Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  We crash. We lurch. We stop. Branchy fingers reach through the broken window and I glance over to see Papa. He’s bleeding.

  Distant, incessant honking wakes me, and I jolt upright. My heart’s sprinting, my mind spinning, and as I bring my palm to my forehead, I peer around, anchoring myself to here, to now. To the lake and the oak tree. To daylight.

  More honking startles me, and I climb to my feet. “Jesus, Nick,” I grumble. The day is no longer bright and comforting, and the dream leaves a heaviness hovering over my heart. I let out a slow, even breath, trying to dispel the unwanted memories creeping in.

  “Alright,” I say, squinting at Shasta. Her ears angle toward me as I stand and brush the debris off my backside, but she continues tearing what little nutrients she can from the ground like she’s even the slightest bit starved. “Time to get back to work, oinky.” I stretch, readjust my hat, and reach for her reins draped around the saddle horn.

  Shasta’s white- and gray-speckled head pops up at my sudden movement. She cranes her neck in my direction, grass hanging from the corners of her mouth.

  “Nice.” I smile and pull the errant weeds from the creases of her mouth and let them float down to the dirt. “Let’s go get you some supper. I wouldn’t want you to starve or anything.”

  Giving Shasta a quick pat on the neck, I step up into the stirrup and climb into the saddle. The leather creaks and groans under my weight, and it’s warm from baking in the sunshine. Then, nudging her forward, we leave our shady oasis and head down the hillside, to the ranch.

  A mixture of pride and sadness sprouts in my heart as the newly remodeled farmhouse comes into view. It’s freshly painted white with a wraparound porch and navy shutters, facing a piecemeal settlement that feels completely different than it had during my childhood.

  The rickety 1900s barn I used to play hide-and-seek in is now only storage for hay and grain and Papa’s old John Deere tractor that’s still parked inside. The weathered toolshed beside it no longer spurs the trepidation I’d once felt staring in at the sharp objects adorning its walls and hanging in its dark, rotted corners. And the stable, a place where Papa taught me to saddle my own horse and where I often snuck off to when the house was too silent, stands two-tiered and looming beside it all. The paddocks facing me are an active arrangement of chestnut, bay, and sorrel tails whipping casually in the heat, a melody of soft snorting and the clomp of hooves coming out to greet Shasta and I as she hurries her pace down the hill toward her stall.

  “Sup, girl!”

  Nick’s voice echoes through the ranch, and I look toward my gray F-250, parked in front of the barn. Nick, my cousin, best friend, ranch hand, and overall godsend, steps out of the truck, causing it to shift beneath his six-foot-three build as he steps out. The truck bed is weighed down with bags of feed and supplies from town.

  I nudge Shasta to move a little faster, and then, like clockwork, barking ensues. The black and white terrier-bulldog mutt from hell springs into view from the other side of the house, loping toward Nick as he lets the tailgate down. Petey’s no doubt coming from a now-empty food bowl Alison put out for him. I know she feeds him to spite me.

  “Great,” I mutter. Though I consider myself a genuine animal lover, Petey has terrorized the horses one too many times to be considered anything other than a nuisance.

  “Hey, Sam,” Jessica, one of our boarders, says.

  I trot past her grooming her chestnut stallion at the hitching post outside the stable. “Hey, Jessica. Sorry about the dog.”

  Although Jessica smiles and waves the annoyance away, her horse doesn’t seems so indifferent.

  I’m about to tell Nick to shut Petey up when his palm flies up. “I got it,” Nick says, and he crouches down to the dog.

  “Let me unsaddle her, then I’ll help you unload,” I say, and nod toward the truck. Nick’s already heaving a sack of feed from the truck bed over his shoulder. I flash him a pointed look that warns, “I’m helping you, like it or not.”

  I tie Shasta up to the hitching post and rush to unsaddle her. No matter how many times I ask Nick to wait for me, to let me help him with his chores, he often ignores me. I don’t think he believes me when I tell him that without his help, we’d have nothing left. This place would be gone. I would have no connection to Papa, nothing left at all.

