“Rub it in why don’t you,” I grumble under my breath. My sweat-drenched tank top is as close to cool as I’m going to get.
I shake my head when Reilly asks me if I want some water.
“You should take a break,” he urges. “You’ll get heatstroke.”
“I’m fine,” I say again without looking at him. “I want to get as much of this done as we can.”
“Sam,” Nick says, drawing out my name with a hint of warning in his voice. “If I have to come over there—”
“I said I’m fine!” I straighten with a handful of oak bits in hand.
Nick frowns.
“Sorry, I just want to get this finished, okay? I’m not sure when we’ll get another chance.” Reilly leans against the truck, watching me, and I almost lose it again. “And would you put your damn shirts back on. What do you think this is? A lady’s club? Jesus. Everyone’s just walking around with their chests bare and glistening.” I look pointedly at Reilly.
Both of them chuckle.
“Does it bother you?” Reilly asks, too much amusement in his voice.
I glare at him and dump a handful of tinder-sized pieces into a bucket. I brush the clinging slivers off my gloves, and all the while I can feel the burn of Reilly’s attention on me.
“You’re staring,” I say, in case he’s not aware of it. I can’t help a smirk as I walk past him, back to the pieces of wood that litter the dry grass.
“Take a break, Sam,” Nick says. “Come on, Reilly.” And without another word to me, they continue chopping and stacking wood while I take my break in a small patch of shade beneath one of the trees on the other side of the truck.
After chugging some water, I use the hem of my tank top to wipe the sweat from my face and the water from my mouth, ignoring the dirt that comes off with it. Why don’t any trees by the lake need to be chopped? I groan and start salivating as I think about my shady oasis.
I’m about to open a granola bar when the sound of a horse snorting and hoofbeats coming up the hill startle me. I jump to my feet.
“What the hell,” Nick mutters, and then Target comes barreling up over the hill.
Horror grips me and it’s impossible to move for a minute. “Oh my God!” This is not happening. “What’s he doing out of his paddock?” I screech.
I glance at Nick and Reilly, who are frozen in confusion. I look back at Target, his dark tail up and riding the breeze as he runs. What if he hurts himself? We’re going to get sued!
We can’t afford to be sued . . .
What if I can’t catch him? With each frantic step the retired racehorse takes toward us, I think I might hyperventilate. I can’t lose this place. I can’t! The property is only mostly fenced in.
The bay gelding finally slows a dozen or so yards from us, neighing and snorting and panting, but eyeing us all the same. In fear? Curiosity?
Grabbing a piece of tie-down rope from the back of the truck, I do the only thing I can think of. Tearing open the granola bar in my hand, I slowly step toward Target. He paws and snorts anxiously the closer I get, his ears moving wildly, and his eyes are full of fear as he watches us.
Target tenses, like he’s about to run away, before he sniffs the air, eventually giving in to the temptation of what’s in my hand.
Although he’s still agitated, he takes a step closer, his lips reaching toward the chunk of granola bar in my palm. Momentarily distracted, his breathing begins to slow, mine only increasing as I considered how much trouble I’d be in if something happened to the Naser family’s horse.
“Hey, boy,” I croon, slowly reaching my palm out closer so he can collect his treat. He startles and sidesteps me, but as I patiently stand there, he begins to calm back down again. “Easy does it.”
The moment his whiskers tickle my hand, I step closer beside him and inch the rope in my other hand toward his neck. His lips are quick and he greedily consumes the bar on my palm as I gently drape the rope around his neck. He cranes his neck to face me and his lips are at my back pocket where I shoved the rest of the granola.
“Good boy,” I say and slowly reach for the rest of it. His head pops up, but his focus never leaves my hand as I dig the rest of the bar out of my pocket. “Here you go,” I say and offer it to him. While his mind and mouth are busy, I tie the rope around his neck, accepting that it will have to do, and I lead Target back toward the truck, finally able to let out a breath.
