Chapter 36
36
“She’s already taken so much from you,” his momma reminds him over the phone as he contemplates doing what he’s told.
“Don’t let her take this too.”
An ill-fitting pair of borrowed sneakers wreak havoc on my feet. Athleisure-wear a size too small clings in all the wrong places, shorts riding up and sports bra chafing. Pain shoots up my legs with every step, inhibiting my ability to appreciate my picture-perfect surroundings.
Bounding ahead, I swear Mama and Herc mock my slow, hobbled pace, tongues lolling as they yip at me to hurry the hell up. Just like I swear they laughed when, a few hundred feet back, I tripped and ate dirt so spectacularly embarrassingly. I, on the hand, definitely did not laugh as I peeled myself off the ground and hissed at the gravel-embedded knees that barely just healed from their last set of scrapes.
“Go for a hike, ” I mutter beneath my breath, scowling at the blue, late summer sky. “ It’ll help. ”
In defense of my past self, it usually does. Usually, there’s no better way for me to burn off some extra energy, to untangle knotted thoughts, to distract myself. Not today, though. Not after the few days I’ve had—the longest few days of my life, full of tears and avoidance and enough disbelief to make a girl disassociate from reality completely.
I consider it a small miracle that I haven’t. A bigger miracle that I managed to get out of bed at all this morning, to leave my apartment, to brave the rolling hills of Serenity Ranch despite the risk of running into a married hand. The biggest miracle of all; I saw Hunter. From a distance and separated by a solid wall and a window pane, but I saw him. He saw me.
I didn’t collapse. I didn’t spontaneously combust. I didn’t burst into tears either, although I was pretty close. I resisted the urge to rush outside, to let him convince me to forgive him more than I already have. And for that tremendous display of restraint, I thought I’d celebrate with a hike—or rather, I thought I’d get the hell off Serenity before I crumbled, so I stole some clothes from Lux and hauled ass out of there.
Clearly a sound decision, since I’m trodding back to my car with blood dripping down my limbs.
“ Herc ,” I reprimand the little guy when I almost step on him for the third time. Gently nudging him away with my foot, he nips at my shoelaces before taking off on an erratic, winding path towards the parking lot just beyond the upcoming bend. Casting a glance at a much calmer Mama, we share a look that feels an awful lot like one two parents might exchange over their misbehaving child.
I whistle for Herc to slow down, to come back where I can see him, but he pays me no heed, and a little bit of worry flares—he might not be as fragile as he once was, but he’s still just a pup. My limping walk becomes more of a limping jog as I pick up speed, fuelled by the draw of a first aid kit in my glovebox and the hot, greasy meal I’m definitely stopping for on the way home.
I come to an abrupt, skidding halt when I find my truck is no longer the lone occupant of the parking lot like it was when I first got here. Another joins it now; an all-too-familiar Ford with an all-too-familiar man leaning against it.
His face may be hidden by a baseball cap, athletic shorts and a compression shirt replacing his usual attire, but I don’t think anything could staunch how easily I recognize Hunter Whitlock.
As I approach, he straightens leisurely, eyes scanning me slowly, and I wonder if he’s purposely trying to unsettle me; if he’s purposely trying to distract me when he takes off his hat and rakes a hand through his hair. “Like takin’ care of you, Line, but I don’t like this pattern.”
Silent, I school my features to hide my confusion, again wondering if the slightly teasing statement nonchalantly sighed by a man who looks anything but is some kind of trick meant to disarm.
Big hands resting on big hips, he pushes off his truck and closes the distance between us. “What happened?”
I blink. “Nothing.”
Ever-so-subtly, his jaw locks. “You're bleedin’.”
“Tripped.”
One word answers. I can handle one little word. I can’t mess up one little word. Even if one little word makes Hunter scowl like that.
Kissing his teeth, he reaches for me, and for a moment, I forget. I forget I’m upset and mad and a million other things, and I let him carefully take hold of me and tug me towards him. Little traitors that they are, the dogs follow without instruction, needing no encouragement to hop into the open truck bed, two sets of canine eyes waiting expectantly for me to join them.
I almost do before my brain kicks into gear.
