A Heart's Design

by Natalee Cooper

  I just have to say it.

  Shallow breaths replaced the words, and he searched her eyes, seeing his reflection in their steady gaze. “You don’t want to find my land’s story?”

  ****

  Madison peeked at Jase where he’d been pacing the kitchen for the last twenty minutes, talking on the phone and putting out a fire by the sounds of it. He ran a hand through his dark waves again—a habit he probably didn’t know he had. The quirk suited him. Like the fitted navy button-down he wore.

  Discarded bandage wrappers littered the counter, and she took one, folding it in half over and over as she shifted her gaze toward the hallway. But when another one found its way into her hands, Madison realized she was fidgeting.

  Standing, she cleared the mess off the counter, taking the wrappers and tossing them in the garbage bin. The towel he’d used to clean her wound was put in the little laundry room off to the side and across from the mudroom. There would definitely have to be an apology made to Jo for the dirty linen.

  A wave of dizziness tripped up her steps. The wall supported her as she closed her eyes until it passed, and a realization hit her—apparently, a person needed more than crackers to make it through a stressful day.

  Once certain the room would play nice and stand still, she stepped back into the kitchen and looked around for the bowl of snacks she’d spotted when they arrived. She grabbed the first thing she saw and started to sit back down, but her bloodied sleeve caught her attention. Jase was right. It hadn’t made it.

  Deciding now was a good time to change, she took her granola bar and tiptoed out of the room. A quick stop was made to the study to gather her drawings, and as a shot of pain streaked up her arm, she scowled at the dumb fireplace.

  At the top of the loft, Madison caught a glimpse of the shadowed tree line through the half-moon window. Her heart expanded at the idea of exploring some of those grandfatherly trees during her stay.

  Maybe I’ll still get the opportunity.

  An hour ago, a plane ride home felt inevitable thanks to her accountant’s carelessness. But now, it seemed she might have a second chance.

  Once in her room, she closed the door and tossed the papers and granola bar on the bedside table. The four-poster sighed under her weight as she sat on the edge to lug her bag up next to her. Using her sore arm as little as possible, she pulled out a silvery sage, oxford blouse. It was the top she'd planned to wear for her official meeting with Jase tomorrow, but right now, the wrinkled top was only slightly more appealing than her hoodie covered in blood.

  Digging a little farther through the rest of her tops revealed a cream V-neck folded near the bottom. The cashmere sweater had been a gift from her father after graduating with her Master of Architecture. He'd had it embroidered with the company's name and logo in gold thread that glittered in the room’s light. Tracing the stitching, she smiled at the memory of his beaming face when he’d given it to her—how proud he’d been.

  She carefully removed her ruined hoodie and slipped the sweater over her head, the soft material like a velvet petal against her skin. Its warmth rivaled a certain bachelor’s touch downstairs—a touch she shouldn’t have been so aware of but couldn’t get out of her head.

  Careful of her bandage, she threaded her sore arm through the sleeve but jumped when a knock sounded on her door.

  “Just a second.” She adjusted the hem down over her leggings and tucked her hair behind one ear before opening the door and apologizing. “Thought I’d better change.”

  Jase’s frame filled the entire doorway. “Good call.”

  Her pulse hiked up two notches too quick as the lamp-glow from inside her room defined the days-worth of stubble along his jaw and the easy slope of his shoulders. Too late, she realized she’d been staring, but his hint of a smile faded to concern.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Better.” Madison touched her sleeve just below where the bandage ended, and dropped her gaze, only to have her purple-clad feet come in to focus.

  Nice.

  She slid her fingers down her leggings, searching for pockets that weren’t there. “Unless you want to count my bruised ego.”

  His deep laughter filled her room, the sound like spring’s first rainfall, and she wanted to abandon every responsibility to revel in it.

  Maybe I hit more than my arm.

  The room teetered, like it had in the kitchen, and she closed her eyes. She leaned her head against the edge of the door, praying it would pass quickly like before.

  “Whoa, are you okay? You’re white.”

  “I’m fine. Just give me a second.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  His face blurred when she opened her eyes, and gravity laughed at her efforts to stay on her feet, but it wasn’t until strong fingers gripped her shoulders that she realized she’d actually swayed.

  “You’re right. I think I need to lie down.”

  His hand slipped around her waist. “Hold on.”

  Embarrassment heated her skin as he guided her toward the bed.

  “I’m sorry for all of this.”

  “You apologize a lot, you know that?”

  “Sorry,” she offered automatically, then winced.

  A shiver ran over her skin where his breath tickled her neck when he laughed. He tossed several decorative pillows from the bed then pulled back the down comforter so she could climb under the sheets.

  She curled up on her side and adjusted the pillow to see him better. “Thank you.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “I’ll be okay. I think it’s just been a long day.” She spied the granola bar on the little table and wished she’d eaten it before changing but figured another ten minutes wouldn’t matter.

  He hesitated before sitting on the edge of the bed by her knees, and for too many heartbeats to count, he stared, like he tried to unravel a mystery.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell? You might have a mild concussion.”