Nick’s frowning. “I don’t know how the hell—” His musings are interrupted as that damn fucking dog comes tearing ass up the hill, barking and running right for Target. In a flash of horror, the gelding, immense in size and filled with nervous energy, starts to pull away. I wonder if he’s going to trample me. But I can’t force myself to let go of the rope, instead I grip it tighter and hold my breath, praying.
Target starts to rear. A flurry of dark limbs comes toward me, and I give him some slack, though it burns as he pulls the rope through my grip. But Target doesn’t try to run. He sidesteps, away from the excited dog and closer to me and the truck. I imagine the weight of his body pinning me to the frame, of his hooves smashing my toes. And somehow, amid the horse’s neighing and the dog’s barking, I hear Reilly commanding the dog over to him. Target steps closer, his neck outstretched and tugging to get away from me. I take a step back, ready to let go of the rope, when the barking ceases.
Target continues to tug on the rope, prancing in place a moment as he catches his breath, as I catch mine.
“Shhh,” I breathe, trying to calm him, though I don’t dare reach for him yet. “Easy,” I say. But I’m concerned my heart might burst, it’s beating so violently. I’d never experienced anything like that—the fear of getting hurt only barely outweighing the dread of something happening to an animal that costs thousands of dollars and isn’t even mine.
I slacken the rope a bit more, clench my hands, shaking with adrenaline, and brace my hands on my knees.
“Sam? Are you okay?” Nick says as he comes toward me, but I can’t answer him right now.
I step closer to Target, slowly reaching out for him, stroking his sleek, almost coal-colored neck. He’s slick with sweat and his girth heaves, but he finally drops his head, the dog out of sight on the other side of the truck.
Eventually, Nick must deem it’s safe, because he makes his way over to me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I wheeze, and glare over at Reilly, who’s holding onto the dog’s collar.
“I’m so sorry, Sam. I put him in the stall, but—”
“Just—stop! Get your goddamn dog under control, Reilly, or I’ll take him into town and deliver him to the fucking pound myself.”
“Sam,” Nick admonishes. “It was an accident. Nothing happened.”
I scowl at him. “You, of all people, know how much this ranch has to work, Nick. I can’t have someone else’s dog terrorizing the horses.” My gaze shifts from Nick to Reilly, who looks mortified, but I don’t care. “What if Target hurt himself? What if there are other horses loose?” I’m so angry I can barely think straight, my blood is beyond boiling. “And the damage? Jesus!” I shake my head, and I can’t stand the sight of either of them.
“I’ll walk him back,” I bite out.
“Sam,” Nick calls as Target and I start walking in the direction of home. “We’ll call it a day. We can lead him back behind the truck.”
“I got it,” I say without looking back. Target is still too jittery, and I can’t even look at the stupid dog or Reilly right now, afraid what I’d do or say. But aside from my resentment and subsiding adrenaline, the fact that Nick doesn’t see how badly this could’ve ended makes me want to cry. How can no one see? If we don’t have this ranch, we have nothing. I have nothing, and Papa will be gone completely.
When I notice the lead rope pulls taunt with every other step, I gaze down at Target’s gait. His footsteps are off and he’s favoring his right front hoof.
“Perfect,” I mutter, and my chest tightens, despite my
anger.
Thirteen
Sam
I stand in the shower beneath ice-cold water that numbs my skin, goose bumps chasing away any remaining anger from today’s Target fiasco. I don’t want to think about the look of horror on Reilly’s face when I walked away, either. I don’t want to feel anything for him. I don’t want to feel anything at all; I’m tired of everything being so hard, tired of feeling like it’s never enough. Feeling makes everything complicated. I wish it would all go away, at least for a little while.
Leaning forward, I brace my hands on the tiled wall, losing myself to the sensation of cold water streaming down my face and trickling down my back.
Things weren’t supposed to happen like this . . . things were supposed to work themselves out. This ranch was supposed to work. The bomb Alison dropped on me when I walked through the door wasn’t one I needed to hear. “We need three more boarders if we’re going to stay out of the red.” But I’m not sure I can take on three more horses.
