Every Good Thing (Saddletree #2)

Prologue

BEN

“ Please, talk to her, Ben,” my sister’s voice echoes as I twist the steering wheel. “Let her see you.”

The idea sounds horrifying. It’s like undergoing a full bedroom inspection without cleaning it first, except the bedroom is my head. And I can’t clean it; I can only move things into corners or under beds where I hope she never looks. Or never wants for the full tour.

Love is too damn complicated.

I huff at my sister. “She sees me enough without a history lesson. It’s too much.”

Becca chuckles. “Too much for Lena? The woman gracefully handling an anxiety disorder, unemployment, a house falling apart around her, and the loss of her mother during a pandemic? She’s Wonder Woman, Ben. Nothing is too much for her.”

“We’ve only been… together a few months,” I remind her, unsure how to classify us. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“You love her, right?”

“Yes.” My quick answer surprises me and turns my twin into a giddy idiot, clapping and hooting like she’s won a prize by securing my admission. It is a significant milestone, one I never expected—at thirty-seven years old, I’ve only been in love once before, and that felt nothing like this.

“Then, you won’t ruin anything. You’ve said it yourself— she’s different.

” She groans at my hesitation. “Falling is the fun part. Grounding the relationship with a true soul connection is harder, especially for you. If she’s the one, you have to let her in.

Otherwise, you’re half-assing it, and it’s bound to blow up just like—”

“Don’t.” My stern voice strikes my twin silent. “That’s off the table.”

After an annoyed sigh, she regroups. “Remember what you told me when I asked what you love about Lena? I mean, after her hot bod and gorgeous bits?”

“Not after. Alongside. And I didn’t use those terms. But, yes,” I relent, knowing where this is going. “Her openness.”

“Then, give her what she’s so freely given you, Ben. Give her a chance to really know you.”

Though not keen to give my sister the satisfaction, I know she’s right.

I end the call with a definite, “I’ll think about it.”

Pulling into Lena’s driveway for probably the hundredth time since we met, I’m atypically apprehensive.

In law enforcement, there’s an expression we use when a suspect evades capture and drops from our radar—he gets small . He shrinks his existence until he’s nearly invisible and can hide in plain sight, surviving only by one careful decision to the next.

That’s what I’ve been doing for the last seven years. I’ve gotten small.

In my conversations.

In my personal life.

In everything.

With Lena, I don’t want to be small anymore. I can’t be. Not with the warm, full, generous person she is or the enormous life she’s determined to get when she eventually turns her family home into a working farm and bakery café—a dream she’s only shared with me so far.

The Jeep bounces easily over the rough terrain of her driveway, slightly muddy from recent summer storms. The blackened scar of a strange roof patch catches my eye—I can only guess she’s applied some epoxy to seal a leak, but I don’t want to offend her by asking.

She thinks I don’t notice the concerning state of her family home, but of course, I do.

I notice everything, especially when it comes to her.

Her home is one power outage or plumbing situation away from being uninhabitable.

When I’m not here, I’m stressed that she’ll fall through the floorboards or get shocked by a bad breaker.

Voicing my concerns would embarrass her, though, and I want her to feel comfortable and trust me enough to ask for help when she’s ready.

Partnering with her to renovate her family home and turn it into a business could be my dream, too, if she’s willing to share it.

The driveway is lined with narrow, leafy trees, stretching upright like guards in full salute.

The trees end when the path curves and the cedar and brick house comes into view.

It’s worn down from neglect, but its former beauty remains evident in its grand arched roofs on either side, double fireplaces, partial wraparound porch, and large, gabled windows.

Wood-boring bees have made a feast of the cedar, the roof has reached its limit, and the porch is too unstable to walk on.

Still, it’s large and lovely, despite its defects.

The entire property is like this—broken down but beautiful. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

And why I like her even more. She not only wants to save it, but she hopes to make it a place for everyone.

The driveway curves around the house like a backward question mark, cutting between it and what Lena affectionately calls her middle finger garden.

Tall shoots promise it’ll thrive by late summer with tomatoes, cucumbers and squashes, herbs of every kind, carrots, and potatoes.

