A Simple Wish

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “And what do I deserve?” Rebecca demanded in a voice that wavered slightly. “I think I’ll go inside now and act as though you didn’t stand me up and then send that ridiculously extravagant bouquet of roses as your unacceptable excuse for disappearing.”

  When she started up the porch steps, Wyatt was close on her heels. “I can explain! I’ll show you why I was tied up at my Lexington farm—” He barely caught the door before she slammed it on him.

  Rebecca turned on Wyatt before he had both feet in her living room. “And this explanation is something you couldn’t have shared with me earlier?” she demanded. “In this age of technology, you surely could’ve called or emailed or texted me, Mr. McKenzie. Get your hand under the faucet before you bleed all over my carpet.”

  When she pointed toward the kitchen, Wyatt knew better than to wheedle. As he passed her dining room table, the huge arrangement of shriveled, dead roses in its center told him precisely what Rebecca thought of him. He set the pink roses on the counter beside the kitchen sink and ran water over his bleeding thumb. The thorn had come completely out, so the wound was clean, but his situation with Rebecca felt like it might seep raw emotions for a long while.

  Several minutes passed. Wyatt was beginning to wonder if Rebecca had abandoned him—maybe left the house through a back way—when she entered the kitchen. Her hair was combed, she’d powdered her freckled nose, and she wore denim cut-offs with an old black T-shirt that was baggy enough to camouflage her attractive figure. Not that it kept his desire at bay.

  But this was no time to flirt or slather on the sweet talk. When she tossed a tube of ointment and a box of Band-Aids onto the counter beside him, Wyatt knew he was on his own as far as dressing his wound. He tore off a section from a paper towel roll, reminding himself that he’d tended far more serious cuts without assistance . . . Yet he was more humbled by his deep craving for Rebecca’s touch than by her earlier scathing words or her current chilly silence.

  “Rebecca, I’ve been a horse’s ass, telling myself to stay away from you,” he muttered, pressing the crumpled paper towel against his wound. “Fact is, you scare the—the living heck out of me.”

  Her abrupt laughter echoed in the kitchen. Wyatt chided himself for allowing his confession to come out unchecked, even if this was the first time he’d accurately framed his feelings. It made no sense that a man of his experience and means should cower before this young woman, but there it was: fear. He was afraid of feelings he couldn’t corral or control, because he knew that Rebecca, in her unassuming way, held the reins of this relationship in her small yet capable hands.

  “Wyatt, you can cuss in front of me—but cuss like you mean it.” Rebecca sounded exasperated with him. “I’d rather hear you state your true intentions—the way you really feel—than suspect you’re pussyfooting around behind pretty words and false promises. With me, honesty counts.”

  Wyatt sighed. Her cornflower eyes challenged him to man up, to keep her in the loop of his thoughts and emotions—not that he’d ever allowed a woman that sort of access to him. “All right,” he began softly, “what I really want is for you to help me with this puncture wound. Then I’ll show you why I couldn’t be in Willow Ridge to have dinner with you. And then I hope we can discuss my website. Strictly business.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire, his thoughts taunted. Accent on the fire part.

  * * *

  Rebecca tried not to fall for the little-boy plea in his voice, yet she hoped the strictly business part was only a facade Wyatt was hiding behind to protect his pride. A man in his position didn’t knuckle under to a simple prick from a thorn, nor did he allow a small-town graphic designer to buffalo him. Why was he afraid of her?

  Rebecca reminded herself not to fall prey to his masculine appeal, his resonant voice, or his perfectly cut hair and chiseled chin, either—not after the way he’d left her hanging. The longer she stood trapped in his blue-gray gaze, however, the easier it would be to pretend he hadn’t hurt her deeply. She reached for the tube of ointment.

  “Just so you know,” Rebecca said as she unscrewed the cap, “those specialty rosebushes you robbed were a gift to my mother from her husband, Ben Hooley, the local farrier. He’s a fellow whose favor you might want to cultivate—unless you plan to bring your own staff to tend your horses’ needs.”

