patrick had been ripped apart when Sunny died, as if reliving his wife’s death all over again. He’d refused to have anything to do with Lucy. Kyle had fallen in love with the foal immediately, sensing a kindred spirit. He’d named her with his mother’s middle name and had been her primary caretaker for years. Funny, when he thought of leaving home, he knew it was Lucy he’d miss the most.
“Why are you telling me this? It’s your horse. Deal with it.”
Kyle swallowed and tamped down his worry. He had to present the scenario in the best way possible. “The vet examined her and said she needs extra care to heal the fracture. I’ll need to set her up in the other barn and keep a close watch on her.”
Patrick frowned. “Wait—she fractured her leg? What was the diagnosis from the vet?”
He shifted his weight. “Officially, she’s lame. But he told me if I get her off her feet and do a strict regimen of care, she could pull through.” Actually, the horse’s leg would require round-the-clock tending, but Kyle didn’t care. He’d slept in the barn before and had no issue bunking down with Lucy for the next few months—especially if he could save her. Unfortunately, that meant he had to let his father know what was going on, though he’d prefer to keep it a secret. Kyle was usually in charge of the horses, but occasionally his father would storm the barn to check up on him and make sure things were running the way he expected.
“Boy, I’m not paying a huge vet bill to save a horse that doesn’t matter to this farm. If she’s lame, we’ll put her down.”
“I paid the bill already, and I’m the one doing the care. I’m just letting you know.”
Patrick muttered a curse and glared. “This isn’t your farm yet. I’m the one who says what goes. We’re not emptying out the other barn to care for an old, lame horse. The only reason you kept her around was to ride her, and now she ain’t going to be doing no riding. We’re putting her down.”
Kyle snapped. “You’re not touching my horse.”
His father regarded him with distaste. “You don’t order me around, boy. Now, either you can call the vet down so it’s done humanely, or I can take care of it myself.”
The years of frustration and pain twisted tight in his gut and spilled out the poison that had been trapped for too long. “Old man, if you dare to lay a finger on Lucy, I swear to God, I’ll kill you. Don’t you care about anything? I have to try and save her. Can’t you give me this one thing?”
Patrick lurched from the chair. An empty bottle of Scotch dropped and rolled from his grip, and he stumbled forward. His green eyes misted with familiar rage. “How dare you question me? I gave you a roof over your head and food in your stomach. I wiped your ass when you were young, took care of your needs, and was forced to look at you every damn day and remember how you killed her. I chose her, but she chose you and gave you life. And shit like this proves she made the wrong choice.”
The venom shot across the room and buckled his knees.
He’d always known the story, of course. Instead of hearing about fairy tales with princes and knights slaying dragons, he’d learned about how his mother chose to save her baby rather than her own life during childbirth. His father had begged the doctors to save his wife and let the baby go, but his mother refused. Even then, she’d loved him.
But that meant he’d been the cause of her death—his father never forgave him. Kyle’s face was a constant reminder of the loss, driving Patrick to the bottle to forget.
His entire childhood consisted of being silently resented. He’d always carried a grim sense of duty. There’d been no love. He’d found that down the road—first with the horses, then Ophelia. He’d found it in books and music and movies. He’d hung on with the determination to finally escape his hellhole of an existence and lead a big life—a life of luxury and adoration and purpose. But right now, with his father’s words echoing in his ears, the realization of his pathetic existence slammed through him and exploded like bullet fragments, tearing away the last of his heart.
He straightened to his full height and looked his father dead in the eye. “I’d rather she was dead than alive to see what you’ve turned into.”
His father’s eyes widened in shock. Then he drew his arm back and slammed his fist into Kyle’s cheek.
He staggered back, falling to his knees, pain blossoming in his face. Blinking furiously, he gathered every last bit of strength and managed to stand back up. For one brief moment, he recognized the grief and regret glinting from his father’s green eyes, but it was already too late. For either of them. “If you touch Lucy, I’ll make you regret it. Just leave us both alone.”
Kyle walked out slowly, with dignity, and kept going. The sun was sinking below the horizon, throwing the valley into a shimmering rainbow of earth tones. His feet measured every step on the path that he could have walked blindfolded, until the clean white-and-blue Victorian farmhouse hovered like a queen on its throne before him.
He went to the door, knocked, and prayed she was there. His insides were shifting and breaking apart, and he didn’t know how much time he had left before he allowed the wound to bleed.
She opened the door. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you—Kyle? Oh my God, what happened?”
He lifted his hand to his cheek and stared at the blood pooling over his fingers. He blinked. Tried to speak. The words were stuck, along with the festering pain tearing him apart. His body shook.
“Ophelia.” Her name broke from his lips.
She opened the door and gathered him in her arms. Slowly, she led him inside. The scents of freshly baked bread and lemon sun tea wafted in the air, guiding him down the hall to her room. She grabbed a damp towel from the bathroom and pressed it to the wound, guiding him down on the bed to cradle him in her lap. She stroked his hair, kissed his head, and murmured nothings in his ear in her beautiful, musical voice that reached deep inside his empty spaces and began to fill them.
And Kyle cried for the first time with the woman he loved for everything that was lost.
He blinked, and suddenly he was back in his room, staring at the words on the screen. Amid every painful event he’d experienced, there was one person who he could trust. One person who was his own personal sanctuary in a world that cared little for the broken and lost. One person he’d loved with every bit of his heart and soul.
Ophelia.
Seeing his father made him realize he couldn’t lose her again. He had to find a way to convince her to give him a second chance.
He had to find a way to make her love him again.
Chapter Ten
Ophelia propped her arms on top of the stable and peered down at her sister, who was working on Flower’s horseshoe. As usual, Harper was in the zone with her work, her fingers deftly scraping some junk from the sweet mare’s foot, occasionally swatting away the horse’s nibbling teeth as Flower showed her affection.
“Hey, Harp.”
Her sister looked up, startled. “Hey, what are you doing out here?”
“Just taking a walk. Figured I’d check up on you and see what’s going on in the barn. Where’s Ethan?”
“He went with Mia to the city—they’ll be back later. Are we still having dinner tonight?”
“Yes, I have a great meal planned,” she said with a grin. They all looked forward to her big dinners, which happened on most Sundays—not least because they provided them all with leftover food for the week. Neither Ethan nor Harper had inherited her love for cooking, but she never minded. Ophelia loved their time together, when everyone got caught up and properly nourished. “Whatcha doing?”
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