CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Cassie
“And I hit Dusty right in the head. Knocked his cowboy hat off into the snow. He was pissed.” Haden chuckles, telling me how he and Colin snowball-bombed Dusty today. He sets his glass down on the table between us to warm his hands by rubbing them together.
“Bunch of five-year-olds out there working for Silver Pines,” I comment, wiggling my toes in my boots. It is cold out here. Damn cold, but I’m not ready to go in yet. I like this side of Haden. The one that is open, funny and light.
“I don’t remember the last time I had a snowball fight,” I say staring off into the trees.
“Oh really?” he asks, mischief lining his face.
“That is not an invitation,” I say. “I’m already cold enough.”
I swallow down some bourbon in an attempt to get the warmth pumping through my blood.
“Tell me something real, Haden,” I ask.
“Something real?”
“Yeah, something no one else knows about you.”
Haden leans back in his chair as he thinks for a minute. “I like animals better than people,” he eventually offers with a grin.
“In general?”
“Yep,” he answers. “I’ll take a horse over a person any day of the week.”
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, tapping my pen on my notebook.
Haden starts to laugh. “This therapy you’re doing is rubbing off on you. You look like you’re about to analyze me.”
“Maybe I am.” I retort, taking another sip.
“For me, animals are easy creatures to relate to. Always have been. They don’t lie to me, I don’t lie to them. They have simple needs: food, water, affection. With animals, there are no games. But people? Not so much.”
He pours a little more bourbon in his glass. “People let you down every chance they get.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, our eyes connecting.
What he’s saying makes sense in relation to his parents.
A pang of grief for him washes over me. I lost my dad just like Haden lost his mom.
But, in some ways, he had it worse. Because I know my dad loved me.
All Haden was left with when his mom went away was questions. And unanswered ones at that.
“Be right back,” he says now, cutting the tension in the air. He disappears into my cabin for a few minutes and then returns with an outdoor space heater.
“You knew I had that the whole time and you’re just now bringing it out?” I ask in mock shock.
“Can’t hack a little cold?” he jokes, plugging it in and angling it toward my toes.
“No,” I admit “I need warmth to work my magic.”
“Is that what’s in the notebook?” Haden asks, holding his hands out in front of the heater. “Songs and musings by Cassie Spencer. Songs about ranch hands she met on her travels.”
“When I was a kid, I used to number them,” I say. “Cassandra Quinn Spencer, Music Book One.”
“What number are you on now, Cassandra Quinn?” His voice is low, and my full name on his lips turns my insides to fire unexpectedly.
“I couldn’t tell you if I tried. Number one fifty maybe,” I joke, putting my feet in front of the heater. Secretly I’m glad he brought it out. I wasn’t ready to go in yet. It’s too peaceful out here, and I’m enjoying his company too much and feeling warmer by the second.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I nod and sip my drink, taking in the way his sweatpants cling to his strong legs and the thick flannel coat with the hood up to keep him warm. His hair is dishevelled, and all I want to do right now is crawl inside his coat and breathe him in while he wraps those powerful arms around me.
“You never answered my question.” Haden nods to my closed notebook. “Are you writing more songs about me in there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I answer coyly.
Haden leans forward and smiles—no guard up—as more mischief fills his stunning blue eyes. He’s so goddamn gorgeous it hurts.
“Hope it’s not a how-to guide on spying.” He lets out a low chuckle. “Cause you sucked at that.”
I kick at him with my boot-covered foot. “Shut up. How dare you, Cowboy? Using my moment of weakness against me.”
“Well, now we’re even at least,” Haden retorts, swirling his bourbon in his glass. His eyes connect with mine and I can see something lurking below the surface. But I don’t press. We agreed we’re past that. Friends.
“It’s what inspires me,” I say. “In my notebook.”
“This place inspires you?” he asks, looking out at the snow-covered trees. The moonlight makes everything more ominous, as it gives the trees their shadows, which look like they continue for miles through the woods and pasture. There is a quiet stillness. The calm before the storm.
I follow his gaze. “Yeah. It really does. It feels like I’m supposed to be here.
Some things can be just so beautiful they evoke this awakening in you, a reminder that there’s so much more out there than you’ve seen.
That’s what this place is. It’s reminding me what beauty looks like again. What life is about, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, Princess,” Haden answers, his voice low and resolute.
A beat of silence passes as we stare out at the trees, but when I pull my eyes from the woods and look back at him, I’m surprised to see he isn’t looking at the peaceful forest with me.
He’s looking at me with an understanding in his eyes that touches me somewhere deep in my soul.
FIONA
I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you’re healing up alright. You’ve been on my mind, Cass.
Thank you. I’m writing again and I think I’m feeling better. I feel like this place might be good for my soul.
FIONA
Ranches in the middle of nowhere seem to have that sort of effect on people. My dad was a cattle rancher in Colorado. So trust me when I say I get it.
It’s just peaceful here. And talking with the grief therapist is helping too. Thank you for recommending her.
FIONA
I’m glad! She is excellent. And Cassie, do me a favor?
Don’t rush anything. Enjoy your time there. You’re gonna do great things very soon, but your peace of mind and your wellbeing are always worth putting anything you need to on hold.
