by Tara Sheets
Chapter Twenty
On Friday evening, Kat flopped onto her bed, sorting through the treasures she’d bought at the thrift store that afternoon. She’d purchased a pair of sandals that looked like they’d never been worn, a couple of colorful tops, and a shiny gray hair dryer. Those things, plus the bags of groceries she’d bought, made her feel like she was back in the saddle again. She even had some extra money in the bank, so yeehaw. Things were looking up.
On impulse, she picked up her phone and dialed Juliette.
“Hey,” Juliette said, somewhat out of breath. “The girls are meeting at O’Malley’s at eight. Are you coming?”
“I’m not sure,” Kat said, trying to weigh exactly how much money she could spend on expensive drinks. “Did you find anything in that photo album?”
“Maybe.” Juliette’s voice sounded strained. “Hold on.”
Kat heard a loud crash, and Juliette’s frustrated groan.
“What was that?” Kat asked.
“That,” Juliette said, breathing heavily, “was the sound of our great-aunt’s stage wigs falling all over the place. And for the record, Marie Antoinette must’ve had a neck made of tempered steel. This wig weighs a ton.”
“Where are you?”
“In the attic looking for something. Gotta go. Text me if you’re coming!”
Kat said good-bye and jumped off the love seat with renewed energy. Maybe getting out and doing something fun with the girls was just what she needed. She grabbed her hair dryer and the new can of shine serum she’d picked up at the grocery store, then trooped into the bathroom to do battle.
Less than an hour later, she stared in the mirror feeling chic and polished for the first time in weeks. Her hair was now as straight as glass, hanging in a sheet down her back. It was thick and shiny, with not a frizz in sight.
“I remember you,” Kat said to her reflection.
Back in L.A., her ex-boyfriend had always urged her to straighten her hair. He’d said frizzy hair was tacky. So for weeks after she left him, she just let her hair go wild. It was her way of embracing her true self. But tonight, this was her choice. She ran her fingers through the sleek red strands and stared at her face. Her eyes seemed larger and her cheekbones more pronounced. It was definitely an elegant, understated look. Layla would probably approve.
Kat glanced at Hank and Lucky. “What do you guys think?”
Hank thumped his tail. Lucky gave her a huge grin, his pink tongue lolling to one side. That was the wonderful thing about dogs. A truck could run over you, back up again, and a dog would still think you looked perfect.
“Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll leave it for tonight.”
She pulled on a green sundress with a flowy skirt. Then she added her new sandals and checked the time. Great. It was only seven. She still had an hour to kill before texting Juliette.
Kat flopped on the love seat and had started scrolling through her phone when she felt an odd, stirring sensation inside. She rose and paced her apartment, trying to pinpoint the feeling. It was as if something big was about to happen—some major shift in the order of things. She slowly walked toward the mesh cage near the window and peered inside.
One cocoon had opened and a butterfly was starting to emerge, its black and orange wings still wet and crumpled.
Kat beamed with delight. “There you are. I knew you guys were going to make it.”
The other butterflies hadn’t emerged yet, but Kat felt confident that they soon would. She had already done some research on how to take care of them. By tomorrow, she’d scatter some flowers sprinkled with sugar water on the floor of the cage. In just a few days, they’d be ready to go free.
She studied the emerging butterfly with a glowing sense of optimism. A bold new life. A new beginning where they could spread their wings and fly. What could be more exciting than that?
A loud crash came from outside, startling her. Seeing nothing out the window, she flew to the door and swung it open. Another sound—like pots and pans toppling over—came from the large red barn on the other side of the yard. The door was cracked open, which was odd. Ever since she’d moved in, the red barn had been sealed with a padlock. Filled with curiosity, Kat made her way across the yard toward all the commotion.
When she peeked through the door, she saw Jordan standing in what appeared to be an episode of Hoarders.
Kat stepped inside, staring around the barn in fascination. It made Emma and Juliette’s attic look like a sunny walk in the park.
It was stuffed with . . . well, stuff. Rusted bicycles with no wheels were propped against a kayak and decaying cardboard boxes. There were piles of dried flower wreaths and moldy beanbag chairs and a crushed tent that hadn’t been properly dismantled. Native American dream catchers hung from the rafters along with Hawaiian print shawls and a broken beach umbrella and snarled sets of Christmas lights. A harp with no strings stood in one corner, and an entire back seat of a car with rips in the vinyl upholstery leaned against a wall.
Things were tossed in heaps, piled so high that in some places, Kat couldn’t see what was on the other side.
She skirted around a stack of paint-splashed canvases, then tiptoed over broken flowerpots and garden tools. The barn was so crammed with junk that the floor was barely visible. It looked like the place forgotten things go to die. And in the middle of it all stood Jordan.
He was facing away from her, muttering as he lifted a rusted birdcage from a pile of blankets.
“Um, is everything okay?” Kat asked.
Jordan spun around. His gaze touched on her hair, her clothing, her shoes, and back up to her face. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said in a low voice.
“I heard a loud crash so I came to see if someone was murdered.” She made her way toward him, avoiding a dismembered mannequin. “Looks like I didn’t make it in time.”