  Wyatt extended his hand, palm up, as though inviting her to place her hand in his. Rebecca reminded herself that this was strictly first-aid business and focused on the small red slit in the pad of his thumb. She slipped her hand under his to support it, also reminding herself to ignore the little shimmer of awareness that made her arm tingle.

  “I’ve met Ben. He’s one of the reasons I bought land here for my new horse farm,” Wyatt murmured. “Thanks for the heads-up on your family connection, though. And thanks for your medical assistance. I’m right-handed, so when it comes to getting a Band-Aid secured correctly with my left hand, I’m, uh, all thumbs.”

  Rebecca smiled. He seemed to be coming off his high horse. “I suspect I won’t often see you in a dependent, submissive frame of mind,” she teased, “so I should milk this moment for all it’s worth.”

  “Don’t bet on it. I’m putty in your hands, Rebecca.”

  His words did funny things to her stomach. When she looked up, Wyatt was gazing at her as though his life depended on her. “You say that to all the girls,” she shot back.

  “There aren’t any others. Which is why I should treat you with a lot more respect and consideration than I’ve shown lately.” Wyatt’s hand relaxed in hers as she squeezed a small dab of the ointment on the wound. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you, Rebecca. Is there any way we can start over?”

  Her eyebrow rose. She released his hand to cap the ointment and take a Band-Aid from the box. “Is this how you’ll always handle relationship mistakes, Wyatt? You’ll ask for a do-over, as though you can simply erase the rough spots from my memory?” Rebecca asked in a purposeful tone. “I’m not feeling the love here.”

  As she turned to tear away the bandage’s wrapper, Wyatt gently caught her face in his left hand. He kissed her ever so softly before moving in to explore her mouth with tender thoroughness.

  Rebecca’s thoughts blared like sirens, warning of impending disaster, but her body was following the most basic of instincts that Wyatt had called up with his kiss. When he eased away, his blue-gray eyes suggested that he was as surprised as she was that he’d taken hold of her—but he wasted no time before kissing her again. He pulled her close, cradling her in his left arm, making her aware of how perfectly they fit together and how long it had been since a guy had kissed her.

  Not that Wyatt could be considered a mere guy. He was a man, fully conscious of what he was doing to her—and leaving no doubt about where this kiss was leading them.

  Despite her best businesslike intentions, Rebecca realized she was now the dependent, submissive one. She stepped away from him with a sigh that sounded far too needy. “So—about this Band-Aid. Let me just unwrap—”

  “Rebecca.” Wyatt’s voice enveloped her like a gossamer web.

  When she looked at him, his eyes reflected the same desire that her flushed face was no doubt broadcasting. “Yeah?”

  He smiled furtively. “Will you come to my farm—to take pictures for the new website?” he added quickly.

  She rolled her eyes as she peeled the protective strips from the bandage. “Why does this sound like an updated version of Wanna come upstairs and see my etchings?”

  Wyatt laughed. “You’re too young to know about that old come-on—”

  “I’m old enough to know what you’re doing—and what you’re after,” Rebecca stated firmly. “Quit wiggling.”

  Wyatt held very still as Rebecca deftly secured the Band-Aid over his injury. “Thank you for being my nurse,” he whispered. He framed her face with his hands. “I am after you, Rebecca. I want you—as a site designer and a whole lot more,” he added quickly. “Is that all right with
you?”

  His husky baritone voice sent all rational thought out the window. When Wyatt held her gaze with his mesmerizing eyes, Rebecca feared—yet yearned for—everything this man seemed to be promising her.

  Was she reading too much into Wyatt’s innuendo? Maybe he was only making a bid for sex rather than implying an emotional commitment. Despite her doubts, however, she nodded. Rebecca sensed that although she could fire back snappy one-liners to keep him at arm’s length, deep down she was fascinated by Wyatt . . . and a lifestyle that was so completely different from her upbringing.

  “Oh, thank God,” he murmured as he hugged her hard. “For a moment there, I thought I’d really stepped in it. No fool like an old fool.”

