“She sounds great.” The way my voice hung on the last word made it sound as though it had negative connotations.
Ryder’s face buried into his hands as he became overwhelmed. “You left, Lindy. Try to remember that. I was crushed—”
“Yeah it looks like you were crushed.” My snide snip cut him off. “It took you what, two days to get over me? Or did you ask her out before you left the restaurant?”
“It wasn’t like that. She knew what’d happened and she felt bad for me. She watched me fall apart over the course of three hours.” He took a deep breath and released it again. “Vanessa knew the story, so when I wanted to talk, she was up to speed.”
“Look,” I said unable to hide the sharp edges of my tone, “I had a long day, and I’m beat. If I promise to let you snap at me in exchange for a pay check, will you let me do my injection and go to bed?”
Ryder’s eyes located the syringe on my nightstand with ease. The tortured playboy was forgotten and the long since buried med student surfaced. “Are these subcutaneous?”
My eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “Yes. Tonight I have to inject it into my right arm.”
His forehead crumbled together in confusion. “How do you manage that?”
“It’s a process,” I told him. “I use the back of a chair to help it along.”
Ryder ripped open an alcohol swab. “Would you like some help?”
I’d never let anyone do my injections, but my arms were my least favorite in the daily rotation of sites. “I thought you were scared of needles.”
His fingers ran over the back of my arm, feeling the lumps and welts from sites that hadn’t healed. “As long as you aren’t stabbing me with one, I’m fine.”
When it came down to it, I trusted him, not only his medical experience, but Ryder, the man who wielded the needle. As if to answer, I shifted and allowed him to wipe the space clean. Cold air nipped at the nerves in my right arm as the alcohol chilled the skin. With perfect expertise, he pinched the tissue and drove the needle in to my upper arm. I heard the plunger depress, and felt a sharp twinge as the needle pulled free. Ryder pressed a cotton ball over the wound. “See, not so bad, right?”
I’d thought that my first time as well. A nurse had come to my home to train me for injections more than five years before. The shot hadn’t the bad part. The bad part came thirty seconds later. Knowing it was only moments away; I took a deep breath and held it. The acidic biting struck and spread as though it was in my veins. I let the air slip in a tiny stream from between my lips.
“It’s like a bee sting,” the nurse had told me five years before. “After a year or so you won’t notice.”
I hadn’t hit that point.
I noticed every single time.
The pain grew and blossomed like a bud in the morning sun. Sharp prickles of radiating snapping and singeing sensations spread from the injection point. Barbs of discomfort burst from my elbow joint, my wrist and my rib cage. My heart raced and my throat tightened. All of it was within normal range, an everyday occurrence that sometimes left me hunched over with uneven breath and tears biting at the corners of my eyes.
“Are you okay?” I barely heard Ryder through my concentration.
All I managed was a feeble nod, lips pressed tight, eyes squeezed shut. I hated myself for letting him see the weakest part of me. Fire came next, a burning sensation that followed the acid and spread through my right side. That, combined with the bone crushing pain in my joints, was almost enough to break me.
“It’ll get better soon,” I said through my clenched teeth, my voice not much more than air. “Arms hurt me the most.”
Ryder’s hand extended to me, palm up. “Give a squeeze. It’ll help.”
Shaking my head to the negative, I gripped the comforter of the bed instead until my knuckles turned white. I could almost count it down in my head, 5, 4, 3, 2, —1. The pain faded to a dull ache, and I could function again. Ryder’s hand still lay on my lap, unused. The weight of it pressed into my heart and I longed for a release.
“There’s a cooler by my bag,” pain strangled my voice to a whisper, “will you get me an ice pack?”
He stood; eager to help in any way. He retrieved the pack and extended it to me. Though I could feel his stare, I dared not look up.
“Thank you,” I said as I pressed it to my newest welt.
Determined to meet my gaze again, perhaps to ascertain if the pain still had me, Ryder dropped to his knees in front of me. Warmth lit up my skin as he gripped my calves and watched me for a moment. “Is that normal? Is it like that every time?” he asked.
