Perfecting For Love - A Standalone Novel (A Doctors Romance Love Story) (Burbank Brothers, Book #3)

by Naomi Niles

  "Not like these," she marveled as I pulled my hand back away with chagrin. "Nothing in the city is like this. The sky out here is somehow bigger, the grass is literally greener, and the food is tastier. I guess life really is sweeter out in the country."

  She sat down in the tall grass beneath the tree, smiling wistfully, her apple almost entirely gone.

  "So why live in the city? Why not move out here to the country?" I asked, sitting down beside her in the cool shade.

  "Why? I guess because of my family.”

  "You have a big family?" I could certainly understand that and the obligations that came with it, but her response surprised me.

  "No, not at all. It's just my mother and me, and I'm not sure she even likes me."

  "How could your own mother not love you? And, what about your father?"

  "Oh, she loves me. She just doesn't like me, and my father is the reason why. He never wanted a kid, apparently, so when she told him she was pregnant with me, he wanted to leave. She talked him into staying a few years, but by my second birthday, he just couldn't take it anymore and split."

  "That's terrible."

  "Yeah. He went out for ice cream for my birthday party and never came back. When Mom got back home from the pizza parlor where all her friends had been waiting for him to return, she found he had packed up all his belongings and left a goodbye note on the table. That was the last we ever saw or heard from him, and she blames me for it."

  "You have to know that's not true. It's never the child's fault when a jerk isn't man enough to be a father. What he did was his fault, not yours."

  "I know that in my mind, but sometimes it's hard to convince my heart." Her eyes were full of emotion, and all I wanted to do was kiss her to make her feel better. Our lips drew close, but then I chickened out at the last moment and pulled back.

  Struggling to cover the awkwardness, I asked her, "Did your mother ever remarry?"

  "No. And I never had any siblings. It was always just her and me."

  "Well, siblings can be overrated. Believe me," I joked, and she laughed sweetly.

  "You say that, but I always wished I had a family. My childhood was very lonely. There were times I would have given anything to have four noisy brothers bickering all around the dinner table."

  "Well, family isn't all it's cracked up to be. They sound like a blessing, but they can also be a burden." I had been trying to comfort her, but the words came out a lot heavier than I meant them to.

  Bethany took my hand in her two small ones and stroked it softly. Looking me in the eyes, she asked, "I know you love your family, but I can see they put a lot of pressure on you. Your mother told me that you never had any choice but to do what you do. Do you resent working on the ranch?"

  It was a question no one had ever asked me before, and I thought about the answer long and hard. Finally, I said, "No, I don't resent working on the ranch. It's my home and I love it.

  “I resent being helpless to save it. I could be responsible for my entire family being homeless. It's a miserable position to be in and the guilt keeps me up at night."

  It was the first time I had expressed my feelings like that, and the relief I felt was amazing. Suddenly, I could breathe again.

  Bethany looked at me and said, "I understand. It's the same way I feel about my family. I feel guilty for my mother being left alone, even though I was helpless to stop my father from leaving."

  We spent the whole rest of the afternoon talking, walking along the riverbank, and sharing our feelings. Bethany told me all about her childhood, growing up alone in the city, and I told her what it was like to live on the ranch surrounded by four younger brothers.

  We were completely different, and yet very much the same. We both felt a responsibility to the ones we loved, even though we had no control over the things that happened around us.

  Bethany lit up whenever she talked about her art, and I admired how much courage it must have taken for her to go to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She'd worked her ass off to get there and had just graduated with a degree and applied for a prestigious internship at the Chicago Museum of Modern Art.

  "So, only a few students are granted the internship each year, and I found out that one of them is me."

  "Congratulations! That's fantastic." I was truly proud of her, and as I looked at her beaming up at me, I was moved to kiss her.

  This time, I didn't chicken out, and at the moment when our lips touched, my whole world changed. Her lips were soft and tender, and I circled my hands around her, drawing her closer to me as our kiss deepened. She opened her mouth to me and as our tongues caressed, a gentle moan escaped her throat.