Abruptly stepping back, I jerk my hand away and hide both behind my back, like that might stop him from staring at me like I’m some wounded puppy. Another shuffle brings me closer to my car. One more and I’m able to grasp the handle on the driver’s side. “I’m fine.”
Two words. Come on, Caroline.
Tugging on the door, I barely open it before a firm hand plants itself against the frame and pushes it shut. When I try again, the same thing happens. The third foiled attempt draws a frustrated noise from my throat, but that only serves to quirk the corner of an infuriating mouth. “I can do this all day, honey.”
Don’t call me that. Don’t be charming. Don’t look at me because I can’t think when you look at me.
When he looks at me, my determination wavers. It dies, if I’m being honest, when he quietly asks if I really fell, and looks so damn relieved when I nod. My self-control suffers a quick, unfortunate demise that leaves me susceptible to cautious fingers wrapping around my wrist, to being led around his truck, to him patting the bed and me obeying the silent command.
At least I don’t let him help me up, I do that all on my own, and I sit there sullenly—or at least as sullen as I’m capable of being—while Hunter mops up my wounds for… what, the third time now? Maybe he’s right about that habit thing.
At least he’s quiet as he dabs a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic across my knees—at least he has cotton balls and antiseptic and real, name-brand BandAids that actually stick properly because evidently, his first aid kit is a lot better than mine. At least our physical contact is limited to the occasional, clinical brush of his fingers against my stinging skin.
Except for the thumb on my wrist, right above my pulse. My rapidly fluttering pulse that I blame on adrenaline, not on our proximity. Nevertheless, I’m grateful when he retreats, leaving my pulse free to race, and me to breathe un-Hunter scented air.
I’m less grateful when, after dipping in the truck’s open back window, he drops a bouquet of flowers in my lap. Daisies in every shade of red, orange, and yellow.
Damn it.
A defeated sigh of his name only makes him hop up beside me, the metal creaking under his weight, and I oddly relate—the hand nonchalantly settling on my thigh certainly makes me wobble.
My efforts to move it are futile. Worse than futile, actually, because somehow, it ends with him holding my hand, and refusing to let it go.
I sigh. “I thought we agreed we were gonna stop this.”
A calloused thumb traces the slope of mine. “Pretty sure I never agreed to anything.”
“You were right, okay? I’m not cut out for casual. We can just go back to being—” friends , I almost say. Like I’m strong enough to handle that. Like he might be sticking around to be my friend. Like his wife isn’t still trolling the town, and just the knowledge of her being near makes me sick to my stomach.
That’s not friendly .
So I amend, “We can just forget.”
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No,” he repeats. “ Fuck no. You wanna wait ‘til I’m officially divorced? Fine. I’m patient. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not—”
That’s not what I meant, I was going to say, but evidently he doesn’t care what I meant. He doesn’t let me clarify. He shakes his head, firm, vehement . “Be mad at me, Caroline,” he says—he begs . “I can handle it. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizin’ for it. Just don’t be done. Please, don’t be done.”
I find Lux sprawled on a blanket in the middle of a field, basking in the afternoon sun while her son dozes in a shaded travel cot.
Leaving my truck parked beside hers, I flop down next to her. “What does it mean when a man says they’re gonna spend the rest of their life apologizing to you?”
Lux drops the book she’s reading onto her chest, head lolling towards me. “Pretty sure that’s a marriage proposal.”
“What if he’s already married?”
“Sharing is caring, I guess.”
I groan a laugh, but it’s quick to fade, quick to be overshone but a weary exhale. “He asked me not to be done.”
“Are you?”
I can’t lie. “No.”
“Do you wanna be?”
Again, the truth prevails. “No. But…”
Lux understands; even though I don’t elaborate, she gets it. “Yeah. But .”
Sighing, I prop myself up on my elbows, squinting at the expanse of green stretching as far as the eye can see. “What’re you doing out here?”
“If I stare at Hunter too long, I start developing murderous instincts.”
“ Lux .”
“I’m ruminating.” Sighing, she sits up, one hand shielding her face while the other gestures aimlessly. “All this land is making me itch.”
Despite my mood, I snicker. “Poor little rich girl.”