I didn’t lift my head. I couldn’t face him, not when he was close enough to— I stopped myself and packaged up the few boxes of emotion that had fallen from my mental shelf.
“Not always. Some days aren’t that bad for me.”
My chin lifted enough to make contact with his eyes, and I regretted it. It was still there, everything we had was still there. It was wrong somehow, as if it should have drifted away with every kiss he’d given to his new girlfriend. I should’ve been erased, but he’d held on.
“Lindy,” he started, as if there were words to explain the look in his eye. But I spared him the rest of the sentence.
“Tomorrow you need to start telling me about Cassidy. I need to practice being her if this is ever going to work.”
His grip tightened on my legs and he pulled himself up to rest on his knees so that we could be eye to eye.
“Lindy,” he tried again, “Huckleberry—” Desperation and regret pulled at the muscles in his face, but it was too late. There were too many choices involved, too many people and emotions, and what could I give him? A broken body and a heart that might never mend? He was better off with Vanessa.
With my deepest reserves of willpower, I pressed him back, away from me. “Whatever you’re about to say—don’t. We both made choices, and now we are living with them.”
His hand gripped one of mine, not willing to let me go so easily. “I think I made a mistake.”
Three years before, I’d made a decision that I wouldn’t get married, which meant I wouldn’t date. Ryder came close to changing my mind, but between my disease and my career choice, I knew I wasn’t good for him. Letting him go meant letting him live a normal life.
“You’re saying that because you’re lonely.” I ached to reach out and touch his face, but I resisted. “I’ll be gone soon, and we’ll be right back where we were.”
He wasn’t convinced. “And when you come back? What then? I’ll be all torn up again.”
If I’d been gone a little longer, he could’ve forgotten me, but I came while the wound was still open and fresh. Wounds that bleed are likely to become infected by the viruses around them.
“By the time I get back, you will have fallen in love with her, and we can work on some sort of friendship between us instead.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“Don’t be stupid.” I couldn’t hide my regret as much as I tried. “She can give you children, and a life without danger and possible felonies. Vanessa will probably never end up in a wheelchair. I can’t promise you any of that, Ryder.” He began to object, but I spoke before he could, “You said you need me at your mother’s ranch, so I’m going there. That means,” I caught his gaze and held it, though it killed me, “you’re my boss and I’m your employee. That’s our only relationship right now.”
My words appealed to his need to help his mother. Whatever had happened to those hikers had him nervous for her safety. I hated that for one brief instance I would’ve rather been looking at the crime scene photos, than staring into his eyes. I needed work. I needed to remember who I’d been before I’d ever crossed paths with Ryder Billings.
His hand dropped and he pulled himself to his feet. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
I replaced my ice pack to the hard lump on my arm. “Thanks for the help.” To drive the point home I added, “Mr. Billings.”
>
His smile wasn’t happy, but laced with pain. “Goodnight, Huckleberry.”
Chapter 7
I wore Cassidy’s clothes the next day, tight jeans and just about the only top with sleeves I could find. I set my alarm for early morning and forcibly dragged myself out of bed to work on the piles of manure in the barn before breakfast. There could be no more Lindy Johnson, no more pining after Ryder, if I were to succeed with the case. I had to become Cassidy Billings. I figured she was willing to get up for the horses despite the early hour, and I needed that mindset.
At breakfast, a very quiet Ryder set a cup of coffee in front of me. The pale brown color turned my stomach. I could tell by the sweet smell that he’d drowned it in sugar. It didn’t matter; I detested the smell of coffee in any form. I blamed it on a bad experience in elementary school.
My strict teacher, Mrs. Beulmeyer, used to brew five or six pots a day. Half the time she didn’t drink it all. She poured it down the sink and made a new batch. The earthy, yet bitter smell clung to my clothes, my hair, and every part of me for an entire year and all of it related back to that beefy, sloth of a woman. I pushed the mug back and shook my head.
“Not happening.”
