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

by Lindsey Pogue

  “Thank you for saving me,” I call out, and I hope the amusement in my tone puts her a little more at ease.

  Sam barely looks over her shoulder as she gives me a quick wave. “Take care of that hand,” she calls back. Then Sam’s mounting Shasta and riding away from me, again.

  But this time something feels different—Sam’s changed, but she’s still in there—and I can’t help but smile.

  Four years ago...

  I turn on my heel and pace down the length of the dock. Each step is a frenzied thought, a decision I know I have to make before I do something stupid I’d most likely regret. I can’t live like this anymore.

  The dock creaks beneath my steps. I should quit baseball now, before the end of the season, get a part-time job and start saving money so I can move out the instant I turn eighteen. As soon as I graduate I can work full time—I can figure out what I want to do with my life later. Just getting away from here is enough for now.

  Turning, I pace the other direction. I shake my head. I won’t have enough money, not by graduation or my eighteenth birthday and definitely not before then.

  There’s the Army option. I could enlist, learn a trade, travel the world, give myself time to think more about my life away from this place and what I want to do . . .

  A horse snorts from up on the hill, followed by the clanking of metal. I glance up to find Sam sitting atop a gray horse, which shakes its head as it leans down to nibble the green grass at its feet. I pause.

  Sam’s eyes are wide when our gazes meet, and her cheeks are flushed.

  I can’t help the small, relieved smile I feel tugging at my lips. Seeing her reminds me why she fills my thoughts so often, why everything seems to circle back to her—something to tell her, to show her, to share with her.

  Slowly, her eyes still fixed on me, she dismounts. Her gaze is unwavering as she tries to read me, to figure out what’s wrong and why I’m here this time.

  “Hey,” she says quietly. She’s shoving her hands in her back pockets as she steps onto the dock, but she freezes the moment she registers the welt above my eye. Her brow furrows as she takes the sight of me in, assessing me so closely it would’ve made me uncomfortable had we not become so close—had she not already known who I am and what I come from.

  Her frown deepens and she hurries closer. Her wild brown eyes search mine, then latch onto my forehead. “What did he do?” Her hand moves slowly to my temple. “He hit you . . .”

  The concern in her eyes makes my uneven breathing hitch. I take a step back. Despite wanting to see her, I don’t want her to see me like this. “It’s nothing,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “I’ll be fine. At least I got to hit him back this time.”

  I continue pacing again, uncertain why I came down here and what I expected to achieve. Sam’s all I’ve been able to think about over the past couple months, and that scares me more than anything. She makes me question myself, the path I saw for my life. Her being here makes everything harder to process, makes it hard to—

  “Josh,” she says and reaches out as I step past her. Her hand grasps my shoulder with a firm but gentle squeeze.

  I pause again, craning my neck to look at her hand, then into her eyes. They’re pleading with me.

  “You can’t stay there anymore, Josh . . . you can’t be in that house with him. My dad can help you find somewhere—”

  “I’ll be fine, Sam,” I say and reach for her hand still clasping my shoulder. Although the fact that she cares so much means more to me than she’ll ever know, I don’t want their charity. I don’t want to be anyone else’s problem. Staying with the old man is something I’m used to. What’s a few more months until graduation?

  “Please,” she says, and she wraps her arms around my shoulders. I’m stunned and speechless, lost in the fruity scent of her, in the warmth and feel of her body against mine. In her compassion and genuine concern for me.

  I sigh the tension from my body and soak her in. We’ve never been this close, and I can barely remember why I was so upset, why she’s so upset.

  “I care about you,” she says, her voice broken and strained. “I don’t want something worse to happen. We need to get you out of there. Wherever you have to go—whatever it takes. Please—”

  “Shhh . . .” I unwrap her arms from around me and lean back to look at her, at the tears filling her eyes, the worry. “Hey,” I breathe and brush away the dampness from beneath her glasses. “I promise you, I’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as it looks, and he’s rarely like this. I promise you, it was just a smack.”