  This is the second summer he’s dedicated to helping us, and even during the school year, he spends most of his weekends helping me with the things I can’t do on my own. Sure he’s Alison’s nephew and has been my best friend since I was five—that’s how Papa and Alison met to begin with—so Nick’s somewhat obligated to lend a helping hand, but he’s done so much more than that. I ignore the way my chest tightens with yet another reminder of Papa and all my wrongdoings and hurriedly hose Shasta down, helping her shed the layer of sweat that cakes her body from our midday ride.

  After brushing off the excess water, I untie and guide her to her stall, not even needing her lead rope as she practically trots inside without any direction from me whatsoever. Though she’s an average size for a horse, she’s still much taller than me at my five-six, and I rush to keep in stride with her as she heads toward her supper. With a final pat on the rump, I nudge her deeper inside and heave the stall door shut behind her.

  I’m jogging toward the barn when Nick’s broad-shouldered frame disappears through the door with a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed tossed over each shoulder.

  “You couldn’t wait fifteen minutes?” I chide and heave a bag of oats over my own shoulder before heading into the barn behind him. “You’re not stubborn at all or anything . . .”

  “Shasta moves as slow as molasses, I didn’t have time to keep waiting,” he teases. Nick beams, then grunts and flops the remaining feed bag onto the small stack he’s already started next to the old grain. He gives me a sidelong glance.

  “I know,” I say, beating him to it, “I still need to distribute those into the bins. It’s on my list.”

  Nick grins at me, and I know he’s thinking that he would’ve done it already if I would’ve let him.

  I hold my index finger up. “No. It’s my chore. Don’t even say it.” Less gracefully than his display, I drop my bag of oats down beside his.

  “What can I say, I’m an overachiever.” Nick readjusts his cowboy hat and strides back toward the truck, me following behind.

  “That and you’re stubborn and impatient, and you like to irritate me beyond measure.”

  “Or we can just say that I’m a hard worker and always want to help a pretty lady out, since that’s what the women like to hear about us strapping young men.” Nick’s smile is all warmth and kindness, and his air is playful and endearing like always, something I rely on each and every day to keep myself chugging along.

  “I can get the rest of these,” he offers. “I know you’ve got to take Target out at some point today, too.” He peers up at the sun, already making its slow descent to setting.

  I tug a burlap bag of grain out of the truck bed, cradling it in my arms. “I’m helping you,” I say and retrace my steps back inside the barn. Nick’s footsteps are heavy behind mine, and I know his silence means he’s thinking of a smart-ass reply, so I wait for it.

  “I’d rather you exerted your energy making me some of that mouthwatering comida you promised me.” We toss our bags onto the appropriate piles, and Nick analyzes what looks like a tear in one of the sacks. “That son of a . . .” He shakes his head and follows me back out the door.

  “You’re hungry again?” I smirk at him. “Two helpings of leftover chili and cornbread wasn’t enough for your noon lunch, huh?”

  Nick grins. “I’m a growing boy, Sam. I need sustenance.” He flexes his bicep, large enough to make all the girls swoon. “I’m already starving again. Plus, there’s a baseball game on tonight I wanna watch down at Lick’s, so I’m a little pressed for time.” He taps his wrist when I turn around to glare at him. “Time’s a-tickin’.”

  I snort at his audacity
, but love him all the more for it. “You and your damn baseball.”

  “Hey, what can I say? The high school jock in me lives on. I like sports, and therefore I like baseball. And I’m hungry. It’s actually very simple.”

  “Okay, okay, I got it. You are man. You want food.” I grab another bag of feed and flop it over my shoulder.

  Nick beats on his chest and makes a few throaty gorilla sounds before I can no longer contain my amusement. “Fine. You win. I’ll make an early dinner, but only because you’re so deprived of good food you’re practically willing to beg for it.”

  I hand him a sack of grain and then stack another one on top of it, feeling the strain in my arms as I lift it up into his. Grabbing a sack of my own, I walk with him into the barn. “So that means you’re just drinking at the bar tonight, not working?”