Ryder slumped into his chair. “Cassidy drinks a cup every morning. It’s more sugar and cream than coffee anyway.”
I wasn’t in the mood to negotiate. “Guess what? She got sick of it.”
Ryder’s fingertips edged it back toward me. “Let it sit in front of you. If you have it, they won’t question whether you drink it.”
“Maybe she can develop an allergic reaction?” I tried again. I could imagine Mrs. Beulmeyer’s yellow, stained teeth and the way she sneered when I hadn’t memorized the Declaration of Independence to perfection. My stomach lurched and I shoved the mug back. “Not happening.”
“It’s bad enough you don’t drink liquor. I swear she’s better at that than riding.”
“And look where those choices have gotten her,” I said. He wasn’t impressed by my wit. “Now you want me to start drinking on the job? What kind of boss are you?”
“I don’t want you to start drinking, but you can’t change everything about Cassidy.” He sank into the seat across from me, tired of me after only three minutes. “Put the coffee in front of you. You don’t have to drink it.”
I tried, I sincerely tried to do it, but the aroma might as well have been rotting fruit. Ryder’s head shook in frustration. “Stop making that face, she wouldn’t look like she’s gonna be sick.”
“I am going to be sick. I can’t hide nausea, Ryder.” I shoved the cup away again, creamy brown liquid sloshing over the sides. “You wanted me to do this because you knew I could. Why do you doubt me? Coffee drinking isn’t going to make or break my cover.”
Ryder pushed out of his chair so fast that it teetered back on two legs for a moment. He caught it and slammed it down. Traces of his father’s temper flickered in his eyes, but his frantic need to push it away surfaced immediately. The anger came from a place of desperation, but for what?
His boots echoed against the slate tile as he crossed the kitchen and pulled out a stack of photos. They scattered across the table as he tossed them, a hundred Cassidys smiling back at me from every direction
“This is Cass,” he said. “Do you want to know why I’m scared? It’s because you’re nothing like her. I don’t know how to change you enough to keep you from getting hurt.”
“Well, if you could tell me something about her for once,” I said as I picked up a couple pictures. It was the same smile I’d seen in the first pictures, flirty and coy, but not intimidating in any way. She bore her tanned, bare skin with pride. Her hair wasn’t a natural blonde, but it wasn’t from a box either.
Ryder slipped back into his chair again, voice low and tense. “I’ve been watching you since you got back. You’re different. The relapse wore you down. Cassidy is always up for a fight. She’ll argue over the stupidest things for fun.” The chair creaked as he leaned back, exasperated. “You look tired to me, tired and—”
“Weak,” I finished for him. I let the silence settle before I spoke again. “As usual, you've underestimated me. I have spent years pretending that I’m okay, when clearly I’m not. Maybe I deserve a little more credit.”
I scooped up a few pictures from the table, grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter and disappeared before Ryder could stop me.
♦ ♦ ♦
“You want to have a haircut like hers?” the stylist asked.
“No,” I said, “I want to look exactly like her. The closer you get, the bigger your tip is.”
Like me, the red headed stylist, Candy, spoke the language of money. Her left eyebrow rose slowly as if calculating the price of identity theft against her own bank account. “Is there a budget?”
I thought of Ryder’s new wealth and smiled. “Not at all.”
She snatched the three photos from my hand and called over her shoulder, “Tracy, cancel my next four appointments. I’m busy.”
I took a deep breath as she ushered me to a chair at the back of the room. I’d picked the swankiest salon in Bellingham, one that made my mouth go dry with intimidation, but one I knew Cassidy Billings would adore. Candy disappeared into the back, and I took one last look at my face. The mirror of the station behind me caught the reflection of my own mirror, and all I could see were Lindys forever.
Ryder was right. That truth grated on me, he was right. I was weak. I had been from that first moment that Shane had told me about Vanessa.
Lindy was weak.
