7
Heath
Benton Silver’s business accounts were handwritten. Nobody had introduced the man to a spreadsheet, it would appear, not that Heath knew much about it himself. His own accounts may have been old-fashioned, according to his daughter, but at least his were readable.
Heath sat in his father’s comfy leather chair, with added lumbar support, and flicked through A4 hardback books, not making head nor tail of the format.
Fran said she would do the books herself from now on, but Heath relieved her of the extra duties. He knew she had a lot going on and didn’t want her burdened with more, especially when he could simply step up and get involved.
Glancing around the small office, Heath wondered just how happy his dad had been. There wasn’t any reason to think Benton had been sad, but with his own feelings being hidden for so long, it was only to be expected that he often looked at others and decided they too had secrets.
He went over to the tall white bookcase that held books, school trophies, and boxes containing blasts from the past.
An old cream cigar box kept his great-grandfather’s war medal safe. It was his mum’s pride and joy, not that it made much of an appearance. He often told his mum to let the Imperial War Museum in London display the Victoria Cross in all of its glory, but she said it was fine where it was, undisturbed. He lightly touched the top of the box, proud of his ancestor’s bravery.
Should he take a peek? Best not, the time was ticking on. He glanced at the clock close to the large map on the wall that pointed out his daughter’s travel route. It was close to dinner time, then he was on call for the RNLI for the night. He was looking forward to going over to the lifeboat station for a change of scenery. Willow was getting a different bedroom view every week or so. He often wished he could escape the farm.
I wonder what time it is in Singapore?
With a dull ache in the back of his neck, he went outside into the fresh air to regroup and stretch his legs.
The builders had already gone home, leaving the foundations of the Gatehouse tucked up for the evening.
Heath leaned on the old gate and stared mindlessly at the nature-made lane on the other side. Wild flowers poked through the verge alongside flowers his family had planted a couple of years back.
It had been two weeks since the break-in at the garden centre. He’d not seen hide nor hair of the police since, and Rhett was missing in action as well. He looked up the lane, towards her house.
Ignoring me, as usual.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew his life could have been so different. It was his own fault for not fighting harder all those years ago.
A sleek silver convertible came crawling along the lane. Its driver seemed careful not to splatter any mud up the shiny alloys. The roof was on, but Heath could see quite clearly who was at the wheel. He watched silently, giving the slightest of waves to the local estate agent.
What was Wendall doing up at Rhett’s?
A flush of jealously was quickly blown away. There was no way he was going down that road again. Once was enough. His thoughts turned to the tall, dark, handsome stranger who seemed to appear from nowhere four years ago. Dennis.
Heath wrinkled his nose in disgust. He wouldn’t take to any man Rhett shacked up with, but there was something about the smooth charm of that particular man that made Heath want to smack him in the jaw.
I wonder why he left.
He shook his head and took a breath. Dennis was the last person he wanted entering his mind. It was bad enough his whole past was bugging him lately. Dennis was the only reason he ended up in bed with Mary-Anne. There was no way in a million years he would have moved on from Rhett if she hadn’t brought smarmy git Dennis on board.
Completely wound up, Heath unlatched the gate and headed off up the lane, marching as though on parade, with his red check jacket flapping open, revealing a dark tee-shirt covering his solid chest. He only came to an abrupt halt when he spotted the bright blue signpost telling the world and its sister that Lucky Riding Stables was for sale.
Heath had to read the thick black wording twice over for it to sink in. His brow tightened, his fists clenched, and the jealously whirling in his gut rapidly turned to anger.
Not on my watch.
He kicked the sign, back and forward at the base, until it was loose, then he tugged it from the grassy verge and swung it over his shoulder like an axe and stomped off to the front porch.
Seven.
That was the amount of times he had stepped foot in that property, and that was all before Willow was born. He stared with pure venom in his glare at the first step of the four that led up to the old grey door.
Fran and Benton had flanked him on that spot the night Willow came into the world. Thanks to Roland Smithson, Heath wasn’t even allowed to witness the birth.
He blinked hard. Rhett’s screams still rang in his ears. All he wanted was to sit with her. Hold her hand, but he was banned. Discarded as though he were just a stranger. A sign of things to come.
I hate this bloody place, but she’s going nowhere. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
He dared himself to take the first step but stopped when Rhett walked around the corner of the house.
Her mouth gaped for a second before he saw fire hit her eyes and a stern expression cover her face.
Rhett’s hand shot out to his shoulder. ‘What are you doing with that?’
He ignored her demanding tone and let go of the sign, letting it drop flat to the pathway where he stood. With eyes fixed firmly on hers, he made his own demands. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
She went to speak but then closed her mouth, confusing him even more.
Heath purposely placed one hefty boot smack bang in the middle of the wording on the sign and piled on the pressure.
The sun was setting, and the warm air cooling a touch. Rolling green fields surrounded them, and birds tweeted merrily in nearby trees. A perfect May evening for a walk in amongst the tranquillity. Only, where they stood, it seemed a storm had just hit town.
Rhett marched towards the cracked sign beneath Heath’s boot. ‘What are you doing?’ she spat through clenched teeth.
‘What are you doing, more like?’ He glared down into her fiery eyes, hurt and anger consuming him.
She swallowed hard enough for him to notice. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Her attention went back to his foot.
Not really. None of this makes sense.
Heath tried to take some calming breaths, but it wasn’t easy all the time he was face to face with her. Even when she was wild, he adored her. She gave him nothing but pain, but still he could not detach himself from her. It was a thorn in his side, tormenting his soul year after year.
‘Why are you selling?’ His voice was low, feeling the need for a proper conversation. If things carried on, they would only yell and storm off in opposite directions and then he would still be in the dark about her life.
‘It’s none of your business.’
Her snap told him she wasn’t as ready as him to calm down yet. He removed his boot and leaned back to his other heel. ‘Talk to me, Rhett.’
She folded her arms in a huff whilst frowning and pulling in her lips.
He took another breath, then repeated his words.
It was only a small change, but he saw the flicker of sadness remove the anger in her hazel eyes. Would she ever learn that he knew her inside out?
Heath refrained from shaking his head or rolling his eyes. It wasn’t any of his business how she lived her life. Where she lived her life. But he still wanted in on her life. If she needed help, he was there. She was just too stubborn to ask, he knew.
‘Can you go, please?’ she asked quietly, almost breaking his heart once more. He was always amazed there was any left to break.
He took a gentle step towards her, catching her eyes as they peered up curiously at him. ‘What’s wrong? You love this place.’
Her head turned so fast towards her home, she could have got whiplash. With one shaky finger directed at the door, she spat out her words, giving the impression they had sat on her chest for years. ‘I hate that house.’
A lot flashed through his mind, but he controlled his thoughts, not wanting to antagonise her or add to the rare sign of hurt on display. ‘That bad, eh?’
She wrapped her arms around herself, looking cold and tired, and it was all he could do to stop himself from comforting her with his own arms.
‘What can I do to help?’ he asked softly.
Her left riding boot tapped the tip of the broken sign on the ground. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll fix it.’
She breathed out a small laugh through her nose. ‘I don’t care about the signpost.’
‘Not that. Whatever problem you have. I’ll make it go away.’
Hazel met dark-brown. All words lost to the past. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and Heath offered the smallest of nods.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She sniffed, turned, and walked slowly up the four steps and into her house, leaving the door wide open for him to follow.