January 22
Luke
T wo fresh inches of snow last night has given way to sunny skies today. I’ve spent the morning tending the horses, and now I’m hanging out in the gazebo, taking in the view. Only nine days left until the Northcutt deadline. And it doesn’t matter how many people I ask or how many lists of pros and cons I make—no good answer reveals itself.
As my chest tightens, I’m tempted to saddle up Sandy for a ride, but that seems irresponsible when there are a million estate issues to deal with. I’m about to head back to the guesthouse office when my phone buzzes and I glance down to see a text—from Taylor.
Not gonna lie—my heartbeat kicks up as I swipe to see what she’s sent.
Hope you’re home. Headed your way. Sorry no notice, but I have an idea that could help the whole town. Maybe you’ll think it’s crazy, but maybe you won’t. Word of the day: Solution! (Maybe.)
I blink and read it again. I can’t imagine what she has to say. I just keep staring at my screen, almost wondering if I’m dreaming.
But stop. Rein in your expectations. Because maybe it will be a crazy idea, or at least something that won’t work. So don’t get excited.
That’s tricky, though, with my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I’m not even sure if it’s about this idea of hers or just getting to see her when I least expected it.
That’s not my normal reaction to a woman—I’m generally cooler. But everything with Taylor seems different. She’s not my regular type. I don’t usually get rejected by girls I pursue, but with her, I do—whether or not it’s intentional. I don’t typically have to wonder how a woman feels about me, but with her, I just can’t tell.
When I hear her car coming up the drive, I realize I haven’t texted her back.
In the gazebo, I type. Second word of the day: Intrigued.
I hit Send and, a moment later, turn my head to see her walking around the house in fur-trimmed snow boots and the same cute hat from our last visit. My palms begin to sweat in my gloves and it hits me: Damn, I like her so much. Too much.
“Hi,” she says, stepping into the shade of the gazebo.
“Hey.”
She flashes a pretty smile. “The house and farm look beautiful covered in snow.”
I glance around at the roofs dripping with icicles, the boughs of pine trees dusted in white, and once again, she’s making me take it all in through fresh eyes. “You’re right,” I agree, letting my eyebrows knit. “Though I’m starting to feel like I miss a lot.”
“What do you mean?” She sits down beside me on the built-in bench.
“You just kinda make me see things differently, that’s all.”
“Well,” she says, giving her head an optimistic tilt, “maybe I’m about to make you see your whole farm differently.”
I lower my chin in hesitant anticipation. “Okay. Whatever it is, let ’er rip.”
“Yesterday, two women came in the bake shop,” she begins, and goes on to tell me about their interest in being able to stop and visit the horses.
And I’m pretty sure whatever she’s about to suggest isn’t gonna fly—until she adds, “I know, of course, that’s not enough to make a business. But I fell asleep still thinking about it, and this morning, I woke up with more of an answer.”
With the tension mounting now, I use my hand to rush her along. “And? The suspense is killing me.”
“Okay, what about…” she begins, “a horse park and sanctuary? A horse park for more horses who need homes—and for other horses who are good for trail rides. People could ride horses, watch horses, pet horses, feed horses, learn about horses. There could be educational talks and demonstrations. There could be displays and concessions. You already have the core of what you need to build it right here. You’d only have to add to what the farm already is.
“And sure, there are plenty of places where you can pay for a horseback ride, but the park and sanctuary aspects would make this more unique. More of a destination. A Kentucky hotspot.
“Would it bring in the new population and money the drywall plant would? No. But would it draw new traffic to Sweetwater that might spill over into the rest of the town and, at the very least, stand to help the inn and the Little Dipper? Yes. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt anyone by destroying the river view.”
She’s been talking rapidly this whole time and now finally stops to take a breath. “What do you think?”
It’s a lot to take in. Transforming our family home into a public attraction. Starting a second business. And the reality of, indeed, turning down the money offered by Northcutt. Even though I haven’t wanted to take it, my brothers will be livid.
Yet…it’s a vision I can see in my mind immediately.
It would take some money—we’d need more horses, more stalls, and maybe even more land. I wonder if Hank would be willing to part with some of the inn’s grounds—maybe the influx of funds would be a good tradeoff for him. It would also take hiring staff, buying additional equipment, and creating a parking lot, not to mention putting together a general business model: How much would we charge for what? For rides versus a petting zoo type experience? I wonder if there’s any funding available for places that save horses from euthanasia.
That’s my business brain kicking into gear, but my heart is telling me, “My dad would love this idea. My brothers might not, but…well, that can be worked around. And I’ll have to do a lot of number-crunching and research and thinking through the logistics to figure out if it would be profitable, but personally, I think it’s…brilliant.”
As her pretty eyes widen, she actually looks surprised. “Really?”
I give her a smile. “Really.”
She exhales a big breath I didn’t realize she was holding. “Because I didn’t know what you would think, or if there would instantly be some reason you’d hate it or know for sure it wouldn’t work.”