I glanced at the picture of Cassidy that I had in my hand. Cassidy Billings was strong. I could become her; I could fake it all until it became natural. Years before my con-artist boyfriend, Amos, had taught me how to disappear into a cover. The idea exhilarated me, a new life, and an escape from the painful reality that had been forced upon Lindy Johnson.
Candy set down the bowls of color on the counter. Little handles stuck out of each one like paintbrushes from an artist’s palette. “Are you ready?”
“More than you know,” I said.
She pulled a long black drape around my shoulders and fastened it. “What’s your name, girlie?” Candy caught my gaze through the mirror and waited for my answer.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, a happy thought of a new reality.
“Cassidy.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Before that day I hadn’t known that most of those treatments existed. The hair took five hours, the skin another two, accounting for the tanning bed and the spray tan, and learning how to apply makeup to look more like Cassidy took an hour and a half. There was also a facial, a manicure, and a pedicure. As Lindy I would’ve rather shoved hot pokers under my fingernails than endure all of it, but Cassidy Billings would love every second, so I did too.
When I looked in the mirror the only trace of my original self was the thin splattering of freckles that dotted across my nose and cheeks. My skin, my eyes, my hair, everything was new. Everything was her, and power surged through my veins because of it. The heartbroken, misty eyed Lindy was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
I found Ryder in the stables, grooming a mare in the open space of the runway. I’d spent all day staring at the picture of Cassidy, trying to infer a personality on the face that I’d stolen. With his back to me, I knew it was time to try out my alias.
I squashed the butterflies in my stomach under a boot and spoke in a clear, direct voice. “I’m looking for Ryder Billings. I’m supposed to start work today.”
“I’m Ryder,” he said without turning around, “but I don’t remember—” he turned and lost his train of thought.
My arm stretched as high as it could on the barn door with my weight against it, leaning at a diagonal. Ryder had done the same thing in his lighthouse once, and I figured certain practices might stay in the family genes. I’d changed into one of Cassidy’s tank tops, the kind with little phrases made from sparkling sequins, and a pai
r of her tightest jeans. Those were stuffed into a pair of bright pink cowgirl boots that I crossed at the ankle as I leaned. With an old cowboy hat I’d found at the bottom of a wardrobe box, I knew I didn’t look like Lindy Johnson.
Ryder’s mouth parted, as if he might speak. Then his eyes narrowed as he searched for recognition. He surveyed me from head to toe, pausing at the bared section of skin near my waist before he came to rest at my face.
“Lindy?”
I cocked an eyebrow and pursed my pouty lips. “I’m pretty sure my name is Cassidy.”
There was a slight shake to his head, as if it was too surreal. “I thought you quit.”
I let my arm slide down the door and fall to my side with exaggerated deliberation. “When are you going to figure out that I don’t know how to quit?” His tension increased as I sauntered toward him. “How did I do?”
His brows caved in toward his nose as if he couldn’t trust his eyes. “You look like her, but this feels so wrong, because she’s my cousin and—”
I stopped short of him and let my head fall to the side in mock disappointment. “That must be difficult for you.” Ryder only stared, as if trying to see me through the disguise. I straightened and poked one strong finger into his collarbone. “Never doubt me again, Ryder.”
I didn’t wait for his nod. Instead, I grabbed a wheelbarrow, a manure fork and I went to work.
♦ ♦ ♦
Ryder eventually found some sort of middle ground between Cassidy and Lindy and was able speak in coherent sentences again. My confidence soared higher than it had in weeks as I rode that afternoon, and it translated into the horse. Either my riding had improved, or Ryder was still too dumbstruck to shout commands, either way it was therapeutic. My legs shook all the way back to the house and most of the way through dinner, but I didn’t fall down. Cassidy wasn’t sick.
Over the next two days, Ryder shared stories from his childhood about Cassidy. Little tidbits like the time she’d won a buckle at a local rodeo after entering spontaneously, or the time they’d gone cliff diving and she’d been the first one to dive from the highest cliff. There were stories about doorbell ditching, neighborhood pranks, and the time she organized a flag football game in ten minutes with complete strangers at the park.
Saddles & Sabotage Page 6