by Liz Isaacson
“I’m okay,” he said, turning back once he’d reached the kitchen.
“Really?” Jeremiah asked, moving past him to pick up a plate. “Because it’s okay to not be okay.”
Wyatt glanced at Whitney, who lay on the couch, her phone up in front of her face. She’d had a scare about three weeks ago with her pregnancy, and Jeremiah didn’t let her do more than walk a few steps at a time.
“If you keep badgering me,” Wyatt said as he took the plate from Jeremiah. “It’ll be a double-funeral we go to in a couple of hours—and not mine.” He cocked his eyebrows at his brother, who only laughed at him.
“I hear you,” Jeremiah said. “I just want to make sure you’re doing all right.”
“I am right now,” Wyatt said, but he wasn’t sure what would happen when he saw Marcy. She had a couple of cousins in town, and Wyatt assumed her brother would come from back east. He couldn’t remember where her brother lived, but it was a big city on the Eastern Seaboard, where he worked as a corporate attorney.
The Payne’s were a Three Rivers generational family, and Wyatt expected the whole town to be at the funeral. He wanted to see Marcy today, make sure she knew he was there and available to her.
She knows that, he told himself as he put food on his plate and took it to the kitchen table.
He had the very real feeling he wouldn’t be able to spend much time with her today, at least not the way he wanted to.
Tomorrow, everyone else would go back to their regular lives. They’d get up with their own problems and go about their business. Every once in a while, they might think of Martin Payne and the daughter he left behind, but the thoughts would be fleeting and momentary. Nothing would come from them.
Wyatt didn’t want Marcy to be alone tomorrow, either, and he already had an alarm set on his phone to call her tomorrow morning to check in.
The back door opened, and Liam, Callie, and their daughter Denise came inside. “See?” Liam said to the three-year-old. “I told you Uncle Jeremiah would have breakfast.”
The little girl had tight, dark curls, and they bounced as she ran toward Jeremiah, who scooper her up into his arms. They both laughed, and he asked her what she wanted.
“Toast,” she said, and though there was no toast on the counter, Jeremiah set about making her what she wanted.
“Dressed already?” Liam asked, glancing around. “Looks like we’re the only ones not ready for the funeral.”
“We have time,” Callie said. “I just hope Vicki doesn’t go into labor today.”
Wyatt looked up from his plate, glancing between Liam and Callie. “It’s that time already?”
“She’s due in four days,” Liam said. “So yes, any time now.”
“Hopefully not today,” Callie said again, and her nerves radiated off of her in every direction.
Wyatt didn’t want to sit around the house, and a viewing for Martin had been scheduled for that morning. Though he’d gone last night at the funeral home, he cleaned up his breakfast dishes and said, “I’m headed out.”
“Already?” Jeremiah asked, still nursing his coffee.
“Already.” Wyatt took his keys out of the kitchen drawer where he kept his stuff and met Micah’s eye. “You want to come with me?”
“Sure thing.” Micah downed the last of his coffee while Wyatt ignored the concerned looks on his family’s faces. He didn’t need their pity. Didn’t even want it.
The moment he walked out the front door, the weight of all those eyes lifted from his shoulders, and he felt like he could breathe normally. At least for a minute. Micah joined him on the porch, the front door closing loudly behind them.
The oak tree looked forlorn without all the Christmas decorations it had worn so festively for the past six weeks. Jeremiah loved their Christmas traditions, but he wanted the ranch to “get back to normal” after the holidays too. All of the ranch hands and brothers had worked for the better part of a day to get all the ornaments off the front fence, all the tinsel out of the tree—though the Good Lord had sent plenty of wind last week to help finish that job—and all the decorations back in their boxes and in the storage shed out back.
“Where do you want to go?” Micah asked, his keys jangling in his hand as he went down the front steps. He didn’t pause and look behind him to see if Wyatt needed help, and he appreciated that. Sometimes the way Rhett or Liam wanted to steady him by holding onto his elbow made him feel infantile. And he didn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else.