  She frowns. I know nothing I say makes any of it better in her eyes, but I know it could’ve been worse. The emotion reddening her cheeks and filling her eyes is enough to make me wish I hadn’t come down here, that I hadn’t secretly hoped to see her. I can’t stand seeing her so upset, so worried . . . about me.

  Without another thought or sense of reasoning, I lean in and bring her mouth to mine. She tenses a moment, both of us recalibrating before her mouth finally eases open, and I can taste her. Her lips are soft, her breath warm, and her body is shaking against me. Sam’s everything good—everything I’ve always been deprived of. I’m not sure if I want her or need her or both.

  Eyes still closed, she breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against mine. She tries to catch her breath. She licks her lips. She exhales. Then she peers through her damp lashes and up at me, her brown eyes searching mine.

  How have I never known her until now? How have I never known how amazing she is, how pure and good and beautiful? How can I ever leave this place—leave her?

  How can I possibly stay?

  Twelve

  Sam

  The sounds of hammering, sawing, and the occasional loud clank and bang have been floating over the lake since the sun came up. All I can do is picture Reilly up on the ladder, the way he was yesterday, ripping pieces of the roof off or carrying beams over his shoulder, all with that silent brooding and those flexing muscles that are impossible to ignore. It’s quieted down over the past hour or so, but I know he’s there, and for some reason it’s harder for me to focus today than it has been since he got home.

  Just as I finish applying weather sealant on the railroad ties that line the flower beds scattered up the gravel drive, I hear quick, light footsteps behind me.

  “Hey, Sam,” Sarah, one of our longest boarders, says as she walks toward me. Her short hair is pulled up in a tiny dark ponytail and she squints at me in the early afternoon sun.

  “Hi, Sarah. Good ride this morning?” I stand up and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my arm.

  She nods and gestures at the front of her clothes—wet and covered with dirt and horse hair. “Can’t you tell?” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I find I like bathing Bullet a lot more when it’s this hot outside.”

  “I hear ya,” I say and tug off my gloves. “Do you want something to drink? I made some fresh tea this morning.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I need to get going. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be mailing in my board check this week. I forgot to bring it with me today. Will you let Alison know for me?”

  I nod. “Of course, no problem.”

  “Great, thanks.” Sarah fans herself off. “I guess I better get going then. I need to shower and primp before tonight.” She rolls her eyes. “My friends are setting me up on a blind date. You know those never end well.”

  I flash her a pitying look. “I’m sure it will be fine. Maybe you could pre-game a little before you go.” That’s what Mac would do, loosen herself up.

  Sarah shrugs. “I know, right? God, I should probably take my flask.” We hear distant hammering and I know immediately who it is.

  Suddenly Sarah’s eyes brighten, and she nods behind her. “Must be your neighbor, Josh. I heard he’s back in town. My friend Margaret works at the hardware store. Now, if my blind date looks anything like him, I’d have to drink just to steady my nerves. Have you talked to him much since
he got home? I heard his dad recently passed.”

  Heat licks up my chest and neck, and I’m suddenly tongue-tied. “Um, a little, but—it’s sort of a weird situation. We . . . um . . . it’s complicated.”

  Sarah looks at me sideways, and I’m completely mortified. Way to sound solid, Sam.

  “Right, well, I should get going. Lots to do to get ready for tonight. Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck!” I call with a relieved smile. She’s leaving and now I can go shove my head in a hole somewhere.