  Nick shakes his head and drops the feed bags onto the pile. “It’s my night off. So there’ll most likely be too much beer, copious amounts of peanuts, and a lot of cursing.”

  “Wow, that sounds like a good time—”

  “Samantha . . .” My smile falters at the sound of Alison’s voice.

  I discard the feed bag in my hand and step out of the barn. Alison’s standing on the farmhouse porch, using her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun. Her golden hair is glowing in the sunlight, and I can see why Papa was so drawn to her the day they first met.

  I take a couple steps toward the house.

  “Miss Naser just called. She said she can’t come out at all this week. She has finals.”

  “Still?” I ask, my mind ticking through the list of things I’ve been putting off and the added workload that results from her “studying” spurts.

  “She asked that you continue to ride Target for her while she’s out.”

  Knowing summer session finals hadn’t even started yet, that Tara Naser was just flaking again, I try to keep the irritation from my voice. “Did she say when she’d be able to make it out here again? I’ve been riding him the last couple weeks as it is.”

  Alison shakes her head, and as I expect, she doesn’t bother offering to help.

  I shove my hands in the back pockets of my cutoffs. “Okay,” I say, unsure how I’m going to keep this up. “Jewels and Short Stuff need special care this week too, since Penny and Sarah are out of town. And Nick and I have to cut down the dead trees over the hill tomorrow.” I pause for a moment, consider my words, then go for it. “You wouldn’t be interested in riding at all this week, would you?”

  Alison’s eyebrows rise, and I know that look, even if she would never say it. The answer is no. She’s punishing me. For killing Papa, for ruining her life, for breathing. I’m not sure the exact reason matters much anymore.

  “I’m meeting with a rep for the new accounting software tomorrow, and we have another potential boarder stopping by,” she says and glances between Nick and me. “The trees can wait.” She turns and heads back inside the house.

  “Of course they can,” I breathe and rub my forehead. I clap my hands together and squeeze my eyes shut, pushing her antagonism away. Even if Alison hadn’t walked away, it would’ve been pointless to remind her that Nick and I have already postponed cutting firewood four times this year at her request. Before we know it, fall will be here, Alison will be cold and complaining the wood is getting low, and Nick and I will be scrambling to appease her. We are suckers like that.

  I sense Nick standing behind me, but I don’t turn around.

  “Don’t say it,” I bite out. He wants me to hire some help, but he knows we can’t afford it without Papa’s breeding and training income. He wants me to talk to Alison, to fix things. But talking to Alison about anything is pointless, something I’ve told Nick over and over. She shuts down. She doesn’t want to deal with me, not unless she has to. Nick wants me to “move on” and “do what’s right for me, screw the ranch,” but all of these things aren’t as simple as he thinks they are.

  I nod to the half-empty truck bed. “Are you sure you don’t need help unloading the rest of that? I’m stronger than I look, you know.” I flex my biceps, hoping the lack of them will induce a smile. I don’t want to argue with him again about my flailing relationship with his aunt.

  With a pitiful smile, Nick squeezes my arm. “Those guns are nearly bigger than mine,” he lies. “But don’t worry, I got it.” He winks at me and begins whistling as he heads back toward the truck.

  “I’ll let you know when supper’s ready,” I call, and with a resigned sigh, I head up the porch steps.

  “Don’t you still need to ride Target?” he calls back.

  I shrug. “You have a baseball game to watch, remember?” I wave his concern away. “I’ll do it after dinner.” Besides, controlling the rowdy bay gelding will be a much-needed escape later, when everything else is quiet and Alison and I are alone.

  Two

  Sam

  Nick, Alison, and I sit at the breakfast bar, half a dozen balled-up napkins littering the green-flecked countertop between us.

  “I’m not sure what it is about tacos,” Nick says through a mouthful of food. He swallows his last bite and licks the hot sauce dripping down his fingers. “But having them on a warm summer’s night with a cold beer . . .” He groans. “That always hits the spot.” With a fresh napkin, he wipes around his mouth one final time, tosses his napkin on his plate, and pushes it away with a contented sigh. He pats his belly. “Perfection,” he says and lets out a long, deep breath. “Freaking delicious.”