Wyatt pocketed his own keys and followed Micah to his truck, as it wasn’t worth the argument with his youngest brother over who drove. Wyatt would get to go where he wanted no matter whose truck they were in or who sat behind the wheel.
“The bakery,” he said, using the runners on the side of the truck to get himself into the truck. He sighed as he settled into the seat and pulled his seat belt into place. “And that new hot chocolate shack.”
Micah fired up the truck and go the heater blowing, the heated seats warming, and the radio volume adjusted.
“Sorry,” he said, grinning. “I like the music loud.”
“You always have.” Wyatt’s head hurt, and he should’ve taken some painkillers before leaving the house. He thought about asking Micah to run back inside and grab some, but he didn’t. Micah was good at letting Wyatt take care of himself, but if he went back inside, everyone would know why.
“Will you open that glove box and see if I have any pills in there?” Micah nodded toward Wyatt’s side of the truck. He turned onto the lane and headed toward the highway. Wyatt did as he asked, thrilled when he found the little bottle of ibuprofen.
“Can I have some too?”
“Of course.”
Wyatt shook a few pills into his hand and swallowed them dry. “How many do you want?”
“Three.”
Wyatt counted them out and handed them to Wyatt, who drank from a half-full water bottle to take his pills.
“This is a terrible thing,” Micah said.
“It sure is.” Wyatt didn’t usually mince words, and he wouldn’t today either. He let Micah drive him to the bakery, through the lane to get caramel hot chocolate, and to the church where the viewing and funeral would be held.
He didn’t see Marcy as he went through the line for the viewing, but he shook her brother’s hand and moved into the chapel. They saved seats for everyone in the family, and Wyatt’s heart leapt and jumped and rejoiced when the Payne family finally walked in.
Marcy wore a floor-length black dress, enough makeup to hide the fact that she’d been crying, and a bright white rose on her wrist. She held her head high and her brother’s hand, and she didn’t even glance at Wyatt as she walked by him.
He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to reach out to her. He kept his hands at his sides and sat with everyone else. He wept through the songs, the talks, the advice from Pastor Daniels. He wished he could be the Savior in that moment, and take upon himself all of their sorrows, their grief, their pain.
He watched Marcy more than anyone, and she wiped her eyes several times and bowed her head once. She leaned against her brother, and Wyatt wished it was him. He had so many wishes when it came to Marcy Payne, and hardly any of them had come true.
The funeral ended, and after employing his patience once again, Wyatt left the chapel with his brothers and their wives, their children, and everyone else in Three Rivers.
“Are you going to the cemetery?” Micah asked.
“Yes,” Wyatt said, deciding on the spot. He shed his jacket as he left the church, as he ran hot almost all the time, and the sun was out, albeit a weak, early-January light and warmth from above. “I can go alone,” he said. “If you want to go back to the ranch with someone.”
Liam and Callie were going that way, as was Jeremiah and Whitney, at all their ranch hands. Someone would have a seat if Micah wanted it.
Micah said, “I’ll come.”
Relief filled Wyatt, as he didn’t reall
y want to go alone. He didn’t function at his best while alone, but he could do it. He’d usually traveled with other cowboys, a trainer, and his manager while he ran the rodeo circuit, but he sometimes had to go by himself. He could stand near the back of the crowd at a cemetery.
Marcy’s brother dedicated the gravesite, and four planes flew over the cemetery. Wyatt looked up at the crop-dusters, a sense of peace filling him. Martin had dedicated his life to flying and dusting the fields, farms, and ranches surrounding Three Rivers, and the fly-by was a nice tribute to him.
He didn’t dare talk to Marcy at the cemetery, and he and Micah left as soon as the family started putting their corsages and boutonnieres on the casket. He wept openly on the way back to the truck, his heart so full.
“You okay?” Micah asked as they got in the truck.
“Fine,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “Thank you, Micah.”
“Of course.” They drove back to the ranch in silence, and Wyatt beelined for his bedroom the moment they stepped inside the homestead. He just wanted to be alone.
