Chapter 13 Knee-Deep in Branches #2
“It would be nice.” Hope spreads jam on a piece of toast.
“Or would be awkward and weird.” I set the casserole on the table. “So absolutely not.”
“We heard there was a birthday sash.” Wilma lifts the cushion on the seat behind me.
“And a tiara with jewels that could be easily stitched.” Faye lifts blankets, glancing underneath.
My sash?
Jewels?
Easily stitched?
It hits me. They’re here to collect materials for a Love Quilt. Materials from last night. Add to this casserole, and—
“What is that?” A familiar flannel peeks out of the side pocket of Faye’s bag. “Is that Hart’s shirt from yesterday?”
They try to stop me, but I’m too fast, and I yank out the shirt. My fingers search for the corner, and sure enough, the spot where the dart landed has been cut out.
No, no, no.
They’re making a Love Quilt for Hart and me. What the actual hell?!
I glare at them. “This stops right here.”
Wilma straightens so fast she almost topples over. “Stop what? This is just a friendly visit.” She tucks whatever she found under the blanket into a saddlebag-style purse.
“We brought casserole,” Faye says, innocently.
“No. No casserole. No matchmaking. No stealing my stuff for your love shrine.”
“It’s not a shrine.” Wilma picks up another cushion and peeks underneath. “It’s a Love Quilt for an inevitable love story.”
I don’t know how they get a single couple right if they’re pairing me up with Hart.
“It’s not happening.” I fold my arms over my front, his shirt still clutched in my hand.
“You two are practically folklore already. Why waste that?” Faye shrugs, and the handcuffs on her hat rattle.
“We don’t like each other. We coexist, barely. There is nothing quilt-worthy between us.”
“That’s how love stories begin. You think we didn’t fight with our husbands first? I threw a skillet once.” Wilma’s admission doesn’t surprise me.
“Okay, well, I’d like to throw a skillet now,” I say.
Faye giggles. “It wasn’t one skillet.” She turns to me, growing serious. “You’ll change your mind. They always do.”
“I will not.”
“Some folks bake pies, some folks build fences.” Faye bats her eyelashes. “We read souls.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m not playing this game with you two. I saw what you did to Hope and Levi, forcing them to build the kissing booth together because you went on a hunch about their childhood crush.”
“But they were right.” Hope licks a clump of strawberry jam on her lip.
“But there’s no secret crush between Hart and me. So this ends now.”
“Child.” Wilma touches my arm. “We’ve been matchmaking long before you were outta pull-ups.”
She grips Hart’s shirt, but I don’t let it go.
“And you don’t have to see the connection.” Faye also grips the shirt. “That’s why we’re here. You may not believe in fate, but fate believes in us.”
She tugs.
Wilma tugs.
I tug back.
“Besides, the quilt is already halfway stitched.” Wilma yanks harder.
“Excuse me?” I counter yank.
“Your mama’s been contributing to it since you were young, and his mama too. Baby pictures. A napkin from the Valentine’s dance where you tripped in front of him.”
We’re still playing tug of war with Hart’s shirt.
“You are not using my belongings. You are not narrating my life. And you’re not stitching together some imaginary romance with glitter glue and traumatic moments.”
I still have a scar from that fall.
“Mark my words, you’ll thank us when you’re walking down the aisle with Hart.”
“Go!” I free the shirt from their grasp and point at the tree line.
“You’re going to make such a feisty bride.” Faye sounds excited by the idea.
“Now.”
They don’t move.
“Fine. You know what, I’ll leave. I wanted to ride Onyx anyway.” I storm away. “And take your casserole with you,” I shout over my shoulder, and I swear Hope passes Faye something from her purse that looks a lot like my shirt from last night.
My body aches as I climb my beautiful mustang, but I push through. I’m a country girl, and riding horses is in my blood. I feel instantly better when we’re tearing through the openness and brush deep behind the lodge.
The rhythm of Onyx’s movement is soothing, and I feel the heaviness inside me lifting. The pounding in my head starts to fade, replaced by the steady motion of the ride and the wide-open space around me. Out here, in the quiet of nature, I can breathe. I can think.
And for the first time today, I feel... right.
I push out the thoughts of attending the rodeo and the matchmakers’ extracurricular activities. I let in the rich scent of pine and soil, the sounds of the wind whispering, and the chorus of birds.
I don’t stop riding until my heart and soul are bathed in the beauty around me.
Then I pull the reins and slow Onyx.
I close my eyes and let nature soothe me in a way I’m never able to do with the loudness of the world around me. It asks nothing in return. It doesn’t try to fix me. It’s a quiet company that’s patient and listens. This is where I hear my thoughts most clearly, and where I can sort my next steps.
A sharp crack echoes from the trees, followed by a deep splintering sound of wood breaking apart.
“This way, boy.” I click my tongue toward the noise.
The last thing I expect to find is Hart on our property, and certainly not with an axe in his hand.
His old denim shirt is damp from the afternoon air, and the way he swings the axe, with effortless precision, makes me stop.
Another thwack disrupts the stillness of the glade.
I’m not sure why I don’t break through the curtain of brush and kick his ass off my family’s land.
The stump cracks in half with a loud snap.
He mops the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
My bad dream slams into my head, followed by the matchmaker’s Love Quilt mumble jumble, and then my bucket list.
There goes my serene moment. All the emotions crash back into me.
I hate him for revealing something so private to my sisters and his brothers. But then I notice the way the afternoon sun catches the edge of his jaw and the way his thick arms flex with each swing.
Every move he makes is annoyingly smooth. He looks good for staying overnight in a cell.
Then I remind myself he’s knee-deep in branches that don’t belong to him.
With a grunt, he hoists the log onto his broad shoulder, as if it’s no more than a bundle of firewood.
Show off.
Where the hell does he think he’s going? Back in the direction of the Wilde property line. Which means he’s stealing our wood.
Real top-notch, cowboy.
My hands tighten on the reins as I decide to track him from a distance and catch him red-handed stealing from Fox land.