  I finish up my final railroad tie and gather my things. I need to water the horses before we leave for the last-minute tree-cutting session Nick insisted on today. I also need to change my clothes. There is no way I’m chopping wood in ninety-eight-degree weather in sweltering long pants.

  ~~~~~~

  After pulling my hair up on top of my head, I shimmy on my shorts, tug a tank top over my head, and pause by my bedside table. The drawer is cracked open, and I see a glint of metal inside. Shame washes over me, and my body turns cold, then hot again. My hand goes to my hip automatically, and I slam the drawer shut all the way.

  Suddenly, there’s a flurry of sounds—chickens clucking, wings flapping, and Petey barking. My hackles instantly rise. “Petey!” I make a dash for the stairs. After nearly falling in my ungraceful descent, I head out the back door, ready to lose myself to salt-covered skin and potential heatstroke. I pull my boots on at the back door before I stomp toward the chicken coop.

  I nearly run directly into Reilly as I round the side of the stable.

  “You’re here,” I breathe, and take a step back. Petey’s jumping up on me before I can get tongue-tied again, and I glare at Reilly.

  “Down,” he commands, and he has to repeat it a few times and puts his palm out before the dog finally stops long enough to look at him and listen.

  My truck horn sounds, once—twice—and I know that Nick is ready, impatiently waiting for me.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll be tied up,” Reilly says. “Nick said I could put him in one of the empty stalls while we’re gone. I was going to leave him at the house, but—”

  “While we’re gone—you’re here to help?”

  He nods, but I can’t see his eyes in the shadow of his baseball cap. “That okay with you?”

  Nick honks again. “Yeah, sure. You can put Petey in the stall at the end. I’m going to get some tools.” I turn to leave, but Reilly stops me. “I already grabbed the hatchet and a mallet. Nick was getting the chainsaw.”

  I lift a shoulder. “Okay, then.” I turn on my heels and head toward the truck, leaving Reilly to deal with Petey. It’s nice that Reilly is willing to help us out today, but I wasn’t prepared to spend the day with him.

  “Sup, girl!” Nick calls as I draw closer to the truck. He’s loading the chainsaw in the back. “Sorry to spur this on you at the last minute, I know you were planning on a barbed wire dump run today. Reilly was expecting a crew at his place but something happened, so he’s available ... so I made us available.” He smiles.

  “Sounds good,” I say and jog toward the house. “I need to grab us some waters. Be right back.” I turn around. “Bring some extra fuel for the chainsaw, would you?” Nick nods, and I run inside. I can hear Alison upstairs on the phone in the office as I fumble around, grabbing some water bottles and a few granola bars.

  “Sam! It’s only getting hotter out here!” Nick’s voice echoes from outside.

  I stuff the granola bars in my back pocket and tuck the water bottles under each arm before I run out the door. “Coming!”

  When I get back to the truck, I toss the granola bars and waters into the cab.

  “Here,” Reilly says, and he hands me a pair of gloves.

  “Thanks.” I shove them in my pocket, climb into the back of the truck, and sit on the wheel well, anxious to get started.

  The truck teeters as Nick climbs in the driver’s seat. When I realize Reilly’s still standing at the tailgate, I glance up at him.

  “That’s what you’re wearing to cut wood?” He’s scrutinizing my outfit, his gaze traveling past my boots, up my bare legs and to my tank top.

  Though my attire is nothing new, it suddenly feels like I shouldn’t be wearing it. “It’s what I’m comfortable in,” I say defensively. “And it’s hot.” I look away from him. It’s not like I can just strip off my clothes when it gets too warm and cozy, like they can. An image of Reilly, shirtless in his bed a long time ago, comes to mind. Though he isn’t quite so grown up in my memories as he is now. I feel myself blush and have to fan myself, trying to play it off. “It’s already hot as hell out here.”

  “You two need another minute or what?” Nick says from the cab.

  Reilly’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, then he gets into the cab of the truck. Soon we’re rumbling through the ranch and up toward the back forty.

  Even though this is the third year cutting firewood without Papa, it still feels like it was only last season that I was driving out here, Papa in the front with Nick and me sitting in the back. Nick would laugh at me after driving over a big bump, warning Papa I’d end up being a bull rider one day so he’d better look out.