No, what he really wanted was for Marcy to call him. He knew she was having a late lunch at her house after the ceremony at the cemetery, but he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to comfort her in front of everyone. He wasn’t even sure she wanted him to comfort her.
Frustration filled him over the situation, and he shed all of his fancy clothes and lay down in bed. Maybe a nap would clear his head. Maybe then he’d know what to do about the beautiful blonde who’d crawled into his heart the moment he’d met her, over a year ago.
Sneak Peek! Wyatt’s Pretend Pledge Chapter Two
Marcy Payne hated the way her vision blurred. She hadn’t been able to see properly all day. Her head felt too hot while the rest of her body was definitely too cold. Her skin cracked when she smiled, but she wasn’t sure if that was from the excess makeup or the salty tears she’d cried. And cried, and cried.
But she’d made it through the funeral phone calls. Most of the decisions had been made while Daddy was still alive, but there had been a lot of emails, phone calls, and texts that had needed to happen once he’d passed. Flights booked. Dresses bought. Flowers delivered.
She took in the dozen or so vases sitting on her kitchen counter, her eyes moving to the one filled with red, white, and pink roses. That one had come from Wyatt Walker, and she’d cried a quart from the simple sight of her favorite flowers and Wyatt’s scrawled, cowboy handwriting on the card.
I’m here if you need me, sugar. Love, Wyatt.
Out of all the cards that had come with the condolences over the past week, Marcy had kept only Wyatt’s.
She had not reached out to him. She wasn’t even sure why, only that she had enough balls in the air, and she couldn’t stand the idea of him falling to the ground and cracking. She’d broken up with him once before—maybe twice, if her telling him she couldn’t have a relationship while she dealt with her father’s health counted.
He’d stayed away for a while, eventually coming back every few weeks. And over the summer, their romance had really blossomed.
“That’s it,” Bryan said, drawing Marcy’s attention away from the roses. He closed the front door and looked at Marcy.
She smiled, the gesture wobbling on her face. “Thanks, Bry.” Drawing in a deep breath, she surveyed the house. The sink was full of dishes, and the dishwasher was too. She should’ve served lunch on paper plates, but she hadn’t been able to. This was her father, and he deserved more than paper plates for the last meal memorializing him.
“Are you going to take off?” she asked. Daddy’s death and funeral had come at a terrible time for him, as he was involved in a huge, important case in Washington D.C. where he lived and practiced law for one of the biggest firms in the country.
“Unfortunately, I have to,” he said, walking toward her. He had the same sandy hair as their father, the same dark green eyes. Marcy had inherited more of their mother’s lighter blonde hair, which she enhanced with Golden Sunshine dye every couple of months. She also had blue eyes instead of green, and her father had often said how much he loved seeing her after their mother died, because then he could see a piece of her too.
Her chest constricted, but she held back the sob. She didn’t want her brother to go. Then she’d be all alone in Three Rivers. No parents. No siblings.
Your cousins are here, she told herself, and that did bring some consolation.
Bryan wrapped her in a hug, and she clung to him. “I love you, sis,” he said. “Please let me know what I can do.”
“I will,” she said. She’d turned over Daddy’s estate to the lawyers, as he had quite a few things to go through. The house. The land. The business. The airplanes. Marcy had known about the estate planning lawyer and she’d notified Dale as soon as all the family had been made away of Daddy’s death.
Bryan exhaled, bent to pick up his bag, and went out the front door too. Marcy flinched with the finality of the click and turned to survey her house again. It was a mess, which wasn’t that different from when she lived there alone. She could pile up coffee cups and soda cans on an end table until there wasn’t a spare inch before she’d finally haul a trash bag into the living room and clean it up.
Her thoughts again turned to Wyatt, who’d come out to the hangar several times to sit with her while she worked. But sitting was hard for him, and he’d gone around picking up trash and discarded mechanic rags, setting the washing machine, and making her heart glad.