  Finally, we broke apart and stood staring at each other breathlessly.

  "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling like a schoolboy after his first kiss. I'd been with plenty of women, but none of them had ever made me feel like this.

  "I'm not." Bethany smiled reassuringly. "I liked it."

  "Good. Because I've been wanting to do that since I first saw you, and there's a good chance I'll do it again."

  "I think I'd like that, too," she confessed. I took her tiny hand in mine, and we strolled back along the riverbank, hand-in-hand like a young couple in love, back to the apple tree where I'd tied Whiskey to the trunk. The sun was getting very low, and I felt a pain of reluctance as I said, "It'll be dark soon. We'd better get back."

  I boosted her up onto the saddle, and we rode home at a casual trot, in no particular hurry like we'd been when we first left.

  When we came up on the pasture, I slowed Whiskey to a walk so I could check on the workers just getting ready to end their shifts for the day. Brett was supposed to keep an eye on the new hires, but he wasn't always the most reliable supervisor.

  I saw one of them working on a hole in the fence line, and I felt Bethany's arms tighten around my waist with sudden force. I could hear her breathing draw in with a sharp gasp, and I pulled Whiskey up to halt.

  Looking back over my shoulder I saw that her face had gone white as snow.

  "Are you all right?" I asked, feeling worried that she might faint.

  "It's him," she whispered, pointing out at the worker in the field.

  "Who?" I asked, ready to protect her.

  She swallowed hard, and then said softly, "My father."

  Chapter Five: Bethany

  "Are you sure?" Colton asked from over his shoulder.

  The sun was very low on the horizon, and the dusky light made it hard to see. I squinted my eyes to sharpen my vision as I stared at the man. He was older than the man in the photographs I had kept in the bottom of my dresser drawer, hidden beneath a pile of socks, but I was sure.

  Swallowing hard against the lump that risen in my throat, I nodded my head and said firmly, "Yes, that's him. That's Frank Hill, my father."

  Colton nodded his head. "Yep, Frank Hill is the name of the laborer we hired last fall. He's been working on the ranch for the past ten months."

  "That's my father. I haven't seen him since I was two years old, but my mother had several photographs of him that I used to stare at all the time. I'd know that face anywhere – even if it is nearly twenty years older."

  "What are the odds of you finding him here?" Colton was amazed, and I had to confess truth.

  "It's not as big a coincidence as you might think. When I turned twenty-one, I hired a private investigator to help me find him. I figured I was old enough to learn the truth about what had happened. The investigator tracked him down to a P.O. box in Riverbend, so I started posting jobs looking for work in the area."

  "That's how Mama found the ad for you in the Penny Saver," Colton said as if he had finally solved a deep mystery.

  I nodded in affirmation. "When she called me up and asked me to come out to the ranch, it was the perfect excuse to come out and look for my dad. I looked all over town that first week I was here, but there was no sign of him. I finally gave up, and now it turns out he'd been working on the very ranch wher
e'd I'd been staying for over a week."

  "Do you want to talk to him alone or do you want me to stay here with you, right by your side?" Colton's concern was evident in his eyes, and my heart fluttered.

  "Neither," I stated firmly. "Take me back to the ranch. I don't want to talk to him, at all. He abandoned me twenty years ago. It's enough for me now just to know where he is."

  Colton didn't question me on my decision. He didn't try to pressure me into meeting my father. He just silently took me to the ranch house and helped me off his horse.

  "Aren't you coming in for dinner?" I asked him as he took Whiskey by the reigns and started to walk away.

  "I'll be in soon. I have to get Whiskey out of this saddle and put her to bed for the night."

  "Just so long as you're not going back out to talk to Frank."

  "I might stop by his place when I'm done just to have a little chat with the guy."

  "Don't. Frank is my father, and when I'm ready to talk to him, I will. Until then, I don't want him knowing I'm here and I don't want anyone to know he's my father. It's nobody else's business. Got that?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Colton said, and I realized just how bossy I was being and blushed.

