13. Hailey
Hailey
A s we head down the mountain in Lennon's battered old truck, I glance at the man behind the wheel.
I'm finding it impossible to get a read on him.
One minute he blows hot, the next cold. When he rescued me from under that horse—essentially risking his life to protect me—I couldn't believe it.
I mean, I guess I can. I've always hoped that he's a good person underneath that gruff exterior, but hoping someone is good at heart is a very different thing to actually feeling them throw their body over mine, shielding me from that black stallion's furious attack.
I'm glad he's okay, because I would have felt terrible if anything had happened to him.
Looking back, I realize how stupid it was to approach a horse I knew nothing about—especially from behind.
What was I thinking? My parents taught me good animal etiquette from a young age, how important it is to read an animal's body language before interacting with it.
And patently, the black stallion's body language was angry, agitated.
But I mistook it for excitement. He kept bristling, and I thought if I gave him a sugar cube, he'd let me clean his stall—even though I'd already finished the ten empty stalls in the main stable.
But that's me, always needing to prove myself. Always wanting to go one better.
When I'd spied the smaller stable building I thought I'd impress Dean by mucking out the stalls in there too. But unlike the main stable, this one hadn't been empty.
One beautiful black stallion stood in the first stall, chewing hay from the feeder and eyeing me silently from behind a large, round, intelligent eye. His eyelashes curled upward, almost like someone had crimped them into place, giving him a slightly feminine feel, despite his size.
He looked harmless enough.
I wonder why they left him behind instead of taking him with the rest? I had mused idly. Maybe his rider's sick, in bed with the flu or something.
The moment I got close, his entire demeanor changed. One moment he was calm and relaxed, the next he turned into a frenzied maniac.
The next few seconds went by in a blur. I remember him rearing up, kicking down his stall door. I remember a sharp pain in my thigh—and I think that's when I dropped to the floor.
I lay there, thinking that one more well-aimed kick would kill me. Then I heard an urgent shout—could be Lennon's—and the next thing I knew, someone had thrown themselves over me.
Despite how stupid my actions were, and the fact that it was my fault he was in danger, Lennon hasn't scolded me, guilt-tripped me, or even said anything about it.
He hasn't threatened to get Dean to throw me out.
He carried me gently to his truck, strapped me in with the seatbelt, and drove us away in silence.
As we head down the mountain, the silence stretches between us and I get the feeling that Lennon is starting to get uncomfortable again, an emotion he had been too distracted to feel earlier. His frown is back in full force, and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
What's up with this guy? It's not like I'm yapping away, distracting him from his driving, or annoying him with attempts to make conversation. I'm literally sitting here. I don't think I'm being annoying….
So why does he seem to hate me so much?
I've tried to ignore it, but it's eating at me. Besides, my thigh is throbbing, and I could use some distraction from the pain. An idea occurs—if I ask him, he'll tell me. But I need to do it the right way, so he doesn't get offended. How to begin?
"I'm sorry," I say. "For getting myself into that mess."
"You've already apologized several times," he replies, in a tone that isn't exactly snappy, but isn't exactly welcoming either. "It's fine."
"But—"
"Seriously. You can stop talking."
Once again, his voice is sharp, and I think I've irritated him, though I don't know how or why. He finally releases a sigh, flexing his fingers around the wheel.
"Don't worry about it," he says. "Seriously, at least one hand a year makes that mistake. You're not used to our horses, so you don't know which ones are safe to approach and which ones are dangerous."
"Which is why I shouldn't have approached any of them at all."
He shrugs. "It's Dean's fault in the first place for not assigning you a chaperone for at least the first couple of days you were here."
"Was Reed given a chaperone when he got here?"
"No, but Reed can probably tackle that bastard on his own."
Fair enough. That question leads me to my next point of curiosity.
"What about you? That was pretty quick reflexes back there."
"I was in the military. It's kind of bred into you."
I nod, but because I'm infernally curious, I press on. "What about before that? Did you grow up on a farm, or did you get adopted into farm life too?"
His face tightens, and I instantly know I've flown too close to the sun. "My story is none of your business."
