Best Worst Mistake

by Lia Riley

  He pulled her close and leaned in as if to nuzzle her hair before averting his face. “I’m sorry you saw this part of me. I’m . . . not proud of that part.”

  She gripped his strong arms, holding him steady. “You used to get into a lot of fights. It sounds like you were angry.”

  Wilder shrugged.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You can tell me anything. Seriously. I doubt it’s more shocking than anything I disclosed today.”

  Wilder wavered, and for a moment she felt positive he’d open up about whatever it was that was burning inside him. Then he set his mouth and the guy who’d read her Jane Austen, made a cake, and gone down on her until she was dizzy vanished behind a stony wall.

  “You aren’t alone.” She brushed her lips over the edge of his clenched jaw. “I know we just met, but I care about you, and your family cares about you.”

  He stiffened. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “He got to you, didn’t he? Oh no, Wilder—­”

  “You’re quick to see the good in ­people, at least the good in me. And I’m not going to lie . . . I like it. But you’re a good girl. That truth is plain on your face from a mile away, and me? I’ve done bad things. Things that would make you lock that front door, lock me out.”

  “Calm down, nothing you say is going to scare me off.”

  “Why not? You should be frightened.” He raised his voice.

  “Knock it off.” She gave his chest a push. He didn’t budge, but his expression did change to one of surprise. “This big act you are pulling?” She was really heating up. “It’s worked for you in the past, hasn’t it? You yell, make your face get all mean . . . yeah . . . just like that. Ooh, I like how your nostrils flare, an excellent touch. You put on a show and everyone ducks for cover, don’t they?”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek.

  “Well, guess what, that behavior isn’t going to fly with me. You go on and on about the darkness, as if you’re the only one who’s ever had something go wrong. Here’s a news flash. Everyone hurts. Everyone deals with life junk. So do us both a favor and cut the badass con. You’re a man. But it’s not your physical strength that impresses me. It’s not that tough-­as-­nails attitude you throw around. It’s your gentleness. The kindness that brought you over here in the first place with a paper bag full of cake mix, rainbow sprinkles, and Jane Austen.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it.

  “You don’t scare me, Wilder Kane. Waiting to learn if I can expect to develop early-­onset Alzheimer’s? That’s the sort of thing that gives me the bad kind of goose bumps. But leave your bulldog behavior on the front porch before you ever think of coming to visit my house again, got it?”

  Her chest heaved. Lack of sleep, a hot bath, an impending sugar crash, post-­orgasm fatigue, and good old-­fashioned annoyance had shaken loose her tongue. In short, unadorned sentences she stated exactly what had transpired during the last year, how the blood draw went today, and what she could expect to learn in the next few weeks.

  Wilder’s face was like a mirror to her words, it started out agitated, angry, turned to shock, and finally a mounting horror as comprehension sank in. He slouched over and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry for starting crap with King. Garret and I have history.”

  “That much was crystal clear.”

  He looked at her then, his gaze oddly intense. “No use crying over baked beans.”

  “That’s the weird saying of my dad’s.”

  “What about you, have you ever used it?”

  She shook her head, puzzled. “I’m twenty-­five, not exactly ready to settle in with the folksy sayings.”

  “That same day I had a big fight with King, I had a blowout with Grandma and considered running away from Brightwater, from her and my brothers. Figured they’d do better without me. All I ever seemed to do was cause problems and it had gotten old. I didn’t have my license yet, figured I’d start walking, thumb a ride, and head to a new place. I’d decided on Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix?”

  His mouth crooked. “Rising from the ashes and all that.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t end up in Hollywood, put that flair for the dramatic to good use.”

  “There was a reason I stayed. A little girl kicked some sense into me.”

  “Wait.” A glimmer came back to her, faint but growing stronger by the second. A horse stall. A big boy who’d been crying. “Wait a second.” She pressed a hand to her mouth.

  He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “That was you, wasn’t it? The kid with the cotton candy.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  WILDER’S PHONE BUZZED. He didn’t answer. This was important.

  Quinn stood up and came over, sitting beside him. “You? You were that boy in the stable during the fair?”

  “Yeah, I was—­” His phone rang again. “Sorry, I don’t know why but my family is harassing me. They’re the only ones with this number. Hang on a second.”

  He clicked answer and Edie was talking before he could say “I’m busy.”

  “Wilder. Thank goodness you picked up. There was a fire at the bakery and—­”

  “Wait. Are you okay?”

  “I wasn’t there. I’m halfway home and just got the call. Archer is going to pick me up because I’m too upset to drive, then we’re going to go back and see what happened. Apparently they caught it before it could do too much damage but . . .” She broke off, sniffling.

  Wilder’s jaw set. If someone had done something to purposefully harm this sweet, well-­meaning woman he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. “What can I do to help?”

  “It’s Grandma Kane. We can’t have her up at the house by herself. Sawyer is on duty and Annie is in San Francisco. Can you please go to Hidden Rock and stay with her?”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I’m on it.”

  “Oh thank you.” She acted like he’d just bestowed her with a bag of leprechaun gold.

