by Kim Law
Dusty work boots, worn jeans, and a dark T-shirt, which appeared to have come in second in a battle with a swirling dust cloud, made up Trenton’s attire, while her hair was pulled back securely from her face. No curls and no overt femininity. Trenton wasn’t a bad looking woman at all, though, no matter how simply she dressed.
Waylon spoke before Trenton could get her mouth open, gracing her with his best grin. “Just the woman I was hoping would visit me.”
Dark eyes flashed a warning. “Don’t start with me, Peterson.”
Somehow, hearing his last name come from Heather’s friend didn’t do nearly the same thing for him as when the woman herself said it.
Waylon patted Beau on the rump and motioned for Dill to rub the horses down before heading off to school. Then he nodded toward the open space outside the barn. “Should we have this conversation out in the open?”
Trenton turned without another word and headed back the way she’d come. Once outside, Waylon couldn’t stop himself from casting a longing glance toward the house’s backyard. And what he found—now looking back at him—was Heather.
She wasn’t watching Trenton. Or anything else. Only him.
He tipped his hat in acknowledgment, and smiled when she tipped her head in return.
“Rein it in, cowboy.” Trenton stood at his side. “She’s off-limits to you.”
He didn’t think that she was.
He forced himself to turn away from Heather, but motioned back toward her with his head. “Have you asked her that?”
Trenton narrowed her eyes. “Let me put it this way. She’s emotionally unavailable.”
“Or do you mean that I am?” Waylon stared at her, his gaze unwavering. It was a valid question, because he was pretty certain no one in town thought there was more to him than a good time and a better hand of poker. Except maybe Heather.
And granted, he’d done nothing to alter that opinion. At least, nothing yet. But he’d be introducing his daughter around soon. And she’d eventually be living there full time.
“Are you implying that you are emotionally available?” Trenton’s words came out more slowly now, and with careful precision, and Waylon noted that she studied him as if not entirely dismissing the idea that there could be more to him than what everyone thought. He appreciated the attempt.
“I’m not implying anything,” he answered. And if he were to imply something, it would be to the woman herself.
But honestly, Heather had him tied up in knots. He was crazy about her, but he didn’t know what he wanted to do concerning her. He’d started out flirting, as was his norm. But even in the beginning there’d been more behind his words.
What she did was make him want to dream of a different life.
But could he ever hope she might dream the same concerning him?
He glanced her way one last time, and though she’d gone back to working on what he assumed would be the fire pit area, he didn’t miss another quick glance tossed their way.
“You have a kid.” Trenton’s words pulled him back.
The statement surprised him, but only for a second. Of course Heather would have told her closest friends about Rose. If he still had Nikki around and the situation were reversed, he’d do the same. Nikki had been his best friend. She’d been his life for a large part of it.
“I do have a kid.” His respect for Heather’s friends inched up. They’d clearly known about his daughter for days, yet same as Heather, they hadn’t spread the information around town. That mattered to him.
Trenton nodded as she continued to watch him, then glanced at Heather before saying, “She’s got a seriously soft heart.” All heat had left her voice, and only undisguised concern shone back at him. “Stay away from her,” she said once more, her tone solid and unhesitant. But then she closed her eyes, and her throat moved with a swallow, and Waylon thought the action felt very much like nerves. When she reopened her eyes, though, there was no worry to be found. “And do not hurt her. Because if you do”—she tapped her finger to her chest—“you’ll be answering to me.”
She was back in her truck without giving him the opportunity to reply, and had her vehicle pulling away within seconds. So he turned back to Heather.
And as he watched a stray hunk of hair work its way loose and curl against her neck, he whispered the reply he would have given had Trenton stuck around. “I won’t hurt her.”
She might hurt him, though.
But even as he steeled himself for potential pain at the hands of the woman down the hill, he couldn’t help but wonder who’d hurt her in the past.
Heather greeted Ollie with the expected apple at the gelding’s stall, and after a couple of minutes of murmuring soft words to the horse, she patted him on the nose and told him she’d be right back.
“I have to say hello to the other two,” she whispered. “You might be my favorite, but they need my attention, too.”
She blew the horse a kiss as if he had any clue what the action meant, then crossed to the other side of the barn to dole out love on Beau and Apollo. Cal had done well picking out his horse, and though she loved visiting with both stallions, she couldn’t help but be more drawn to Ollie. Ollie reminded her of the horse she’d had as child.
The horse that had managed to escape the fire.
She rested her forehead against Apollo’s cheek as memories tugged. Being around the animals was forcing a lot of thoughts about her parents. Not that she ever forgot them, but since a short time after they’d passed, she’d done an excellent job at keeping the heavier moments at bay. Now, however, with the backyard renovation, the horses—and Jill’s wedding, most of all—she was finding it difficult to think of anything else.
Difficult not to relive that night.
She patted Apollo before walking away, then she pulled her cross-body lunch bag back to her front and went in search of a bucket. She’d made it a habit to stop in and greet the horses most days, but since the night Waylon had found her in Ollie’s stall, rarely had she allowed herself to spend more than a few minutes alone with them. Today, though, she had an overwhelming urge to seek them out. She needed the comfort that horses could bring.