Without thinking, I inhale and lift my face to the showerhead. I hold my breath. I barely feel the water streaming over my chilled skin, and the thrill of the unknown grips me.
Memories of Papa, a mess of regrets and what-ifs will be gone . . . the loneliness will cease to exist . . . the tension will be gone . . . nothing will matter anymore . . .
My chest tightens. My body tenses, consuming what little oxygen remains in my lungs. A tiny voice tells me to breathe, another one says, just a little longer.
I clench my fists and purse my lips. My heart pounds. My body quivers. I squeeze my eyes shut and hit my fist against the wall as fear creeps in.
Just a little longer . . .
But my head falls back, my mouth opens, and I gasp for air. I greedily pull oxygen into my lungs, and with another pound of my fist, I let out a choked sob of frustration and rest my cheek against the shower wall.
What’s wrong with me?
~~~~~~
After a longer-than-usual shower and some much-needed physical pain and relief, I pad down the hallway toward my bedroom at the end. Although Alison’s door is shut at the other end of the hall, I spot her in the office as I pass. Her gaze darts to me.
“You’re done with the trees early,” she says as I open the door to my bedroom.
“Yep.” When I hear her office chair roll against the hardwood, I freeze in my bedroom doorway, my hand gripped on the knob as I hold my breath. Please stay in there, Alison.
She steps into the office doorway. Alison’s quiet a minute, then asks, “Are you okay, Sam?”
I realize my eyes are probably bloodshot, and Alison is the last person I want to talk about any of this with.
I offer her a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I think the sun got to me today.”
Alison nods, but I know she doesn’t believe me. Her hair’s braided and she’s wearing a tank top and shorts. I’m not really sure when she went from city-girl-straight-out-of-college to looking more like a mom, but she does for some reason, though she’s never felt much like one to me. It must be the judging look she always seems to have on her face.
“Did you get all the firewood brought in?”
I glance out the window of my bedroom, toward the stable. “Ah, yeah, the guys were just unloading what we cut today when I jumped in the shower.”
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Her gaze shifts to the bathroom and then back to me. “I heard . . . noises.”
“I’m fine,” I say, “but I’m wet and I need to get dressed.”
Her gaze is level and assessing. “Alright, well, I have to head into town before the bank closes,” she says. “I was going to grab us some dinner while I’m out.”
“Perfect.” I smile again, more genuinely this time.
Alison nods and disappears back into the office.
I shut my bedroom door and stare at the handle. Generally, I wouldn’t need to lock it; I wouldn’t even consider it because Alison never comes in here. But she’s been watching me more intently lately, and I don’t like it, so I lock the door, just in case.
With a long, steady exhale I face my room, gazing around like it’s the first time in forever. This is where I sleep, but it’s not a comfortable place to be. That’s outside, in the stable, in the barn where there are things to do, things that keep me busy.
In here, there are only highlights of my childhood that decorate the tan pinstripe-papered walls. Photos of Shasta, Papa, Mac, Nick, and me are framed and hanging in clusters, unchanged since the first day Papa nailed them in for me. My high school diploma, which I nearly didn’t receive, looms over my desk, an ever-present reminder of how I almost ruined that part of my life, too.
I open my dresser and pull out comfortable clothes because I’m not ready to go back outside again tonight, not while Reilly might still be down there. Not while I’m angry at Nick.
Even though the sun is barely even thinking about setting on the horizon, I tug on pajama shorts, shrug on an oversized t-shirt, gather my wet hair up into a messy bun, and don my glasses from the edge of my desk. If I’m going to lock myself away in here, I might as well be productive.
There’s no air conditioning in the house despite its modernity, but my room isn’t sweltering. I bask in the churning air of the fan spinning methodically above me, then peruse a stack of “to-be-read” books on the corner of my desk. I decide on Sustaining a Small Business: 101, a book that I’ve started twice, but have yet to get past chapter four.