  “I’m pretty sure. At least, I don’t remember hitting my head.”

  Lines appeared in his forehead as he continued to watch her, and she stilled as he carefully felt her head. Even her pulse seemed cautious as his fingertips ran over her hair with the slightest pressure.

  “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  She shook her head, not realizing how cold she was until his warm touch. The gesture was intimate, not in a passionate sort of way, but tender, and her thoughts slipped out. “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

  He didn’t pull back right away. “And you’re not like most of the women I know.”

  She stared into his face, searched his eyes, hungry to know more. More of the real Jase. More of the man who had every right to be angry with her right now but instead was full of concern.

  “I really do feel bad. About Dustin overhearing our conversation. We’d never intentionally breach your trust.”

  He braced his arms on his knees, focusing on the floor, and she doubted a hot coal could snuff the coldness slinking through her bones.

  “As for Natasha and Simon, I don’t see how they could know. We haven’t spoken of it to anyone. Even Dustin doesn’t know specifics.” A lot of places on her hurt, and her head was still a little fuzzy, but she was with it enough to read the disappointment in his profile.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She nodded.

  “When we ran into each other that night at the gala, was it planned?” His head was still bent, his voice barely audible.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “After what Natasha said about your run-in with her brother at the gala, about your ambitions, I’m not sure what to think.” The muscles in his jaw tightened, like he struggled to choose the right words. “Like I said, you’re unlike most women I know, but…I don’t like games.”

  A dozen defensive words crowded on her lips, but they didn’t fall as he pointed to the gold lettering below her left shoulder.

 
“I understand what it’s like to want to succeed. To prove yourself,” he said. “But I’ve also seen firsthand that doing it at someone else’s expense will hurt you in the end.”

  “I would never—”

  He put up his hands. “I’m just saying.”

  The green glow of the time on the alarm clock slipped to the next minute as she sorted through her own response. “I know the Westons are friends. I understand you trust them. But you didn’t hear what was said that night. Just, please…don’t judge my character too quickly. Or by someone else’s opinion. I might not be perfect, but I do have integrity.”

  A noise between a tired breath and a laugh fell from his lips. “Judged characters are something I understand all too well.”

  “True. I guess you would.” Pushing her hand under her pillow, she nestled into it, grateful the room no longer spun. A breeze fluttered the curtains from her open windows, carrying in the scent of pine and grass. “Is it hard?” she asked. “Having so much of your life scrutinized?”

  He hooked his knee over the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest on the other side of her feet. “You get used to it.”

  She couldn’t keep her skepticism from creasing her forehead.

  “Okay. Yes, it’s frustrating. And annoying. And sometimes I want to throw sharp things, but…” He scratched at the scruff on his jaw. “I don’t have paparazzi camped outside my gate or tailing my every move. I don’t have every single thing I say plastered all over social media to be dissected, twisted, or labeled an agenda. So, the invasiveness could be worse. A lot more personal.”

  Like the last angle drawn in a new design, the whole picture of his situation became clearer, and she dropped her gaze, realizing she’d almost been the one to make it worse and a lot more personal. “That can’t be easy.”

  He laughed, but it was tight. “Eh, it’s all about balance. For the most part, I’m left alone. It’s only when I’m in the middle of a big real estate deal or project, the heat turns up, but I’ve learned if you give them a little, they don’t get too desperate, and everybody wins. Luckily, business transactions aren’t as interesting as Hollywood or politics.”

  “Right. Because it’s only your business that attracts all the attention,” she murmured, but her face flamed when his eyes narrowed, and her fingers begged to tug the pillow over her face.

  “I think maybe you did hit your head.”

  “I think maybe you’re right.”

  Jase leaned over, his hand sliding up to the edge of the blanket. He was close enough to kiss if she pushed up on her elbow. Angled just the right way. The room seemed to spin again, but this time with a different hunger, and she swallowed, mentally berating herself for the rogue thought.

  Professional lines, Madison.

  “I really feel scummy for what happened downstairs.”

  A smile parted her lips. “You seem pretty far from scummy. And it wasn’t your fault.” Then she sobered and looked up into his face. “Thank you for the second chance. We’ll find the perfect design for you, I promise. I won’t let you down.”

  But a spike of panic shot through her at the thought of doing just that—of not being able to deliver to his expectations, to find his land’s story. Yet, her worries stilled when he took the edge of the white down comforter he held and carefully pulled it over her shoulders, tucking it around her back.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Chapter Eight

  A horse’s cry forged with a crack of thunder. Blinding light sliced the air, each strike impossibly close to the other. He could hear the pounding of his feet as he ran. Or was it the blood pulsing in his ears?

  He needed to reach the stables, but which direction? He couldn't orient himself, couldn't gain any ground. He had to get to the loft.

  The darkness tripped him up, and his knees collided with the cold earth, his hands splayed out in front of him. Through his fingers, an energy mounted, coursing through his body, prickling his skin. He knew the lightning strike was coming before he saw it.

  He would be too late.

  "Please no…" his voice cracked.