Of course, she’d also like to seek Waylon out. At least spend five minutes with him.
And she knew she shouldn’t be thinking along those lines at all, but dang it, she hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him in two days. Not since Trenton had warned him off.
Heather frowned as she thought about the morning after the viewing party. Before she’d even taken a seat at the café for their daily breakfast, Trenton and Jill had started in on her. They’d then spent a good twenty minutes harping about how long she’d talked to Waylon at the bar the night before. About how it had looked like “way more” than just clearing the air about the night in question. They’d had the idea that she could say “I made a mistake, I shouldn’t have come to your house, and we’re not going to be sleeping together” in less than a minute. And they’d clearly thought no game of darts should have been involved.
And yeah, she could have said all that in one minute. In fact, she probably had. But that wasn’t all she’d wanted to say. And she’d explained that to her friends. The man had a kid. How could they seriously expect her not to ask about Rose?
Of course, she hadn’t gotten the answers she’d hoped for due to Trenton interrupting. And Heather appreciated her friends looking out for her. She’d do the same for them. She had asked them to be her “guardians of men” in the past, after all. Or more accurately, her “guardians of herself around men.” And they were doing an excellent job at it. But she did want answers to the three questions that had been repeating in her head for days.
Since Rose’s mother was gone, why didn’t Waylon have custody?
Did he not realize how special a father-daughter bond could be?
Did he not want that for himself?
She’d give anything to have just one more day with her dad. One hour, even. With both of her parents. She missed
them both so much. But if Waylon didn’t want that kind of relationship between himself and his daughter . . .
Well, that would certainly mar the Prince Harry hotness he had going on.
She opened the latch on Ollie’s gate and carried the bucket in with her. “How about hanging with me for lunch today, big guy? That okay with you?”
She nuzzled the stripe running the length of Ollie’s face, and the horse neighed softly. At the sound, the hurt that was permanently implanted inside her heart eased the tiniest amount. Being around horses was almost like being with her mother again. And it definitely made it easier to return to the time before her parents had died. Before she knew things she wished she’d never learned.
“I’ll take you out for a ride soon,” she whispered as she gripped Ollie’s head in front of hers. She was almost ready to do it. “It’ll be just like old times. Me, you . . . my mom.”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she quickly swatted it away. Then she lowered herself to the overturned bucket. She kept up a running stream of conversation as she started on her lunch, and had only managed to finish a third of her veggie wrap when the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
Glancing over, another bit of hurt seemed to ease from her heart. Because Waylon stood on the other side of the stall door, arm braced on the railing above his head, with what seemed like understanding staring back at her.
She wasn’t exactly sure what he understood—nor what he’d overheard her saying to his horse—and she didn’t ask. She was just glad to see him.
She swallowed the bite she’d been chewing. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
“No. We don’t.”
She tried to make herself argue. Or at least feel like she should argue. Trenton and Jill would tell her she should. But instead, she lifted her sandwich. “Lunch time,” she offered, though no explanation was needed. “Feel free to pull up a bucket.”
Waylon’s dimples flashed. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He went for another bucket while Heather quickly guzzled half a bottle of water, and within a minute, Waylon returned. The heat of his body simmered next to hers as he settled in at her side, his legs stretching out in front of him, and she found her mouth suddenly too dry to force down another bite.
She picked at the spinach wrap, wondering what to say next. Were they going to flirt again? Or . . .
“I never answered your last question,” Waylon said, and Heather looked over, surprised he’d take them right back there. But also thrilled.
“About why you don’t have custody?”
He gave a single nod. “Do you still want to know?”
“I do.”
She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t. But she so very much did.
Lines carved the outside of Waylon’s mouth and eyes, and he seemed to age ten years. “I’m working on getting custody.” He picked up a piece of straw and fidgeted with it. “I have a hearing scheduled for the second week in November, and buying the house, taking this job . . . they weren’t only things that I wanted to do. Both were intentional with the timing and the location. And are part of proving to the judge that I deserve to have my daughter back.”
Back?
Heather swallowed. So he’d had her before?
“I would think a house and job are good.” She tried to sound supportive, but her mind reeled with questions. “They show stability.” Had he not had a job before? “Both of those things, along with living in Red Oak Falls, should provide a good environment for your daughter.”
“Exactly.”
Though she said what she felt were the right words, fear bloomed inside her. What could he have possibly done to make a judge decide to take a child from her father? Heather stared at him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “Do you think you’ll win?” she asked.
“I have to win. She needs me.” In the next breath, his cognac-colored eyes went hollow, the sight searing a gaping hole inside Heather. “But do I think I will?” He tossed down the piece of straw. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Heather had the urge to reach over and touch him, if to do no more than put her hand to his. She wanted to offer comfort because she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a person who needed comfort more.
She didn’t touch him, though. Because she wasn’t sure they had that kind of friendship.