  “It’s not a big deal. I’ll leave now.”

  Within a few minutes, he was starting up his truck, still surprised Quinn had managed to talk her way into the passenger seat. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t know if having her up at Hidden Rock was a good idea or a terrible one, but a small part of him was relieved he wouldn’t be in the old house alone with Grandma.

  He turned onto Main Street and fire trucks were lined up in front of Haute Coffee, lights flashing and hoses spread along the sidewalk. Sawyer’s sheriff’s SUV was there too. From the front it didn’t look like the damage was extensive, but time would tell. He hoped for Edie’s sake they’d gotten there in time.

  Quinn pressed a hand to her mouth. “That’s so sad. Edie has clearly thrown her heart and soul into that shop. The building is old though. Must have been some sort of faulty wiring problem.”

  Unease prickled along the base of his spine. He had a feeling, and even though he wasn’t a firefighter anymore, it was hard to ignore the instinct that something was wrong, especially when that instinct had saved his life not a few times.

  “You don’t think it was an accident, do you?” Quinn swiveled in her seat, turning to regard the scene with a furrowed brow.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “There’s an awful lot that you communicate with that face of yours.” She reached back and stroked his cheek. “And I can’t believe you were the boy from the fair. I’ve thought of you, you know. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense. It was right around when I turned ten. You were really going to run away from home?”

  He bit down on the inside of his lower lip, hard enough to taste a coppery tang. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He turned and their gazes locked. Time hadn’t dull
ed the memory of those soft, observant brown eyes. He was surprised he didn’t recognize her the moment they met.

  He’d done it this time.

  Blood bloomed down the front of his shirt and the thick, metallic taste in the back of his throat made him gag. He spat in the hay and knocked his head against the stall. Yeah. He’d really gone and fucking done it this time. Grandma had made it crystal clear that if he got into another fight he’d be packed off to military school. His cousin, Kit, never shut up about enlisting, but that wasn’t Wilder’s path.

  The problem was he didn’t know anything about his path.

  “Stupid.” He punched the stall. It hurt but not bad enough. He punched again and again until his knuckles split, bleeding just like his nose.

  “Stop that!”

  He froze at the high-­pitched voice. A kid stood watching him. A girl clutching a stick of cotton candy and wearing round glasses that magnified her eyes and made her look like a baby owl. Her hair was braided into two long pigtails.

  “Get out of here,” he snapped. Last thing he wanted was to have some kid playing twenty questions.

  “What happened?” Her nose crinkled as she took in all the blood. “You need a Band-­Aid or something?”

  Yeah, I need something all right. “Don’t think they make Band-­Aids big enough to suit me, kid.”

  “What hurts the most?” She sat on a hay bale and crossed her legs.

  “Everything is pretty damn equal.”

  “Were you kicked by one of the horses? Daddy always said that if I’m around horses to never stand behind their—­”

  “I wasn’t kicked by a horse. Got into a fight.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. ­“People beat you up?”

  He glared through a puffy eye. “Bet they look worse. I think I broke Garret King’s arm. Why are you bothering me anyway?”

  “Daddy is working.” She shrugged. “He’s an electrician and they needed his help over at the bandstand so he gave me five bucks and said not to get into trouble.”

  “Then best clear out of here because that’s all I am.”

  “Why were you fighting?”

  “Garret and his friends were picking on someone who couldn’t defend herself. Doris Higsby’s daughter.”

  “Lola? She’s my cousin, has Down syndrome.”

  “Yeah. Well. She can’t help it and those guys were being assholes.”

  “So you punched them.” She crammed a big bite of cotton candy into her mouth.

  “I might look shitty but I promise they look worse. But now I’m fucked. Sorry, kid.”

  “You can say fuck, I don’t mind.”

  “Your daddy lets you swear.”

  “No way. But I’m not the one saying bad words. You are.”

  “Look, I’m not in the mood to play Mary Poppins. Take what’s left of that cotton candy and run along. Go barf on the Tilt-­a-­Whirl or something.”

  She giggled. “You’re gross.”

  “I’m a lot of things.”

  “And you’ve been crying.”

  “Have not.”

  She glanced at the ceiling. “Doesn’t look like it’s been raining in here.”

  He gouged at his eyes with two fists. “Jesus. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t. You might knock my teeth out.”

  “I’d never hit a girl.”

  “Why not tell your grandma what happened? She’ll understand. ­People can’t be mean to Lola. It’s against the rules.”

  “You are acting like my grandma is a reasonable person. And hell, maybe she is, but not where I’m concerned. Fuck it, I’m not going to sit around and wait for her to ship me off. I’ve got fifty bucks in my wallet. I’ll get out of here tonight. Hitchhike.”

  “And go where?”

  “Who cares? Any place is better than here. I could wash dishes under the table in San Francisco. Or pick fruit at a farm near the coast. Or maybe go to the Rockies. Idaho. Montana. Be a lumberjack.”

  “Or say sorry.”

  “It ain’t that simple.”

  “Ain’t isn’t a word, and yeah it is.”