I shake my head, still smiling at the gorgeous redhead next to me. “Nope, I love it. And you’re right—it wouldn’t bring big money rolling into town on day one, but…I could see this being viable, a thing we could advertise, plan events around. Like you said, make it a destination.” Then, still gazing into her gorgeous green eyes, I tell her exactly what I’m thinking. “I always knew you were smart. But why was I so dumb?”
She looks a little confused. “Dumb?”
And I decide not to hold back, to just go for it. “It was dumb of me in high school not to see how attracted I was to you until it was pretty much too late. And it was dumb to let one rejection drive me to the wrong girl when I should have just talked to you about it. I’ve always thought of you as the one who got away, and since getting back to town, seeing you again, I’m having some big regrets about that.”
She appears caught off guard. Understandably. I just said some huge things without quite planning to. I sense her remembering what happened—or didn’t happen—between us back then, until finally she says, “We were both kids, doing the best we could at the time. And for what it’s worth, I wish I’d done things differently, too.”
At this, my eyebrows shoot up. “You? What do you mean?”
She offers up an uncertain shrug. “Well, I obviously wasn’t the most confident girl. I wish I’d been more resilient, tougher, braver. I wish I’d been the kind of person who would have just gone to the dance by myself to begin with.”
I let out a sigh. “I guess it’s easy to woulda, coulda, shoulda when it’s all in the past. But being a teenager wasn’t for the faint of heart.”
We exchange small, understanding smiles—though that’s when she scrunches up her nose to say, “Regardless, I guess we just weren’t meant to be.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to stay that way,” I assure her. And as I drop my gaze from her emerald eyes to her full lips, I know that, at last, I’m about to kiss her. “In fact, I’m starting to think we fit pretty damn well together.”
Like before, she seems timid, her lashes lowered—but then she’s bold enough to peek up at me. Like maybe she wants this connection as badly as I do. It’s all the encouragement I need.
Placing my hand on her shoulder, I lean in, catch the inviting scent of cake or something sweet hanging about her, and?—
“Hello again, Taylor!”
I stop, flinch, and look up. My well-meaning mother has just come out the back door of the house, carrying two mugs.
“I have hot chocolate!”
I could kill her.
Taylor
Every cell of my body is on high alert. He was starting to kiss me—only now he can’t.
“I didn’t know we had company, but I happened to glance out the kitchen window and here you are. It’s so nice to see you again.”
Something inside me wilts like a hothouse flower suddenly put out in the cold as Mrs. Montgomery walks into the gazebo bearing mugs with horses painted on them.
“Thank you,” I say, taking one. “That was so thoughtful.”
“Well, it’s sunny but still cold. Believe me, after all these years, I know the weather on this river well.”
She goes on about snow and the forecast and other things I only half hear. Because even though I was ready for it, my heart on fire for him, maybe a part of me is almost relieved by the interruption.
Did I want to kiss him? Of course. But if a kiss on the cheek from him left me spinning inside, what will a real kiss do?
And…just where do I think romance with Luke Montgomery would lead anyway? I can’t pretend any feelings I’d have for him would be casual—because they wouldn’t. It’s an impossibility. I mean, the very idea of his mouth on mine is turning me inside out. And no matter his regrets over our past misunderstanding, and no matter what happens with this farm, he doesn’t even live here anymore.
I’m dying to be kissed by Luke—but do I want to end up back where I was in high school? Crazy about a guy who’s leaving soon?
“Will you stay for lunch, Taylor?” I tune back in to the conversation to hear his mother ask.
I haven’t even looked at Luke since his mom came out—because I can’t. I might melt in the heat of his eyes given the seductive gaze he was casting before the kiss that wasn’t. Which feels sort of like the dance that wasn’t. A lot more wasn’ts with Luke, it seems, than things that actually happen, and I’m not sure it’s anyone’s fault—just the way things keep turning out.
“Thanks, but I can’t. I need to get back to the shop,” I claim. I totally could— Geneva and Kyra are both there right now—but I’m not going to. “I just came to tell Luke an idea I had—which I’m sure he’ll share with you. So thank you so much for the hot chocolate, but I’ll have to decline. Take care.”
And with that, I shove the mug back into her hand and rush away without even a glance behind me.
Real smooth, Taylor. Real smooth.
I regret it before I even reach my car. But it’s too late to go back.
And if a fear for my heart drove me to leave, maybe I should put the pedal to the metal and keep going.
Luke
“I’m so sorry Taylor had to rush off,” Mom says after she’s gone.
“Me, too.” You have no idea, Mom.
Peering down at me, still holding the mugs, she asks, “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
When I raise my gaze to hers without even the hint of a smile, she gets the picture. “Oh. Oh no. I’m so sorry, honey.”
Letting out a sigh, because my mother shouldn’t have to apologize for being nice, I pat the spot on the bench Taylor just vacated. “Sit down, Mom. It’s okay.”
When she does, I finally accept one of the mugs—and find her grimacing in my direction. “If I messed something up, it’s not okay at all.” Then she leans closer and, despite our complete privacy, whispers, “Is romance brewing?”