It’s more food than she needs, but she’ll likely donate it, as she’s done with her baked goods.

Bookending the garden is a forgotten, rusty playground missing its swings. Beyond that, former horse pastures await a new life, their fences broken and the weeds thick.

Behind the house, the carport and expansive backyard appear.

It’s as if the driveway’s end divides the property into two parts: home and farm.

A football field away from the house and carport, the barn is larger and newer—ten stalls occupy the bottom level, along with an office, tack room, and horse shower, all filled with junk.

Above it, the barn loft holds decades of her family’s history from furniture to photos.

Lena’s parents never threw anything away, a fact that’s as inefficient as it is endearing.

Lena’s spent the pandemic meticulously sorting and salvaging her diverse inheritance. She calls it her parents’ legacy, and she’s taking good care of it, as she has with everything.

I keep hoping she’ll find something of value that’ll help her get back on her feet. We joke about her discovering a Picasso in the attic, but it’s unlikely that any treasure would be in suitable condition, given the state of things.

Behind the barn (or through it as it’s always open) is a gorgeous, acre-sized pond teeming with catfish and turtles, surrounded by a lush bank and her mom’s favorite tree, a sprawling live oak that seems ancient considering its size and artful in the way it curls, bumps, and sways with Spanish moss.

That’s where I should tell her.

When I park, the buzz of an electric sander draws my attention to the carport. Lena is removing decades of dust and grime from another salvaged piece—this time, a dresser. Her back is to me, and her toned arms and legs flex as she runs the appliance over the surface.

God, she’s beautiful. The thought upticks my nervousness.

But it also reminds me of the first time I came here to help her responsibly get rid of her parents’ gun collection, a part of her inheritance she didn’t want.

Then, she was restoring her first piece—a chestnut-brown hutch that once housed her family’s china.

The noise kept her from hearing me arrive, leaving me wondering how to approach without scaring her.

I already knew she was the same woman I pulled over for speeding weeks earlier.

Her amusing confession, distressed smile, and humor produced a warm sensation inside me, long forgotten.

I let her go with a warning and a note. Things will get better.

I never expected to see her again. Receiving her call weeks later stirred something else previously dormant in me. Hope, I guess.

On my first visit, I settled with a gentle tap on her shoulder, and yes, I scared her. But that didn’t keep her from smiling when she saw that it was me.

This time, I approach in stealth, slipping my arms around her before she realizes I’m there. She laughs, relaxing into me as she turns off the sander. Her hair smells like vanilla, mixing with the sawdust in the air. With a twist, she faces me, edging upward on her rubber boots for a quick kiss.

The fact that we’ve finally moved into the kissing stage of our relationship makes me very happy.

It’s a recent development. One rainy day aside, we hadn’t been physically affectionate until a recent beach trip pushed me over the edge—I couldn’t hold back any longer.

That kiss firmly and finally bridged the gap from friends to something else.

I like the slowness of us. Nothing moves forward until we’re both comfortable, and talking takes priority. It’s been good for her anxiety.

Good for me, too.

“Yay, it’s a Ben-day. I’m glad you’re here,” she says, though I see that already.

“Me, too.”

“What’s it going to be today, Ben?” She grins, pulling away to wave her arms across the carport. “Sanding? Painting? Laser tag?”

Laser tag tempts me, but I suppress it. “How about a walk?”

She dusts her hands on her jean shorts before slipping one into mine.

I don’t lead her directly to my destination—her mom’s Saddletree, nicknamed that because it held her dreams for this place like a perch for a saddle.

We traverse the garden first. She turns on the soaker hose she’s set up for a good watering.

We cut through the field, over rough brambles and dried weeds, until we reach the property’s edge.

A thick line of trees surrounds the property like strong fingers holding it together.

Long-leaf pines are most prevalent, towering over us and providing a blanket of needles for our path.

The air is noticeably cooler, and wrens and crows create a pleasant background for all the words I should be saying.

A warm-up conversation might ease me into it, even something lame about the weather.

But words don’t come.