Ouch—that told me! But I'm not going to be deterred. Now that I've got him talking, I might as well get to the bottom of his seemingly severe dislike of me.
"Lennon—what's your problem with me?"
He coughs unconvincingly. "Who says I have a problem with you?"
"Oh, a little matter of everything you say and everything you do.
You ignore me as much as you possibly can, and when we do interact, you're incredibly rude and cutting—and I don't understand why.
You can't be like this with everyone, or you'd end up with no friends.
So why me? What have I done to make you treat me this way?
I get the feeling you're not normally this rude to total strangers—especially not to someone who once kept your daughter from getting lost."
I had originally thought his problem with me that day was simply a misunderstanding, exaggerated by heightened emotions.
I'd decided that he didn't know I was trying to help, not hurt, and his fear for his daughter's safety made him lash out.
I had therefore assumed that once he got home, calmed down, and thought it over, he'd realize his error and apologize, or at least feel embarrassed about his actions.
But he doesn't seem to regret it at all. He still treats me like I legitimately tried to kidnap his daughter— but he's not stupid enough to believe that. Is he?
"Did I do something to you?"
He doesn't speak for some time, seemingly focused on navigating the truck down the hill. When he finally does, he says, "You didn't do anything."
"Then what is it?"
"I... I have a problem speaking to strangers. Especially women. I don't get along with them."
That's strange, because he looks like the type of guy who effortlessly attracts everyone—not only women.
He's good-looking, but not aggressive like Dean, and he's not an obvious pickup artist like Reed.
He has the mannerisms of someone dependable, trustworthy, and safe.
He's the type of guy you'd trust to walk you back to your car late at night, or to pretend to be your boyfriend if some creep was following you.
In the rare moments when he hasn't been frowning at me, criticizing me, or insulting me, he's actually been good-humored, and it's an absolute joy to see him with his daughter.
I watched them during breakfast; he was so patient with her, so sweet.
The smile lines by his eyes are basically proof of his good nature.
All in all, I'm surprised to hear him say he doesn't typically get along with people—because getting on with people seems like exactly what he does best.
"Is this a recent thing, or have you always been this much of a pill?" I ask.
He snorts. Even though it's not a full laugh, I want to pump a fist in the air. I can tell how dazzling his smile would be if he ever allowed himself to show it. It makes me want to make him laugh again.
"Sorry," I admit. "It's just that I'm not used to not being liked. I won Miss Congeniality in my high school three times in a row, you know?"
"Really?" His tone is amused, but not sarcastic.
"Nah," I say. "I was voted in twice and almost won the third time, but Maylene Stevens had her mom bake apple pies for the entire football team, and she won by a landslide."
He gives another coughing half-laugh.
Then and there, I make it my mission to force him into a full belly laugh someday.
I'm not sure why it's so important to me. Maybe because beneath his prickly exterior, I can sense the profound sadness in his eyes. Perhaps because I see how much he loves his daughter, and how hard he's trying to be a good father for her.
Or maybe I'm a delusional masochist.
In any case, I think he desperately needs a laugh—and anyway, we all need a challenge.
I wonder what happened with his wife. Is she dead, or are they simply divorced? Has he been through the same kind of loss as me?
I don't ask. He's a little more relaxed now, and I don't want to send him back into his shell. I let myself have the quiet victory and hum along with the song on the radio—an old pop song I haven't heard in ages.
"California girls, we're unforgettable, Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top..."
Lennon snorts again, and I glance over. "What?"
"Nothing. It's just that you and Reed seem to have a lot in common."
"Oh." I blush, the pleasant little victory I was nursing instantly dying as I recall him finding me making out with Reed in the stables.
God, why did I have to remember that? It was such a mortifying ordeal.
I don't know what's wrong with me—why I let myself make out with Reed like that.
It was such an appalling lapse in judgment.
Yes, Reed is a total beefcake, but he's trouble, and I already told myself I wouldn't get involved with him again.
Still, the second he skimmed his lips over mine, it was like all my hard-earned resistance flew right out of my brain. I melted for him.