  All manners and primness, Alison takes a sip from the chardonnay that fills her glass. Her second refill of many to come. “You should eat with us more often, Nicholas,” she says, and I can almost detect a slur at the end. Though she’s fierce and a seasoned drinker, she’s on the smaller side, like me. “Sam and I love tacos. We have them all the time.”

  I smirk and stack my empty plate on top of his, then Alison’s when she scoots it toward me. “Be careful, Alison,” I joke with a quick glance at Nick. I head over to the sink to wash. “It starts with dinner every night. Then, before you know it, he’ll take over the TV, watching his baseball and UFC, all sprawled out on your favorite part of the couch. You won’t even recognize the living room once he’s settled in. You should see his apartment.” I collect the dirty napkins and toss them in the trash beneath the sink.

  Nick’s lips curve into a quirky smile, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

  Like she hadn’t even heard us, Alison’s expression lights with obvious joy at the thought of her nephew being an even more permanent fixture in our home. “That would be wonderful! You can watch my FBI shows with me and—”

  Instantly waving the possibility away, Nick glances at me and says, “That’s okay, Aunt Alison. I’ll leave the depressing reality TV for you to watch. Besides, Marilyn and Monroe would miss me too much if I were gone any more than I already am.”

  “Oh?” Alison’s eyebrows lift, and she turns her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. “And who, may I ask, are Marilyn and Monroe?”

  Nick flashes her a shit-eating grin. “My guppies.”

  In spite of Alison’s laugh and light smack on Nick’s arm, I know she’s disappointed. She likes having him around, having someone else in the house as a buffer between her and me. I appreciate his presence, too.

  Nick yawns, a reminder that he’s been here since six this morning and it’s time for him to leave. He runs both hands through his brown, longish hair, clearly exhausted.

  I study him for a second and smile. His hair curls slightly around his ears, like it used to in the seventh grade. “You need a haircut,” I say. “Mac would love to get her fingers in that.”

  Mac, the third of our trio, is known not only for her glamour and “smokin’ body,” so say all the guys in Saratoga Falls, but also for her hair-cutting skills. It’s one of the many random skills she’s acquired, coming from a family of all boys: her two brothers and her single father.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she
would. I also need to shave,” he adds, making a funny face as he scratches the side of his jaw. He stands up and pushes his stool back under the counter.

  My smile widens as I picture his seventh-grade self with facial hair, and it hits me how much he’s grown up. The fact that we’re both adults now seems strange. I shrug. “I kinda like the scruffy look.”

  Alison steps in front of him, wanting to be the center of his attention. “I like you clean-shaven,” she says. “And since you’ve been such a good boy,” she teases, “you can have this back.” She passes Nick his cowboy hat that she’d confiscated before we sat down to dinner.

  With one of those crooked, cowboy grins, Nick accepts it, settling it back on his head. He tucks his thumbs in his pockets as he winks at her. “Now that feels better.”

  “Says the cowboy who doesn’t even ride horses,” I grumble, causing Nick to laugh.

  “You try getting thrown off a horse when you’re seven. I had two broken bones and lost half my teeth.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing where this played-out story is going. “I’ve been thrown off a horse too, Nick. You’re not that special, and you were going to lose those teeth anyway. You’re such a baby sometimes.”

  Nick chuckles, and Alison actually smiles at me. I allow myself to smile back before she glances away.

  Reaching for his beer, Nick gulps down what’s left and hands me his bottle.

  “Well,” Alison breathes, “it’s time for my show.” Her voice is detached, which means she’s accepted that Nick is leaving and she’ll drink herself to sleep in the living room now.

  With a smile, she tugs Nick’s arm, making him lean down a bit so she can kiss his cheek. I’ve gotten used to the fact that she’s only fourteen years older than us by now, but when she’s interacting with Nick, it reminds me of how strange and skewed my relationship with her is. “Love you, Nicholas,” she says.