  Being out here, perhaps where Papa seemed most comfortable, reminds me of him more than I ever realized. It’s the most painful, actually. Sure, the house feels empty now, completely different. Alison removed all signs of Papa long ago: his favorite recliner and clothes were donated, his favorite blanket is in a box in the attic. There are still photos of him around the house, but mostly in the living room, a space I’m rarely in. But even with all of that, it’s out here, where I have the fondest memories, that brings me happiness and sadness.

  My thoughts drift as they usually do, and after climbing and descending a few hills, the F-250 finally squeaks to a jarring halt, and the truck doors creak open as the guys climb out. They’re laughing in a way that makes me feel a little lighter, and I try to leave the past behind me today. But then Reilly pulls on Papa’s gloves, too snug for his hands, and even though I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, the fact that Reilly’s wearing them feels significant.

  “You’re scowling, Sam,” Nick says, stirring my thoughts.

  I blink and find Reilly standing in front of me, a curious expression fixed on me.

  “Sorry,” I say, but I can’t look away. Reilly’s eyes search mine, their color and depth familiar, but his thoughts and emotions are unreadable.

  I’ve been staring at him far too long. I clear my throat and jump over the side of the truck bed. I step around and open the tailgate, ready to let the burn of hard labor keep me distracted. I slide on my gloves then grab the hatchet and mallet.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Reilly asks. “How many trees are we cutting down?”

  Nick hands Reilly an axe and pulls the chainsaw out for himself. “I have three marked, but if we could even get one finished today, I’d say that deserves beers all around.” Nick points to the tall, straggly tree in front of him.

  “So last time this didn’t go so well?” Reilly asks, and he and Nick come to stand beside me, the three of us peering up at the sickly oak.

  Nick shakes his head and I detect the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t say it was great, no.” The last time Nick tried to do this, he didn’t want to wait for me and cut almost an entire tree on his own. It almost fell on him in the process, scaring the crap out of him for days. He told everyone he had a near-death experience, which was probably true, and we agreed he shouldn’t be doing this alone anymore.

  “You’ve been chasing too many women, your muscles are getting soft,” Reilly jokes. Nick has some comeback I don’t pay attention to as I turn to them.

  “If you two ladies are ready . . .” I gesture to the trees and smile. “The sun’s not getting any kinder. We should probably get to work.”

  Nick grins and adjusts his cowboy hat before the chainsaw roars to life. “Ask and you shall receive!” he shouts. He steps toward the tree trunk and Reilly leans cl
oser to me.

  “How’re we doing this?”

  “We take turns chopping and hauling,” I nearly shout. “I’ll chop first.”

  Reilly offers me a single, quick nod, and I stand off to the side, watching as he helps push the trunk toward the decline in the hill, away from us.

  Once the tree topples to the ground, I back the truck up closer, and Nick uses the chainsaw to cut the trunk into smaller rounds, quartering each chunk as he goes so that Reilly and I can chop and load the smaller pieces into the back of the Ford.

  I’m splitting the wood, using each swing to loosen the seemingly constant state of tension in my muscles. I don’t like that Reilly’s working so close to me, or maybe I like it too much. Every time I look up, his body gleams even more, and his grey t-shirt grows wetter and wetter with sweat. How he can smell so fresh and clean in the middle of a heat wave is amazing, and I wish I could say the same about my own stench.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but after splitting roughly a quarter cord of wood, my arms are like rubber bands. I switch jobs with Reilly and hand the axe over to him.

  When Nick’s finished cutting the first trunk, the chainsaw shuts off. My ears ring in the quiet until the sound of Reilly grunting and breathing with each swing is all I can concentrate on. I continue splitting the smaller pieces with the hatchet and mallet and collect the rest of the kindling.

  “Sam, we got another axe?” Nick asks, and he wipes the sweat from his brow with his biceps. He trudges over to the truck and sets the chainsaw on the tailgate.

  “Yeah, it should be in there,” I say, and I carry an armful of wood over to the truck, tossing each piece into the back, one by one.

  Once my arms are empty, I straighten and use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “We might be able to get two done today,” I say, praying. The heat is horrible, but with three of us it goes so much faster. I’d hate not to take advantage of having Reilly here.

  But then he walks by me, removes his shirt, opens the cab door, and wipes his forehead off with his t-shirt before he tosses it inside. Of course he does. Nick follows suit.