Chapter Four
Trace
Miss Evie makes breakfast like she’s feeding a small army, eggs, biscuits, bacon, gravy, the whole spread, she fusses over me the entire time even though I try to help. When we’re done eating, she points at a picture frame like it’s an assignment.
“Since you’re tall and useful, go on and hang that for me.”
I don’t argue, truth is, I like helping her.
Miss Evie talks to me like I never broke, like the man I used to be never got lost overseas.
Around her, I feel like the old version of myself for a little while, and I didn’t realize how much I missed feeling like that until she gave it back without even trying.
I’m tightening the last screw when the front door opens behind me and I hear footsteps and then her voice.
“Morning.”
I don’t have to turn to know who it is but I do anyway.
Delta stands in the doorway, sunlight hitting her hair, curls loose around her shoulders, still in jeans and a fitted top like she got ready without trying. She looks… good. Too good for any version of me.
“Morning,” I say back.
She isn’t surprised to see me but something flickers in her eyes. Like she hadn’t expected me here.
Miss Evie doesn’t look up from the sink, but I can feel her paying attention.
I clear my throat and gesture toward the wall. “Just hanging this for Miss Evie.”
Delta moves closer to look, and suddenly I’m aware of everything, the sound of her boots on the hardwood, the scent of whatever she uses in her hair.
“It looks perfect there,” she says.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I tighten the screw another quarter turn even though it’s flush. “Just following orders.”
Her mouth curves, not a full smile, but enough to make my pulse jump.
I pack the drill and anchors into the toolbox so my hands don’t betray anything I’m feeling.
Miss Evie finally turns around, wiping her hands on a towel, schooling her expression into something neutral, but the twinkle in her eye is loud as hell.
I look at Delta. I probably could have said a lot more, but all I could focus on was her.
“You too,” she says, and there’s a softness under it she didn’t hide fast enough.
I step out onto the porch. The door closes behind me, morning air hitting my face.
I start toward the barn, toolbox in one hand, but my head’s nowhere near fences or chores or the schedule Cash left on the board.
It’s been days since the foaling, days since I stood in her office and named the foal Redemption.
I told myself it was nothing. I told myself she’s just my boss.
I told myself I’m here to fix my mind and not ruin hers.
But three times now, once in a field with a horse fighting to bring life into the world, and once in her mother’s kitchen over a damn picture frame, we’ve ended up in the same space like something keeps pulling our paths into the same line, and I’d be lying to myself if I said I don’t want it to happen again.
Delta
I show up at Mama’s hours house earlier than usual, I tell myself I’m just here to check on her and talk business, so I can get ahead of the day. It’s all a bunch of lies, and I know it.
I push the door open and step inside. Mama is humming at the stove, already moving in her morning rhythm. And then I see him…Trace.
He’s standing by the far wall, lining up a picture frame against the hooks I’m assuming Mama marked.
His back is to me, showcasing broad shoulders, sandy blond hair tied at the nape of his neck, dark Levi’s doing devastating things before 7 a.m. Ever since I was a young girl I’ve had an amazing imagination; I could think of things or read things and I would see it clearly in my mind like an internal movie theater and at this moment all I can see playing like a highly anticipated new release is, Trace wearing those jeans—they have to be Levi’s and nothing else but his cattleman hat.
They are hanging so low on his hips, his adonis belt is on full display. My gawd… and that happy trail.
Suddenly he turns and those eyes — amber, warm, and way too direct for someone who just woke up—are staring right into mine like he bought a ticket to the same show that is playing on repeat in my head.
Clearing my throat I eke out a “Morning.”
“Morning,” he returns, voice low, warm, unbothered, like he knows my little R rated movie secret.
Mama doesn’t even look up from the skillet. “Baby, I wasn’t expecting you this early.”
“I was up,” I say. “Thought I’d stop by.”
She nods toward him. “He’s helping me this morning.”
Trace tightens the screw on the frame with slow precision. “Miss Evie pointed and told me where she wanted it and I’m smart enough not to argue.”
Mama smiles into her pan, and I pretend I don’t see it.
I look at the frame, then at him. “Looks good there.”