  "I'm sorry. I don't mean to act that way. It's just this is a lot to process. Even though I came to Riverbend hoping to find him, I never really thought I would. I just need some time before I confront him, if I even decide to. If everybody else knows, he's sure to find out, and then I'll have to meet him whether I want to or not."

  "You mean you might not even talk to him?" Colton sounded incredulous.

  "Maybe. I don't know. What if he tells me he did leave because of me? What if he hates me or says he doesn't want to know me? I don't think I could handle that right now."

  "You could handle anything." Colton winked at me, and I felt myself grow a little taller. "But whatever you decide to do is entirely up to you. I support your choice no matter what."

  "Thanks." I beamed at him, and then watched him lead the quarter horse back to the stable.

  That night at dinner, I could hardly eat.

  "Are you okay, honey?" Margie asked me while her busy boys wolfed down their food all around me.

  "Yes. I'm just tired. I think I'll go to bed early," I lied and excused myself up to the guest room. Once inside, I got out my cell phone and called the one person who could truly understand what it meant to have found my father.

  "What is it?" My mother's voice answered her phone with her usual charm, instead of the more traditional greeting of hello. Jillian Foster was not known for her warmth.

  "He's here. I found him," I said, with my heart in my throat.

  "Who? Did you hook up with some guy?"

  "No, Mom. Frank Hill. He's working here at the Hutchinson Ranch where I went to work for the summer."

  "I told you never to mention that son-of-a-bitch by name." Mom was livid, and I had to pull the phone back from my ear.

  "I know. I tried not to," I said, squirming where I was sitting on the bed. It didn't matter how grown up I was. I still hated being in trouble with my mother.

  "Don't give me your lip. Did you go there looking for him? How did you know he was there? I told you not to try to find him," she shouted questions at me faster than I could answer. I just sat there silently, letting her rant until she ran out of steam. "He's no good, Bethany. Nothing that man has ever said or done was any good. Stay the hell away from him."

  "He was good enough for you to fall in love with him once and decide to have a baby," I pointed out. It was the wrong thing to say. Mom went on for twenty minutes, telling me for the thousandth time what a miserable jerk my father was and how he had ruined her life and stranded her with a baby she didn't want.

  "Stay away from him, Bethany. Don't talk to him. Don't tell him you're his daughter. Don't even let him learn your name. Get the hell off that ranch and come back home before he discovers you’re there, or he'll ruin your life, too, just like he ruined mine."

  "I doubt he's going to strand me with a baby." I tried to lighten the mood with a little humor, but Mom wasn't laughing.

  "I mean it. Come home – now."

  "Well, I can't do that. I'm contractually obligated to complete the five paintings I promised to create. Margie Hutchinson already paid me half the money and will give the rest upon completion. If I left now, I'd have to pay her back the money, and I already spent most of it just getting out here."

  "Leave it to you to be stupid enough to take a job that costs your entire paycheck just to travel to and from work. Idiot," Mom said bitterly.

  I wanted to defend myself by telling her the reason I took the job was to find Frank Hill, so in that respect it was a success, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. She wouldn't understand.

  I had thought that just maybe she would have been happy to hear that I had found him. Obviously, the reason she hated him so much was because she had loved him. The opposite of love isn't hate; it's apathy. Hate and love are both emotions based in passion, just like she felt for my father. It was part of the reason I wanted to meet him so badly, to see what had caused that passion and to learn if he was the reason I had a passion for art.

  Now, I saw just how foolish it had been for me to think that she would be excited to learn I had found him. Her pain ran too deep, and now she was trying to mask that pain by lashing out at me with insults, just like she had done for my entire life.

  "Goodbye, Mom." I decided it was time to end the conversation.

  "I mean it, Bethany. Stay the hell away from that monster," she was still yelling into the phone.

  "Don't worry, Mom. I will," I promised.