With an unexpected yawn, I curl up in the pale green cushioned daybed, bathed in the soft glow of the descending sun, and open to the bookmarked page where I’d left off weeks ago. In spite of my aching head and fatigued muscles from a day of wood chopping cut short, I assign myself three chapters to read.
I barely get through an entire page before there’s movement out the window, and I hear the rumble of the sliding stable door. Unable to resist, my gaze wanders outside.
Nick and Reilly step around the corner of the paddocks, devil dog being led by Reilly on his rope leash in tow. Petey’s tail wags happily and his tongue hangs from his mouth like life has never been sweeter.
I can’t hear more than the mumble of their voices, even with the windows open, but I know Nick says something funny. His nostrils flare as he tries to bite back a smile, and then Reilly laughs. Their strides are languid and easy, and since they’re bringing all the tools back, they must have finished unloading the firewood. I study my half-assed mending of the broken paddock fence Target kicked through. At least it would hold him until we could clear out the other “empty” stalls we were using to store things. That was something I would deal with tomorrow.
As usual, Petey ruins the tranquil moment when he barks at one of the chickens scampering by, and any calm I’m feeling is replaced with a tinge of frustration. Then I hear the soft growl of Reilly’s voice as he scolds the dog. Although Petey seems torn, glancing from the chickens clucking in their pen to Reilly, he surprisingly listens.
Nick and Reilly exchange a few words, then Nick disappears into the barn, chainsaw in hand. Reilly stays in my sight as he crosses the gravel drive, over to the toolshed. A small, internal voice tells me I’m supposed to be reading, and that I shouldn’t care what Reilly’s doing down there, but I can’t help it and I’m too tired to berate myself.
Oblivious to being watched, Reilly ties the rope leash around a small oak on the shade side of the shed and disappears inside as he pulls the gloves from his back pocket. A minute later, when Reilly steps back out into the diminishing sunshine that illuminates the sweat soaking his shirt and coating his arms and face, I start to turn my head away but pause.
Reilly wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He pulls a bottle of water from his back pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes one gulp and then another. He dumps what’s left in a small empty container—what looks like a small flower pot—that he grabbed from inside and sets it down in front of Petey.
Like he’s deprived and nea
r dehydration, Petey laps and slurps at the water for a brief moment, then splashes and plays with what little is left. Then he barks again.
“No.” Reilly doesn’t yell or placate the animal but says it loud and even enough for me to hear, and Petey seems curious enough to pause a moment. The dog tilts his head to the side and his ears perk up. He barks again, his tail wagging excitedly, and he pounces like he’s ready to play. “No,” Reilly says again, and again the dog stops and stares at him. “No.” They play this game for a few more moments before the puppy gets distracted, itching himself and gnawing on his own foot.
Reilly is Mr. Patience himself and he seems to be good for Petey, despite the dog’s flare-ups every so often. When Petey’s not barking and annoying me or the animals, I almost think he’s sort of cute in a ragamuffin sort of way.
Reilly rubs Petey’s black head. When the dog tries to lick his face, Reilly mutters and topples over, smiling as Petey jumps around in excitement, nudging him and whacking him with his tail. Reilly curses and I can’t help but chuckle.
Seeing Reilly’s smile makes my heart skip a beat. Although it feels like it was eons ago, I remember the taste of his firm lips against mine, and I remember the way he’d look at me when it was just the two of us, like I was some prize he’d won and he still couldn’t believe it. I could tell him anything. He made me feel so special and loved, and I guess that’s why it hurt so bad when he left—when that feeling was gone. No matter what I tell myself, I know I miss him. I miss him enough to wish I’d been strong enough to hold on.
Realizing I’m smiling again, I flush in embarrassment, happy I’m alone in my room. I’m intent on refocusing on the book sliding down my lap when my cell phone rings.
Getting to my feet, I snatch it from my side table, groaning before I plaster a fake smile on my face that I hope is reflected in my tone. “Hello, Mr. Naser,” I say, wishing he would’ve called me back tomorrow when I was in a better mood. He’s an intelligent guy, and I’m not feeling very confident about my faking-it skills right now.
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 14