Jordan tossed the birdcage aside. “It’s not really safe in here. You should go.”
Kat walked to the fallen birdcage and lifted it. There were two small toys inside. One was a rubber duck, and the other was a plastic Superman figure. “What is all this stuff ?”
Jordan’s face was unreadable. “Nothing.”
She ignored his non-answer and held up the birdcage. “Was this yours?”
“Never mind that,” he said, reaching for it.
A hot streak of annoyance spiked through her. She held the cage away. It was a simple question. It wasn’t like she was asking him to reveal personal secrets. The least he could do was answer her. After making out under the willow trees, it wasn’t like they were total strangers. Besides, she’d shown him her ability to communicate with animals. This was nothing, compared to that.
“Did you have a bird when you were little?” she pressed.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Sure, Kat. I had two canaries.”
“Oh.” Her grip on the birdcage relaxed a little.
“They were a birthday present from my grandparents when I turned six. A few days later my parents got rid of them because they were ‘too much work.’ Those,” he said, pointing to the toys in the cage, “I put in afterward. So I could pretend they were still around.”
Kat felt something twist in her chest. A sadness welled up inside her, making her nose tingle. She turned away with the pretense of setting the cage down. She knew how much she hated others to pity her, so she carefully controlled her voice when she said, “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Why should you be?” he said dismissively. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She wanted to say she understood. That even though she wasn’t there, she’d been in situations like that in her own life, and she understood. But before she had a chance, something behind him caught her eye.
A caravan wagon was parked in the far corner of the barn. It was hidden in shadows and impossible to see from the front entrance. The sides of the caravan were painted in bright colors with sparkly scarves tied together to form a cheerful garland around the roof. Shawls with mirr
ored embroidery hung in the windows, the beaded fabric glinting in the low light.
Kat let out a tiny gasp. The bohemian-style wagon looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. She loved it immediately. The fact that it was so colorful, but shrouded in shadows, made it all the more mysterious. “What is that?”
Jordan glanced behind him. “A caravan.”
“Yes, but what’s it doing here?” She started climbing over boxes and scattered junk to get closer.
“Watch out for the broken chair,” Jordan warned as she jumped over a rusted set of lawn furniture.
She moved toward the caravan until she was close enough to see the letters painted on the side: WINDS OF CHANGE. She repeated the words out loud.
Jordan came up behind her. “My parents’ folk band. They had this made when they were planning to tour and go to festivals. The farthest they ever got was the front driveway.” His voice grew pensive. “Such a waste. All that planning and talking. Castles in the air, my grandma used to call it. My parents were excellent at dreaming and setting their sights on the next big thing.”
She turned to face him. “What do you mean?”
“They were constantly flitting from one plan to the next. That huge painting in the house? The one you noticed when you first arrived? My mom made that back during her artist phase. It was the only thing she made before she got bored and abandoned that for something else.”
“It’s a beautiful painting,” Kat said, remembering the brilliant colors and abstract design. “She was very talented. I’m surprised she didn’t continue.”
Jordan shrugged. “I’d have been more surprised if she had. My parents never followed through on anything.”
“But how could they afford any of this?” Kat took in the caravan and all the junk filling the barn. “I mean, if they weren’t big on responsibility, who worked to buy this stuff ?”
Jordan gave a dry chuckle, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Neither of them. My mother inherited a large sum of money after her parents passed away. She and my dad had plans to become wildly successful entrepreneurs. Of what, they had no clue. They managed to buy this farm before the money dried up. They had some romantic notion that living close to nature would be good for us. What little money was left, they squandered on whatever whim came their way.” He slapped the side of the caravan. “This one lasted about six months.”
Kat walked along the caravan, running her hands over the colorful letters with glass jewels inlaid in the wood. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes,” Jordan said, watching her. “After my parents’ folk band fell apart, they parked this in here and forgot about it. And for a while, I made it mine.”
“Can I see inside?” Kat laid her hand on a small red door painted with colorful flowers.
When he pushed it open, she felt like she was stepping into a dream. This was a piece of Jordan’s past she hadn’t expected. The more she got to know him, the more he surprised her. It smelled faintly of lavender oil and cedar, with a hint of some spicy, earthier fragrance that reminded her of sandalwood.
“Hold on.” Jordan left to retrieve a small camping lantern. He switched it on, illuminating the room in a soft, warm glow.
Colorful shawls with mirrored embroidery lined the walls. There was a red patterned area rug and a pile of pillows in every color of the rainbow. In the back of the caravan was a platform bed covered with a fleece Seahawks blanket. An NFL poster was taped to the wall, and a stuffed, plush orca toy was tossed in the corner. There was also a deck of cards, ajar of marbles, and a stack of books.
“You used to hang out in here when you were a kid?” Kat asked.
Jordan leaned a broad shoulder against the wall. “For a while.”
She roamed the caravan, trailing her fingers over the embroidered wall hangings. It was like being inside a strange jewel box. Near the bed, she lifted a book from the stack. “Conan the Barbarian.” Her mouth twitched. “Interesting.”