  “I mess up. It’s what I do.” He clenched his jaw. “What I’ve always done.”

  She swallowed her next bite of cotton candy. “My dad says it’s no use crying over baked beans.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Does too. Why cry over baked beans? It’s silly. There’s no point. And there’s no point sitting in here talking about running away. You did nothing wrong.”

  “That’s not how my grandma will see it. She hates me.”

  “Here.” She stuck out the cotton candy cone. “Take some.”

  “I don’t want your candy. Don’t even know where your grubby fingers have been.”

  She thrust her shoulders back. “I wash my hands and they haven’t been anywhere bad. Go on. You’ll feel better.”

  He didn’t feel like arguing with the little brat so he grabbed some fluffy spun sugar. “Happy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a bossy little thing.”

  “I’m the tallest girl in my class. And the number one reader,” she said proudly.

  Wilder stuffed the candy into his mouth. The sweetness masked the bitter copper flavor of blood.

  “See. Look. You feel better already.”

  “Bizzy? Bizzy Bee, you in here?” a man called out.

  The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s my daddy. I have to go.”

  She jumped up and turned to go. Before she left the stall, she paused. “Whatever your grandma says, I’m glad you hit those bad boys.”

  Then she was gone.

  CREAK. CREAK. CREAK. Grandma Kane rocked next to the fire. Quinn turned the page of the Ranching Life magazine she was skimming. “Hey, listen to this,” she said to the quiet room. “Did you know cows produce more milk if they listen to soothing music? Scientists did a study and apparently R.E.M.’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ caused the most lactation.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of cockamamie, if you ask me,” Grandma muttered.

  Wilder didn’t say a word.

  Tough crowd.

  Time for plan B.

  “Who’d like a cup of tea?” Quinn asked, rising to her feet. “Mrs. Kane?” Calling her Grandma felt way too familiar. “Want some Egyptian licorice?”

  The older woman peered over the top of her turquoise bifocals. “Egyptian licor-­what?”

  “Or plain black? Simple? Classic?”

  That received a brief, pursed-­mouth nod. Quinn gave Wilder the “help me out a little” eye. He knew she was doing it, so he looked everywhere but in her direction. Darn him.

  “Boy,” Grandma snapped. “Will you kindly acknowledge your girlfriend before she gives me a turn with all that nervous twitching?”

  Her throwaway use of the word girlfriend did a better job of snagging Wilder’s attention. He jerked out of whatever gloomy stupor he’d been trapped in.

  “We’re just friends,” Quinn said quickly. Yeah, he was a real good friend to her girl parts.

  “Just friends?” Grandma snorted, catching her blush. “Hah. I might be over eighty with a busted hip and be able to remember when Roosevelt was president, but that doesn’t mean I lost my marbles. I have friends, missy, but none that know what I look like out of my drawers.”

  Quinn had a sudden terrible image of Grandma Kane in a pair of drawers, white ones with pink flouncy ruffles on the butt. The idea made a titter well up in her throat, no, worse, a giggle, wait, crap, a guffaw. Yeah, a full-­scale guffaw was imminent and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  She tried to turn it into a sneeze and that just made everything ten times worse. The escaping noise was a mash-­up between a wheeze, snort, hiccup, and chortle. The entire thesaurus could have a field
day trying to describe the sound that stress, uncertainty, sex, and the glare of a dowager rancher could pull from her body.

  “Is this one all right in the head?” Grandma Kane asked Wilder, speaking out of the side of her mouth.

  “The same as anyone,” Wilder responded, adding, “And for the record, when you talk like that, everyone can still hear you.”

  Grandma’s gaze was frostier than the White Witch of Narnia’s.

  “Wasn’t sure if you were aware.” Wilder shrugged. “When I was a kid you used to do it to cashiers in the checkout aisle, talk about their moles or the fact that you were going to be covered in moss if they moved any slower.”

  That sent Quinn off on a fresh round. She grabbed her water glass off the coffee table and took a swig. Maybe that would help.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, bending over and bracing her knees.

  “Here I thought Annie Carson was the kooky one but you might take the cake,” Grandma said, shaking her head.

  “Guess we all have our moments.” Quinn wiped her eyes.

  “I’ll make the tea.” Wilder rose and went straight to the kitchen without waiting for anyone to tell him no. He was using his cane less and less.

  The fire crackled in the hearth, otherwise silence reigned supreme. Strange, seeing as this was an old house. No creaks.

  “You have a lovely home,” Quinn said at last.

  “Don’t get any big ideas,” Grandma barked. “It’s going to Archer and Edie.”

  “Excuse me?” Quinn bristled.

  “You’re a Higsby, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—­”

  “Everyone knows a Higsby is the worst kind of fool. You’re the one who works in the bookstore, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You come in every Wednesday with the other Chicklits, but I don’t see what that has to do with—­”

  “Go to the mantel.” Grandma pointed to a thick leather-­bound book on the end.

  Quinn rose and trudged over. What a shrew. No wonder Wilder didn’t like spending time with his family. She glanced at the title. “Brightwater: Small Town, Big Dreams?”