I don’t normally talk to my mother about my love life, but since she suddenly seems to be right in the middle of it, I confide in her, just a little. “I didn’t really think so, but…maybe it is.”
“Well, how wonderful! Tell me more.”
I look at her, this woman who raised me, this woman who I’ve spent more time with in the last two weeks than in the last two years. Part of me doesn’t really want to get into the nitty-gritty of my long past with Taylor Mulvaney, but…her eyes are so wide and she’s focusing on me so intensely. Maybe she’s trying to find things to care about right now, things that aren’t the husband she just buried.
And so before I know it, words start coming out. I tell Mom the whole story of the lost invitation to the sweetheart dance, and how devastated I was when Taylor didn’t show, and how tough that kind of thing has always been for me.
“It’s a normal reaction,” she responds. “No one likes feeling rejected.”
Yet I argue. I mean, we’re in this now, really dissecting it, so why not tell it like it is? “But me—I overreact . Every time. I’ve broken up with girls over minor slights. Even before the sweetheart dance, I took it too personally if somebody didn’t show up where they were supposed to, or said the smallest thing that made me feel put down. I guess it always just reminded me of Dad,” I conclude.
I instantly regret the last part, though.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said that. I know he was a good husband and you loved him. I loved him, too. I just…”
“It’s okay, Luke—you can tell me,” she promises when I trail off. “You just what?”
I hesitate, but finally go on. Even if I soften it a little—for her benefit as much as my own. “I just never felt like I measured up in his eyes. And he…wasn’t really there for me.” I lift my gaze to hers. “Surely you saw it—you know he never came to my games. And he definitely didn’t care about what mattered to me.”
I’m a little surprised at my own honesty given that we’ve never talked about this before. It was always, “Your father’s tired after a long day, but I’ll be there cheering you on.” And eventually it wasn’t even that—it was just her showing up and him staying home, undiscussed. My friends have always known Dad and I had issues, but acknowledging it to her feels different, bigger.
She stays quiet for a moment—until she says, “It was wrong of him, not showing up for you in those ways. It was selfish—one of his worst traits.” Taking my mug from me, she sets both of them down between us and closes my gloved hands in hers. “But I hope you know how much he loved you.”
When I don’t respond to that, though, she takes a deep breath, then looks me in the eye. “Okay, I’m about to tell you something that has to stay just between us.”
I have no idea where this is going.
“And it’s that you were always the best of my boys, with the best heart.” She squeezes my hands. “I’m proud of Tom and Aaron—of course. But I’m the most proud of you . You had the most to overcome.”
“I did?” I ask, a little dumbfounded.
She gives a solemn nod. “It’s hard when you don’t share the same passions or goals as your parents. It takes courage to go your own way in life. And you’ve done it so beautifully.” Her expression grows bittersweet. “Yes, there were times we worried for your future—but you proved us so wrong. Your father told me so time and again.”
This is the most shocking part yet, and I narrow my gaze on her doubtfully. “Seriously?”
She answers with a small smile. “I think it almost embarrassed him to be wrong because he was so accustomed to being right, being in control. But he would look up information about your business online and show me. He would say, ‘Our Luke has done good,’ or ‘Guess he knew what he was doing all along.’”
I respond with only a skeptical look. Are we talking about the same guy here?
“He should have told you he was proud,” she goes on, “but he was just never that kind of man. Same as his father before him. Somehow it was easier for him to tell me . And maybe he didn’t know you needed to hear it. But I promise you, it was there.”
Having stunned me into silence at this point, she keeps going.
“He was never a soft father, I’m aware. He was raised by a gruff man who believed there was only one path to success, and he became a similar man. To tell you the truth, it was good to see him a little humbled by your accomplishments—he once admitted to me with a little grin that maybe this meant he didn’t know everything after all.”
I swallow past the annoying lump that’s risen in my throat as a cold breeze streams through the gazebo. I’m not even sure I’m buying all this—because maybe she’s just deluding herself. Regardless, though, it’s a lot to take in.
“But I’m sorry if he failed to make you feel his love,” she tells me. “And he would be so, so proud of all you’re doing for me, and for the family—when your brothers…aren’t.”
I’ve stayed quiet a long time, and I don’t say anything to that, either—I’m angry at my siblings for hurting her with their neglect, yet acknowledging that isn’t what she needs right now.
As for all she’s just said, whether it’s real—or just something she’s conflated into being bigger than it was—I feel closer to her than I have since leaving home. So I finally pull her into a tight hug and whisper, “I know how hard it is on you losing him.”
After a moment, she peeks up from our embrace. “Just remember that he loved you very much, Luke. He simply wasn’t good at showing it.”
Love is a hard thing to measure when it’s not acknowledged, so as the hug comes to an end, I’m still digesting it all. “Okay,” I promise quietly.
“Well,” she says then, smoothing her coat and lifting a cocoa mug to sip from, “now that we have that settled, Taylor said there was something you wanted to tell me.”