And then it occurred to her that he was sitting there opening his wounds and allowing her a peek inside him. Letting her see his fear of not getting his daughter back.
So she put her hand on his.
Waylon’s palm closed over hers, his skin coarser, his touch solid. And he held her hand tight in his for a handful of seconds. Too soon, though, he offered a small smile and a quick nod, and slid his hand away from hers.
“My turn.” He plucked her still-uneaten sandwich from her lap and helped himself to a bite. “Tell me about the song.” He turned on his bucket to face her. “The one you sing to Ollie.”
A soft breath escaped Heather. He had a knack for zeroing in on the important stuff. “It’s one my mom used to sing to our horses,” she answered without letting herself think about it. She stared at Ollie, then she surprised herself by adding, “She’d sing it when she was sad.”
As a kid, Heather had never understood what could possibly make her mother so unhappy that she’d sit alone and sing to their horses. But after her parents had died . . .
She wet her lips. After they’d died, she’d often found herself doing the same thing.
Likely for some of the same reasons.
“You know how they died,” she spoke softly.
“I do.” Waylon leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “And Heather, I’m so sorry for your loss. For losing them that way. That must have been horrible.”
“It was horrible.” She pressed her lips together. Horrible didn’t begin to describe it. Then she blurted, “I was home when it happened. I heard my mother’s screams.”
“Heather . . .”
She kept her gaze glued to Ollie, the back of her nose burning with unshed tears. “They wouldn’t let me get to her,” she whispered.
She scrunched her shoulder and head together, pulling slightly away when Waylon lifted a hand to reach out to her. She didn’t want to be comforted. Not yet. But for some reason, she did want to talk about that night. She’d shared the story before—to her counselors, to Jill and Trenton late one night about six months after they’d arrived at Bluebonnet Farms—but ever since, she’d steadfastly refused to broach the subject. Even in her own mind. Yet now . . . With Waylon . . .
The words tumbled out. “I was asleep when the fire started. Mom had gone out to save the horses, and . . . then Dad went in. But by the time I woke up . . . by the time I realized what was going on just two hundred feet from our back door, the fire department was already there. I ran out in my nightgown, tried to get to her. To them. But an officer held me back.”
“I’m glad.” Waylon’s voice was heavy with emotion. “You didn’t need to go in there.”
She still didn’t look at him. “Neither did she,” she forced out, even though her throat threatened to close. “We had two horses, and I loved them both. But they weren’t worth my mom’s life. I guess she thought she had time to free them. But the fire spread faster than anyone would have thought.”
“Hay burns fast.”
“Yeah.” She finally looked at him, and for a second she didn’t see anything but the past. The flames. The screams. “But the fire didn’t start where the hay was stored.”
“Heather,” he said again, and this time she did let him reach for her. He took her hand.
“I know,” she said softly. She didn’t return the pressure of his touch. “There was still hay in the stalls. The barn was made of wood. The air was dry,” she whispered into the space between them. “And she did manage to save one of the horses.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “Mine. He was wild with fear, but he escaped. I saw him come out.” She closed h
er eyes as she pictured the horse her dad had bought the day she’d been born. “He didn’t stop running.”
“Did you ever get him back?” Waylon’s voice barely registered.
“I never saw him again.”
She forced herself to reopen her eyes, but she turned back to Ollie instead of looking at Waylon, and when the horse dipped his head as if to offer comfort, she leaned forward and touched hers to the animal’s. Her heart was beating too fast.
“I’m so sorry,” Waylon said again. “No one should have to go through that.” He threaded his fingers between hers, and this time she did squeeze in return.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She blew out a shaky breath.
A moment later she glanced over at Waylon, her head still resting against Ollie’s, and realized she felt lighter than she had in years. She hadn’t known she’d needed to talk about her parents, but it seemed the day to face old pain.
“I was so mad afterward,” she admitted, and Waylon tilted his head as if not understanding.
“At your dad?”
“No.” Heather sat up, startled. “Why would you think I was mad at my dad?”
Waylon shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Something about how you said that your dad went in to help. You paused at first, as if unsure if—”
“I just meant that she discovered the fire first,” Heather stressed. “That my mother went into the barn first.”
“Of course.”
“I wasn’t mad at my dad,” she repeated.
She never wanted to be mad at her dad.
She shook her head in denial. “I loved my dad. I was mad at the world. My parents were my everything. We were so happy together. We had a great life.”
Her throat went dry, and she lifted her gaze to look beyond Waylon to Beau’s stall. She couldn’t see the animal from where she sat, but she could hear him in there. Just as she could make out Apollo moving around. She loved horses. She had all her life. But until she’d agreed to do Jill’s wedding, she’d struggled with a love-hate relationship with them.
“I’ve never seen two people more in love,” she whispered. She brought her gaze back to Waylon’s. “Maybe Jill and Cal. They have that thing. That spark. But my parents”—she swallowed—“they loved each other so much that I don’t think they could handle the thought of living without the other. So they . . .”