  Flames licked the barn wood where it was struck, claiming it plank by plank at a speed to match the devil on a run. He gasped for breath, not daring to breathe through his nose. Any second his nostrils would fill with an acrid, choking smoke.

  A blast rocked the night, and he covered his ears.

  Wood ripped from metal, grinding and popping in the flames. Amidst the horses' frenzy roared the haunting cries, echoes to be seared into the marrow of his bones forever. He pressed his palms harder against his ears as uncontrollable tremors seized him…

  Jase stumbled from his bed, staggering out of his room to the bathroom, his ears filling with the sound of rushing water as he turned on the sink faucet. His shaky fingers barely held water as he splashed his face, but the shock of the cold liquid helped drive away most of the lingering nightmare. Reaching blindly for one of the embroidered towels, he pressed the soft cotton to his face, concentrating on breathing in and out.

  In…out…in…out…

  Back in his room, the bed sighed under his weight as he sat down and unzipped his duffel with only the light of dawn from his window. He touched William’s letter—the object responsible for the emotional tornado that was his life lately. The envelope’s corners were crumpled and the edges no longer straight. Everything about the state of the letter contradicted William. Like one giant piece of irony. The man who’d encouraged him to leave Idaho eleven years ago, knowing about the nightmares and their suffocating hold, was now the man responsible for dredging them back up again.

  Not that he’d meant to.

  Numbing his emotions, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and made his way outside to his rental car. Madison’s open window caught his attention, and his thoughts slipped to the woman still sleeping in the room next to his.

  She’d been both brave and beautiful last night when he’d fixed up her arm but also afraid because she’d messed up. He’d seen it in the way she’d wrung her hands, twisted that bracelet of hers. And yet, she hadn’t made any excuses, only apologized and asked for a second chance.

  Refreshing.

  He lowered his gaze from her window, but it didn’t stop the vision of her from last night with her head on that pillow—the one big enough for two, with her dark hair against the stark white bedsheets, the curve of her body all curled up like she’d been when he’d left her…

  The pictures were as vivid now as they’d been last night, and he wondered if waking up every morning next to someone like her would keep his nightmares away. Except, those were dangerous thoughts.

  Pulling open his car door, he slid into the driver’s seat and concentrated on putting the key in the ignition and shifting into gear. William needed him focused. Letting the man down by being distracted wasn’t an option. Not by nightmares, or thoughts of relationships he shouldn’t have.

  He drove north a few miles until stopping at a fork in the road. There, in front of him, was an old sign with two arrows. One pointed left, the Henry’s brand carved into a sturdy piece of wood that still held some shine. On the other was written the name of the Cutter ranch, the white paint chipped and faded until it was almost unreadable.

  His fingers choked the steering wheel. Not due to the sign’s dilapidated or lonely state, but from the fact it was because of him it was left so abandoned. An ache burrowed deep in his bones as he stared down the dry and cracked dirt road to the right. His home. Except, it wasn’t. Now it was only an empty piece of land, strewn with the literal ashes of his past.

  Clutching the wheel at ten and two, he stared down those arrows, his knuckles stiff and white. The pointed pieces of wood screamed he couldn’t cruise the middle lane forever, the safe lane. They shouted that ignoring his past wouldn’t heal him anymore than it would stop the nightmares. Not this time.

  You gotta dig deep. Get centered. Nothing else you do matters if you can’t step up to the plate.

&nbs
p; Words from his old coach came so clearly his foot almost slipped off of the brake.

  His pulse beat loud in his ears, filling the entire car. “Connect and make it count,” he whispered, finishing the saying.

  He hadn’t played baseball for seven years but missed crossing home plate. Missed making the hit that got him there. His coach had been right. Connecting with the ball mattered, but before you could knock it out of the park, you had to step up to bat.

  At that moment, he felt the weight of the bat in his hand and realized what he wanted more than anything, more than the fame or the dollars in his bank account, was to make this place a part of his life again. To heal.

  Memories of how Madison’s eyes had lit up in her office that day as she’d told him about finding the story of a project or piece of land, discovering its heart, of hope, were lucid. Her passion and assurance were why he’d made the unexpected offer. And why he’d extended it again last night, even after her mistake. She could help him take the plate.

  The grip on his chest lessened, and he filled his lungs. A stillness settled around him. Even nature gave him a moment of peace, leaving the trees calm and the insects quiet outside his open window.

  Peace.

  The sun had gained more height in the sky, and he eased his foot off of the brake, turning left toward William’s.

  Dig deep, he fought. Get centered.

  Jase parked outside the fence at the entrance and walked the curved gravel path that led toward the house. A red barn cut into the skyline a few minutes later, its weathered wood visible across the distance. Manure, dust, and fresh hay filled in the rest of the scene, making it as if he’d never left. Movement caught his attention from outside the tall, heavy doors, where a stocky man washed his hands at a spigot.

  His footsteps faltered when the man turned. He swallowed the lump crowding his throat as he covered the distance between them on shaky legs. “William.”

  The strong, weathered rancher embraced him tightly, and when he pulled back, his eyes spoke an understanding words could never do justice. “It's good to see you, son.”