Jordan came to stand beside her. “If by interesting, you mean an awesome classic that everyone should read because it’s a perfect example of fantasy escapism? Then yes.”
She raised her brows. “I might have to pass on that. Barbarian books aren’t really my thing.”
He scoffed. “Give me some credit. I didn’t only read barbarian stories.” With one hand, he pushed the stack of books and sent them fanning over the bedspread. Most of them were science fiction and fantasy books. He lifted one and held it out. “Take Attack of the Killer Space Slugs, for example. Another great classic.”
“Mmm, yes. I see what you mean.” Kat picked up a book with a curvy female warrior on the cover. The woman was battling a horde of giant bugs. “Goddess of the Fire Sword?”
“Now that book was an all-time favorite,” he deadpanned.
She studied the cover. The woman was wearing nothing but a pair of fur boots and a tiny bikini. “I’m sure it was.”
He gave her a crocodile grin. “She was just really good with that sword.”
“Uh-huh.” Kat rolled her eyes. “With her lack of protective armor, she’d have to be.”
His laughter was warm and uninhibited, and it made Kat’s entire body hum with pleasure. She wished he’d laugh more often.
He gathered the books and placed them next to a guitar buried under some of the throw pillows.
The instrument gleamed warmly in the low light. Kat reached out and dragged the guitar across the bed. “Will you play something?”
He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Nah.”
“Come on,” Kat pleaded. “Just one song. Anything.”
“I haven’t played in a really long time.”
“It’s okay. If you mess up, I won’t even know.” She held the guitar out. “I’ve never been good with instruments. I even failed at the recorder in grade school. The music teacher made me play the triangle in the class concert instead.”
Jordan’s easy grin made her toes curl.
He took the guitar and settled it on his lap. She was suddenly aware of how close he was. She could reach out and touch him, if she wanted. And she did want. Memories of them locked in a heated embrace, rolling in the grass together, flashed through her mind. Heat throbbed deep and low inside her, fanning up through her chest and prickling across her cheeks. Could he tell what she was thinking?
Thankfully, he wasn’t looking at her. He propped his back against the wall and started tuning the guitar.
Kat had the oddest sense of déjà vu. The seclusion of the caravan and the image of Jordan in the dim light surrounded by sparkling embroidery seemed almost dreamlike.
He strummed a few chords of “Stairway to Heaven” she recognized, then he stopped and shook his head.
“What is it?”
He glanced at her thoughtfully, the vibrations of music fading until the room was silent again.
“That song’s too typical for you.” He began to strum the chords lightly, watching her with those lazy wolf eyes. “You need something unique.”
Kat felt her cheeks heat, and she was glad for the low light.
When he finally began to play, she felt as though the entire world fell away and the only thing left on the planet was the two of them. She pretended she was watching him play the guitar, but really she was just watching him. The way his glossy hair fell over his forehead. His sensual mouth. The hollows beneath his cheekbones. The dark stubble on his jaw. His large hands expertly strumming the chords.
The music was sweet and haunting and unusual, yet achingly familiar. The melody seemed to unfurl in the air, winding around them until they were both joined together by some invisible bond.
When it was over, they sat in silence for a few moments as if neither wanted to break the spell.
“That,” she whispered, “was beautiful. What was it?”
“An old Irish lullaby. This old Irish man from my parents’ folk band taught it to me before they split up.” He propped the guitar against the wall, rising to stand in front of her.
Tilting his head, he studied her for several long moments without saying anything.
Kat shifted uneasily. It was disconcerting to be on the other end of such deep scrutiny. “What?” she demanded.
A slight shake of his head. “Nothing. I just haven’t seen you with your hair straight like that.”
She tucked a shiny lock behind her ear, wondering if he liked it.
“It suits you better when it’s wild,” he said.
An odd mixture of disappointment and pleasure knocked around inside her, and she glanced away. “If you don’t like it, then don’t look at it.”
“I never said I didn’t like it. I only meant if I had a choice, I’d choose your natural hair.”
“Well, it’s not your choice, is it? It’s mine.” She bristled, tossing the length of hair over her shoulder.
“See? Wild and feisty, just like your hair. It suits you better.” In the dim light, he looked exactly like the charming, enchanted prince he reminded her of when they first met. “I like it wild,” he said with a wink.
Of course he did. So did she.
His teasing expression began to fade, replaced with a powerful, masculine intensity that Kat couldn’t ignore. The desire between them was palpable. She felt like they’d been orbiting around each other for days, and the gravitational pull had finally become too strong to resist. They were going to collide into each other, and she didn’t even care. She wanted to slide her hands around his back, drag him up against her, and throw caution out the sparkly caravan window.
Here, with him, the rest of the world seemed far away. Like they were hidden inside some fairy tale place where time stood still and there was nothing beyond the pages of this story, this moment. With him standing in front of her, watching her like a hungry wolf, every instinct she had was the opposite of what she should have. Because she didn’t want to run from the wolf. She wanted to embrace him.
Very slowly, he reached out and lifted a lock of her hair, sliding his fingers over the silky length. When it fell back to her shoulder, he did it again. She shivered at the nearness of him, remembering just how good his hands had felt on other parts of her body.