  "When are you coming home?"

  "My internship doesn't start until the fall." I said.

  "I want you home sooner than that. When will you be done with this painting job?" Mama demanded and it wasn't worth fighting her on it.

  "In about a month," I said, calculating that it took me about a week to complete a painting, allowing time for layers to dry between adding gradations of shadow of light. It was how I made the reflective surfaces of the window panes on the house look so clear, the water in the puddles appear to ripple, and the individual blades of grass appear to flow in the breeze. It took time to create such realism – but there was another reality I was about to learn about.

  "That long?" Mom sounded disappointed, which surprised me and warmed my heart. But then she said, "There may not be a home to come to in a month."

  "Why not?"

  "The damn landlord says I'm a month behind on my rent. The bastard is threatening to evict me if I let it lapse into sixty days."

  "Well, I won't get paid for the rest of the job until I'm finished. I'm sorry, Mom." It was just like her to blow her paycheck on alcohol and then blame the landlord.

  "How about if I sell a few of your paintings?"

  "I guess that would be okay," I said hesitantly. She wouldn't sell them to an art collector or dealer. She'd stand on the street corner and take bottom dollar for them. I had put my heart and soul into my paintings, but she was my mother and I couldn't let her wind up on the streets.

  She cackled with glee and said, "Good because I already sold a few you left in your room. I was going through the storage shed yesterday and I found a bunch more. If I sell them, that will cover the rent. It's the least you can do after ruining my life. I could have had a career and been rich if I hadn't been stuck at home changing your diapers."

  "Fine, Mom. Sell them all," I sighed. It was an old story, and I was sick of hearing it.

  I felt utterly deflated. I'd come to Hutchinson Ranch with such hope. I was going to find Frank Hill living in Riverbend, tell my mother, she would praise me for a job well done, and we would all reunite.

  I realized now what a ridiculous and childish fantasy that had been. My mother was right. I should stay far away from him, finish this job as fast as I could, and return home where I belonged.

  The next day, I threw myself into my work, determined to for
get all about Frank Hill and finish my work with record speed. I set up my easel and canvas outside the ranch house, facing the garden to the east of the stables, where Margie grew fresh vegetables.

  She could often be found working out there, pulling weeds, watering the plants, and guarding against insects and rabbits. Thomas went out there early mornings before driving to the middle school, and again in the evenings, as the sun was setting. Apparently, he hadn't just inherited his mother's looks, but her green thumb, as well. I decided that would be the perfect painting to make for Margie's second-youngest son.

  I tried to concentrate of the color of the soil, mixing browns with highlights and lowlights for that perfect illusion of earthiness. It was hard, though. My mind kept drifting to thoughts of my father.

  What made him come to the ranch, and what had made him decide to stay? Did he ever think about me? Did he feel guilty for having left? What had made him do it, and did he have regrets? Did he ever remarry? Did I have half-siblings I knew nothing about?

  "Penny for your thoughts," a familiar voice said, startling me from my thoughts. I snapped out of my daydream to look at Mack, one of the oldest employees of the ranch.

  "I guess my mind just drifted there for a moment," I laughed awkwardly.

  "What are making now?" he asked curiously.

  Oliver Mackenzie had been working on the ranch since the Hutchinson boys were just kids. Everyone called him Mack, and I'd caught him watching me paint more than once. We got to talking one afternoon and became instant friends. He said I reminded him of his daughter Becky. With his crazy tales and weathered hands, he was just like the father I'd wished I had; although something told me Frank Hill was nothing like Mack.

  Smiling at my friend, I said, "Oh, it's going to be Margie's garden, but right now I'm just forming the backgrounds. Brown and black for the earth, various shades of green for the pastures, and blue and white for the sky."

  A row of tiny houses lined the edge of the property, and as I was painting a swath of dark-brown lowlights where they would eventually be, I asked Mack about them. "What are those tiny buildings? They look like houses, but they're too small. Are they used for storage?"