A hint of a grin pulls at his mouth. “Glad I got it right, I definitely don’t want to upset the boss; she may take my breakfast privileges away.”
The way he says boss is entirely too intentional.
“I’ll get out of the way,” he says to Mama first, then to me. “I’ll see you around Delta.”
I don’t even think it just slips out. “You will.”
He holds my eyes for one beat too long, then nods once and leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the kitchen shifts the second he’s gone, like someone turned the volume down on the whole world.
I’m still staring at the door when Mama, busy at the skillet, says “so… you came by to check on me, huh?”
“I always check on you.”
“Mmhmm.” That satisfied little sound is loud enough without her looking at me. “Just making sure.”
I drink my coffee to hide the ridiculous smile tugging at my mouth.
Delta
Steam still clings to my skin when I step out of the shower and wrap the towel around myself before lowering onto the edge of the bed.
My body is warm and relaxed, but my mind refuses to follow.
I reach for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand and smooth it over my arms and shoulders, taking my time the way I always do at the end of a long day.
It should calm me, but it doesn’t. Mama has called me almost every morning since the first day I had breakfast with her. She never asks directly, it’s always:
“Baby, I made too much food,”
or
“I need your opinion on something,”
or
“I just like having my daughter at the table.”
I know what she’s doing. She knows I know.
Neither of us says a word. Breakfast has become my guilty pleasure.
I pretend I am only coming for her, but I wake up thinking about him.
I tell myself I’m not planning my outfits for breakfast, but I catch myself steaming tops and leaving earrings out the night before.
I haven’t cared about how I looked for a man in years.
I almost resent how easy it is for him to make me want to.
The flirting starts before Mama even finds her excuse to leave, and she makes an excuse every single time.
Trace hands me a plate, and instead of placing it in my palm, his fingers brush mine.
He steps behind me to reach the top shelf and lets his hand settle on the small of my back for balance, just long enough for me to feel it.
When stray curls fall forward, he tucks them behind my ear with no hesitation, and no apology.
Every time Mama turns away, he looks at me like he is cataloging reactions he intends to revisit later.
Then she leaves us alone. On purpose. Every single time. Suddenly the kitchen feels too warm, and too small, and too full of things neither of us should be saying. His double entendres are unreal like the time my mama asks if he needs anything before heading upstairs, and he responds with:
“No ma’am. I’ve got everything I need right here.”
Or one time he was holding the door open for me when he says, “Hmm such a beautiful view,” looking right at me when I turn back to look at him.
Half the time I bite the inside of my cheek just to keep my voice steady.
If I had lighter skin, I would be beet red from my collarbones up.
He never crosses a line, he just walks right to the edge and waits to see if I will come with him, and the worst part is that I always want to.
I press my palm to my thigh a little too hard, and exhale. I don’t know when I’d become this woman, Preston left me so emotionally bruised that I am unsure what to do when a man is interested.
“Girl, pull it together,” I murmur to myself.
I reach for my body oil, slathering it all over and just resign myself to the fact that Trace means something to me whether I want him to or not.
I slip into my pajamas, tie my bonnet, and crawl into bed with a sigh.
My body is exhausted, but my mind… not so much.
So I reach for my current comfort read, Mo Flames, because nobody writes escapism like her, and crack the book open.
A few pages in and I’m hooked all over again, right at the good part, when my phone lights up.
I frown and pick it up, unknown number. My thumb hesitates for only a second before I swipe. “Hello?”
Silence.
My stomach dips. “Who is this?”
Nothing. No breathing. No TV. No movement. Nothing.
“Okay, goodbye.” I hang up before they can.
I toss the phone face-down on the nightstand and try to go back to my book, but the sentence I was just devouring suddenly looks blurry. I blink a few times and force myself to keep reading, but the buzz in my head won’t quit.
Probably a wrong number. It was probably nothing, that’s what I decide. But whether or not I actually believe it is a different story.
Trace
The house is tranquil after dinner. I sit on the edge of the mattress in the cabin, elbows on my knees, staring at the floorboards without really seeing them.
Therapy was earlier this afternoon, and my mind drifts back to the minute Ranger stepped under me.
I was fine. I was always fine at first, it was when he slowed, hesitated, when the world went still that it happened.