She had to go through Daddy’s house. Mett with the lawyers. Go visit the cemetery and made sure the headstone she’d ordered was correct. Not only that, but she hadn’t been in the air since Daddy had died, and the work at Payne’s Pest-free had been piling up. And up, and up.
She had to fly tomorrow, as people were sympathetic for a time. After that, they just wanted what they’d paid for. Marcy wanted to fly anyway, as the only place where she’d ever felt perfectly in place and at peace was in the cockpit of an airplane, soaring over the good state of Texas.
Her black maxi dress floated around her legs and feet as she started cleaning up. Exhaustion pulled through her, but she didn’t want to be here alone. She couldn’t stand the thought of going down the hall and sleeping in her bedroom alone.
Before Daddy had died, she’d craved being able to come home and go to bed alone. She’d spent the better part of the last year going straight to his house after work and staying with him until he fell asleep. Heck, sometimes she fell asleep at his house too, and she’d spent more than one night on his couch.
Her tears started afresh as she put a detergent pod in the dishwasher and tried to start it. The buttons didn’t light up, and she opened the door and slammed it closed again. “Just start,” she said, jabbing at the buttons without looking at them. The machine did not start, and her irritation grew. She didn’t have time for this. There was laundry to do, and more dishes, and garbage. And, and, and.
Someone knocked on the door, but Marcy didn’t want another casserole. Food didn’t fix anything. She didn’t have room for more flowers. They did nothing to fill the hole that now existed in her soul.
She held very still, hoping whoever had come to the door would assume she was asleep or away, and they would leave.
“Marcy,” she heard, and her heartbeat buzzed through her bloodstream. That was Wyatt’s voice. “Open the door, sugar. I know you’re here.”
How could he possibly know? Her car was at her father’s house, and she’d been riding with Bryan for the past week.
She took a couple of steps toward the door, and then paused. She didn’t want to see Wyatt with streaked makeup on her face. Her house an absolute mess. What a wreck she’d become since her father’s death.
He already knows, she told herself as he knocked again. He’d been the one to find her at her father’s house, with her deceased dad on the couch. She hadn’t been able to do anything after Daddy’s last breath, and without Wyatt, she wondered if she’d still be in that liv
ing room, crying on the floor.
Marcy walked over to the front door and opened it. Sure enough, tall, dark, beautiful Wyatt Walker stood there. She’d seen him at the funeral, wearing his white shirt and tie, as well as his brand of cowboy hat.
The man was made of gold, from his broad shoulders and hard muscles, to his bank account, to the pure concern in his eyes.
Concern for her.
Marcy wasn’t sure what she’d done to attract this man’s eye, as he could literally have anyone he wanted.
“Hey,” he said, obviously nervous. It was laughable that she made him anxious when he was the celebrity bull rider, when he was the one with national sponsors, when his face appeared in TV commercials, when he was the one with a western wear clothing line.
She glanced up at his cowboy hat, wishing she hadn’t broken up with him before the hats had hit the market. “Hey,” she finally managed to say.
“Can I come in?”
“I’m tired, Wyatt.” She leaned into the door as if she needed to prove it to him.
“Me too,” he said. “Tired of waiting for you to call me.” He took a step forward. “Please. Thirty minutes. I had a feeling I should come see you, and I couldn’t ignore that.”
She was tired of pushing him away, and she didn’t want to be alone. Besides, who was she to tell him his prompting to come see her was wrong? So she backed up and let him step past her and into the house.
“Thanks.” He paused and surveyed the scene before him, and Marcy wondered what he saw. “How are you holding up?”
Marcy didn’t want to answer that question, so she just exhaled and went back into the kitchen. She didn’t want to entertain anyone right now. She told herself that Wyatt had come out to the hangar several times and simply stayed with her. They didn’t have to talk all the time.
“I miss you,” he said next, and Marcy’s anger sparked.
She glared at him and snatched up the trash bag. She could put napkins and envelopes and half-eaten sandwiches in a bag while he watched. He made no move to clean up, and Marcy poured her last remaining energy into picking up the house.