  Rebecca leaned back against his arm to study his handsome face, daring to trace the laugh lines around his beguiling eyes with her fingertip. “Okay, so you’re older than I am,” she murmured. “But—”

  “By eighteen years, if my math’s correct,” Wyatt interrupted softly.

  “—what I really want to know is why me?” she continued before she lost her nerve. “I’m just a small-town, small-time designer who surely won’t fit into your sophisticated world—your upper-crust lifestyle—”

  He gently placed a finger across her lips to silence her. “A change of attitude can change a person’s world, sweetheart. When I set foot in Willow Ridge, so steeped in its Amish simplicity, I realized my life was due for a major renovation,” he explained. “Meeting you was all the more reason to risk going in a whole new direction. At an age when most men are satisfied to settle in, I suddenly feel compelled to start fresh—with you.”

  “It’s too soon to be saying that, Wyatt,” Rebecca protested, even though she wanted to believe him.

  He shrugged. “You asked me to be honest,” he reminded her. “Does this conversation scare me? Damn straight, it does. I came here with the intention of breaking away from you, Rebecca, but in less than an hour you’ve convinced me that I’ll regret it if I don’t try to win you over.”

  Rebecca could only stare. Wyatt was holding her gaze, sounding totally sincere yet appearing as vulnerable as she felt. He had a boyish sense of adventure about him that appealed to her, and she suddenly wanted to experience life from a different perspective than any she’d ever been offered. “All right, let’s give it a shot,” she murmured. “But if either of us reaches a point where we want to put on the brakes—or it’s not feeling comfortable—we’re going to say so. Right?”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I can live with that. I don’t see it happening, though.”

  Rebecca fought a grin. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other, Wyatt. Give me enough time, and I’ll make you feel mortified and appalled and exasperated—maybe all at once.”

  “That could work both ways.” Wyatt’s smile lit up the kitchen as he pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket. “Here they are—Rachel and Rhoda, the twins that were being born the Friday night I couldn’t get here,” he said as he held the phone so she could see it. “They came early, and their mother’s built small, so I needed to be there with the vet to be sure my mare and her foals made it through the birth all right.”

  Rebecca blinked. The knobby-kneed bay fillies that filled his screen took her breath away, but their names bore no resemblance to the high-class monikers of the other McKenzie horses she’d seen online. “Why on earth did you name them after my sisters?” she asked. “I mean, I’m assuming you did.”

  Wyatt scrolled down to another photo, and another, obviously delighted with the beautiful young creatures. “For one thing, they’re twins,” he replied lightly. “But mostly, I wanted names that sounded appealing and down-to-earth—something different from the highfalutin names you hear at the racetrack.”

  Rebecca busied herself with throwing away the loose bandage papers on her countertop. “I guarantee you those fillies will be a lot higher-maintenance than my Plain sisters,” she said with a laugh.

  “They symbolize a major change—a decision to move in a different direction with my horses . . . with my life,” Wyatt said softly. “While I was acquiring my other two farms over the years, I was in it for the status—the thrill of breeding and racing fine horses only an elite clientele can afford.”

  Rebecca remained silent, waiting for the other conversational shoe to drop. Even though he’d clearly stated his interest in her, gazing at online pictures of Wyatt with his trophies, ribbons, and well-heeled cohorts—some of them female—had given her the idea that he was deeply ensconced in the high society of high-dollar horses. The wistfulness of his admission puzzled her.

  Wyatt gazed at the photos on his phone. “But it’s time to step away from that upward spiral of pressure,” he said. “I’m tired of trying to outdo myself, and tired of being in constant competition for higher prizes. I just want to breed and sell reliable horses.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. “You want to get out of racing?”

  “Yup.” The pupils of his eyes were large and dark as he looked at her. “I can ease my way out at the end of this season—or just sell those horses outright.”

  His “easy come, easy go” attitude surprised her. “What’ll you do with your farms in Kentucky and New York?” she asked cautiously. “If you’ve spent your life building up your reputation with Thoroughbreds—”

  “There’s something to be said for horses that pull their weight,” he put in with a dreamlike sigh. “Last time I was here, I watched a young man driving a hitch of the tallest, darkest mules I’ve ever seen, and I was struck by their beauty. Their purpose.”