A fist grinds into my thigh. “I wanna do something with it, smartass. Build something.”
“As if you don’t have enough to do.”
She shoots me a look, but I know she knows I’m right. Just like I know she’ll probably take on a new project anyway even though she has enough going on in her life. Some of which I apparently know nothing about—some of which she promised to tell me before everything went to hell.
When I open my mouth, Lux is already sighing before the question even comes out. “Are you gonna tell me what happened with Everett James?”
She groans at the sky, dragging her hands down her face in distress. “I’d rather not.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I resort to desperate measures—to puppy-dog eyes and pity. “Give me something to think about other than the guy I like and his wife.”
Narrowed eyes slide my way. “That’s dirty.”
I pout. “I’m sad and pathetic. Make me feel better.”
Lux tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger. For a long few minutes, she stares into space. And then, really quickly, like she’s ripping off a BandAid, she blurts, “I slept with him.”
I choke on my next breath. “ What? ”
Displaying none of the triumph I personally would feel if I’d slept with a man like that, Lux rolls onto her stomach, unusually unsteady fingers picking at tufts of grass. “Just once.”
Just once , she says casually. No big deal. Just once did I sleep with Everett freaking James. Semi-composed and only marginally shrieky, I ask, “When?”
She pauses. “About a year ago.”
Like a falling brick, it hits me. “ Oh .”
About a year ago, Lux and Mark were still together. About a year ago, they were this idyllic, happy couple. About a year ago, Lux got—
“I can hear you thinking.” Lux sighs. “And I don’t know, okay? I don’t know if he’s…”
Alex’s dad. She doesn’t know if Everett James, county legend, all-American icon, is the father of her child.
Jesus. And I thought I had problems.
“Does he know?” He didn’t seem like he knew. Back when he showed up on the ranch, he certainly didn’t act like a guy who was visiting the mother of his child—now that I think about it, he said he’d never met Lux, didn’t he? I met their grandparents once , he said, and that was it.
Lux’s shaking head confirms my suspicions, unnervingly timid as she offers an explanation. “He didn’t know who I was. We met in a bar in Ponderosa Falls. Mark and I were fighting, and I was a little tipsy, and Everett was…” She slices a shaky hand through the air. “ Everett .”
I nod knowingly. Everett , indeed.
“By the time I found out, he was long gone. And what was I gonna do? Track him down at some rodeo in the middle of nowhere, drag him away from his buckle bunnies and say, ‘surprise, you might be a father!’? Yeah fucking right.”
She huffs a laugh, talking to herself more than to me, but that’s okay. God knows she’s been my sounding board a lot over the past few days; I can return the favor.
“I was gonna tell him. Maybe . I was building up the courage, but he’s already gone again. I heard the guys talking—his dad had a heart attack so he came home for a few weeks. I thought—” She cuts herself off, laughing sardonically before scoffing. “He probably wouldn’t even remember me. We talked for, like, a second. It all happened so quickly, y’know? I didn't—”
She stops mid-sentence again and makes a frustrated noise, like she keeps saying things she doesn’t mean to. Lowering herself onto her back again, she stares at the sky and whispers, quiet as a mouse despite our solitude, “He has a birthmark. A huge one, on his shoulder.”
Sobering realization washes over me just as her head flops to the side, her mouth set in some wobbly semblance of a smile. “Just like Alex’s.”
I don’t know what to say to that. What can I say? I’m trying to conjure up something, anything, when she looks away again—when she takes my silence to mean something it doesn’t. “I know. I’m a terrible person.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
She snorts like she doesn’t believe me. Like she really thinks I’m lying here judging her.
“I was thinking,” I roll onto my stomach and catch her gaze, “that we make quite the pair. The adulterer and the mistress.”
Her laugh is real, but strained. “The difference is you didn’t know about Cheryl. I didn’t bump my head and suddenly forget about Mark.”
“The difference is,” I flick her shoulder, “I hate Mark. I love you.”
“You?” She gasps, feigning shock. “Caroline Brennan, capable of hatred?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Another laugh, and the corners of her mouth quirk too. Wriggling a little closer, she tugs on a strand of my hair. “I love you too, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I relish in the unfamiliar, utter certainty of it. “I know.”