Thank you.
FIONA
Don’t mention it. And a cowboy like the one in your video doesn’t hurt when you’re mending a sad heart also Winking Face
Remember what I said. I’m not in the habit of poaching, but if you ever need anything I’m here. Even just as a friend. All you have to do is call.
Classic James Taylor
FIONA
The one and only. Take care, hun.
I set my phone down. I genuinely like Fiona and I feel like she actually cares about my wellbeing, rather than seeing me as someone to gain from. In this line of work, finding someone like that is a rarity.
My phone buzzes again. Only this time I don’t read the messages with a smile on my face as they come through.
DAX
I was able to swing you some studio time this week at The Chapel to record the album.
I look up to the ceiling and take a breath before responding. Unbelievable.
I said a month, at least. It’s been just over a week. I’m not ready for that yet. Plus, I’m doing some writing here so I might want to switch the last two songs up.
DAX
I thought you were just being dramatic when you said a month. And you can’t change the music now, Cassie. Be reasonable.
Let’s just stick to the plan.
My ears start to burn and my jaw tenses, I feel like screaming but it’s MY album. I use quick fingers to type so I can just be done with this conversation.
I’m just starting to feel like myself again, thanks to this place. But I’m not ready to go back to work and I don’t want to be rushed.
DAX
It’s your choice. But let me just remind you that if you’re not visible, you’re forgettable.
How could I forget.
Goddammit. I was having a good day. I haven’t written lyrics this easily since my early days on the bluegrass scene in Memphis.
This morning it was quiet and dreary, which served as the perfect creative backdrop for my soul.
I’ve almost put the finishing touches on a song and I’ve been here for less than two weeks.
I stir my pasta sauce as I think of Haden and hum the tune I can’t get out of my head.
I glance out the window of my cabin at the snow falling heavier in big flakes outside.
It’s just starting to get dark and, before Dax soured my mood, I was thinking how beautiful it all is.
Haden’s cabin is dark, and his truck is missing from the drive despite the fact it’s early evening.
Which means he’s been at it with the boys for close to twelve hours.
I do my best to focus on my dinner, but my mind keeps wandering back to him.
Okay, maybe Fiona is right, maybe it’s this place and the cowboy I sat outside with last night until I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore.
Both of them seem to be good for my soul.
It was close to two in the morning when he finally told me he had to head back to his cabin to sleep, or he wouldn’t be any help to anyone preparing for a snowstorm today.
When I heard his truck start at six a.m., I felt a little pang of guilt as I snuggled back under my warm duvet.
But then I realized I think he liked talking to me as much as I liked talking to him, and that he could’ve left anytime.
He chose to stay, so as annoyed as he pretends to get with me, some part of him likes my company in the same way I like his.
I’m willing to bet he doesn’t understand why any more than I do.
I picture him sitting across from me on my porch, his heavy winter flannel bunched around him with the hood pulled up, while we talked about anything and everything.
He told me about his plan to one day take over Penny Lane, and the admiration he has for Wade, Nash and Cole.
He talked about this place’s late leader, Wyatt Ashby, and how he’d brought Haden onboard when he had no plans for his future after he was injured at school.
He filled me in on how Wyatt gave him a fresh start at Silver Pines.
How he taught him that life is all about choices—that we all have the ability to take our own reins and steer our lives in any direction we choose.
I take my time with my thoughts while I assemble the ziti, preparing it to bake in the oven while I sing along to the Dolly Parton album playing through my speakers.
I do it like my mama does—like a lasagna, but with a good layer of ricotta in the middle.
My stomach growls, and I think about how great it’s going to be to just curl up with some guilt-free carbs and a movie while the snow comes down outside.
Maybe I can make it through tonight without getting off to the idea of my hot, rugged neighbor.
I clean up the kitchen, and then it’s time for my next therapy session with Dr. Payler over video conference while the ziti cooks.
She has me practice my breathing techniques while I picture the face of the woman who died in front of me.
I remember her dark, wavy hair, which reminded me of Ivy’s, and my whole body tenses at the memory.
But Dr. Payler helps me through. She tells me to picture that moment as a storm—violent wind and rain.
She tells me to imagine making my way through the storm to the other side.
She tells me that the chances of something like what happened in California happening again are one in hundreds of thousands, and that my fear is around not having control over my surroundings.
Her words hit deep, and my nerves are shot after our talk.
When we’ve finished the session, I open the kitchen window to let in some fresh air while I eat, taking deep breaths and counting the way Dr. Payler taught me to.
These discussions take a lot out of me. Reliving that night isn’t easy, but I know in my heart that if I’m going to heal, I need Dr. Payler ’s help.
And I need to start being honest with myself.
There are no sounds outside as I breathe in the cool air that filters through the screen. It’s the kind of snowstorm that makes the world feel padded, like you’re in a sort of soundproof room as the flakes fall down. It’s eerily beautiful.
When I’m finished eating, I shower and change into my sweats, Haden still isn’t home. So I curl up on the sofa with a blanket, a container of ice cream and a romcom. Before I know it, I’m drifting off to sleep with the snow falling outside my picturesque cabin window.