  She smiled. “Those are Percheron mules, and Luke Hooley got them from a fellow over in Bloomingdale. Most of the other farmers hereabouts favor Belgians.”

  “From what I’ve heard and researched, nobody’s raising draft horses in this area,” Wyatt said. “Now that I own a farm in a Plain area, why shouldn’t I provide the animals these folks need?”

  “They often buy retired racehorses and train them to pull their buggies,” Rebecca pointed out. “Pride is a sin among the Amish, but the men hereabouts indulge themselves in some fine-looking horseflesh. You probably know that, though,” she added quickly.

  “I value your insight. I know you’re giving me pertinent information instead of trying to impress me or sell me something.” Wyatt slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I have someone who can take over my other two places—or I can sell them. And I have some horses that are ready to retire from racing, so you’ve just given me an opportunity to provide them a useful life.”

  He inhaled deeply, refusing to lower his gaze. “Meanwhile, I’d really like to show you my acreage—ask your opinion about where to put the corrals and barns. And the house.”

  Rebecca stood absolutely still, afraid that if she breathed, the threads of this fairy tale Wyatt was weaving her into would drift apart like dandelion silk in the breeze. She sensed he sincerely wanted her thoughts—that he wasn’t just sweet-talking her.

  Red flags were waving wildly in her mind, however, reminding her that she’d only spent a few hours in this man’s company. And don’t forget how he vanished without a trace of contact for three weeks.

  Rebecca proceeded cautiously. At this point, she didn’t know what else to do. “I—I don’t know the first thing about horses,” she admitted.

  “And I don’t understand enough about the Amish culture to be able to contribute to the neighborhood,” Wyatt said as he took her hand. “Once again we’re equals. Partners. I won’t have it any other way, Rebecca.”

  When he kissed her again, she knew there would be no resisting Wyatt McKenzie. She might get burned, and she might find out she didn’t fit into his world—but she wouldn’t know that—or discover a life such as she’d only dreamed of before—unless she went along for the ride.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drew walked Loretta home after church and the common meal at the Wagler place had ended, feeling particularly gratified as he held her hand. I
t was September 4, nearly five months after he’d first set foot in Willow Ridge, and folks around town were accepting him as a neighbor—and beginning to consider him and Loretta a couple. Will was acting friendlier and more relaxed, too. He’d even come over to talk with them before they’d left, which was a notable improvement over the way he’d stalked off the day Drew had carried lemonade to him.

  “Do you suppose Will’s got a girlfriend?” Drew asked as the vineyard came into view. New metal fence posts and wires caught the afternoon sunlight, forming shiny silver pinstripes across the plowed brown earth.

  Loretta shrugged. “I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

  Drew smiled to himself. Loretta appeared demure, holding the empty basket in which she’d taken muffins for the noon meal, but the quick flash in her hazel eyes said she knew more than she was going to tell him. “Will seems happier now. More at peace,” he suggested.

  “Luke might’ve had a heart-to-heart with him,” Loretta hedged. “And maybe he’s gotten some counseling to help him deal with Molly’s passing.”

  Drew nodded. He still suspected Loretta wasn’t giving him the whole story, but he didn’t quiz her, because she seemed much more relaxed in Will’s presence. He certainly understood why the circumstances of Molly’s passing would eat at Will, and he hoped Gingerich was on the mend emotionally. It would be a relief—for him and Loretta both—when her former fiancé finally moved beyond his abrasive behavior.

  The breeze whispered in the evergreen windbreak, giving Drew a tempting idea. “How about cutting around behind these trees?” he asked, gesturing toward the tall, dense spruces. “I’d like to get a gut look at the Hooleys’ new vineyard now that the stakes and wires are all in place.”

  Loretta’s knowing expression told him she saw through his excuse. “You probably have an excellent view of the vineyard from your upstairs apartment—but what could it hurt to stand in the shade for a bit?” she teased. “It’s a pretty day, and I’m in no hurry to go home. Dat left the common meal early, which probably means he’s in a sour mood—or secretly working in his clock shop on Sunday.”