Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Acouple of days later, Willow cried at the Autumn Falls physiotherapist’s office. “I’m not crying because I’m upset,” she said, taking a Kleenex proffered by the lovely lady. “I’m just so frustrated!”
“I know,” the physio replied sympathetically. “It takes time, Willow.”
“I don’t have time!” Willow replied, swiping at her cheeks with the tissue.
“I need to get back.” She was desperate—she didn’t sleep, she lay in bed going over and over her steps, she did whatever exercises she could that wouldn’t impact her knee till she was exhausted, but still her mind wouldn’t shut off.
She berated herself for not stopping sooner, yet saw her life like a clock, her ballet years counting down before her eyes.
She watched the WhatsApp groups of all her dance friends roll on without her, their lives so entwined with the ballet that outside of it, Willow had nothing to add.
“You don’t need to do anything but get better.”
Except, more to the point, Willow wanted to get back.
She felt like she was lost in a labyrinth, too much history around every corner in Autumn Falls; too many eyes on her, following her every move, her every conversation.
And then there was Dylan, his very presence winching her back to her teenage self.
When they’d returned to the ranch and Noah had updated their dad about the situation with Thunder, Emmett had stood still and said with a disconcerting calm, “Over my dead body is Dylan Hawkins looking after one of our horses.”
Noah put his hat on, tugged it down low and said, “Well, you go get her, then.” Before swaggering off to the barn, Rocky tight on his heels.
Emmett huffed—all of them well aware he would have no better luck with Thunder.
Willow stood like a guilty schoolgirl at the tension she caused between the usually inseparable pair.
“I’m sorry,” she said but it came out more quiet than she’d intended and she didn’t know whether her dad had heard and still chose to stride away without a backward look, or whether the words simply hadn’t been loud enough.
In the treatment room, the physiotherapist took her glasses off and placed them on the desk. “You rush this, Willow, you won’t ever go back, you understand that, don’t you?”
Willow didn’t say anything, the words pounding in her head.
“Relax. Have some fun.” The physio smiled. “I know it’s difficult, but stress will not help your recovery. It’s as much up here—” she tapped her own temple, then leaned forward and rested her hand on Willow’s knee “—as it is here.” She nodded. “It’s all connected.”
Willow left the physio’s feeling more downcast than when she’d entered and headed reluctantly back to the ranch, driving her dad’s new flat-bed truck as carefully as she could for fear of pranging it.
Fun. That was a joke. How could she have fun?
Fun was rehearsals for a new show, it was costume fittings and hair and makeup, it was ordering takeout to wolf down in the theater hallway, the deafening applause of a standing ovation, after-show drinks in the city, flying to new countries to dance and grabbing a few hours downtime to stretch out on the beach.
It was shaking hands with whichever dignitary was in the audience, flowers arriving backstage from admirers who wanted to take her for champagne.
It was nailing a step that she’d spent months to perfect. Her life in New York was fun.
Fun was not being back in Silver Sky. Not proper, real laugh-out-loud fun, anyway.
Not nowadays. Not ever since her brothers had left for the band.
Yeah, there were times it was enjoyable now they were back—and she liked all their partners—but there was always a shadow.
It had been awful when her brother Jack died a few years ago and everyone was making a concerted effort to try harder, but it still didn’t feel right.
Yes, it was better, but Ethan, the brother closest in age to her and the one she’d spent most of her childhood with, was still gone.
He’d joined the Navy soon after the band ended, couldn’t cope with the impacts of fame, and hadn’t come home since.
And her dad was still tricky, while his heart attack had made him see life differently—better—his process of forgiving the boys for leaving in the first place had been a slow, arduous one.
No, she wouldn’t call it fun.
But then the image of Dylan Hawkins popped into her head, yanking his top off after football practice, running off the pitch all tanned and sweaty, eyes drifting lazily to where she sat. Waiting.
Don’t think about it, Willow.
As she approached the ranch, she thought how there was never such anger from her dad at her leaving.
No one would say that her dad’s life was ruined by the loss of Willow on the ranch—as they often said about Logan and the others going.
She often wondered if he’d even noticed that she’d left, whether it made any impact on his life at all. He’d never admit it, though, of course.
It was thinking about this that made her carry on past the turning for the Silver Sky Ranch.
Past the big gates and the impressive driveway.
She thought of all the times in the early days after her brothers had left when she’d had to tiptoe past Emmett sitting vacantly in the living room, or incur his wrath if there was too much rattling of pots and pans in the kitchen or if she was talking too loudly on the phone.
She drove on by properties she hadn’t passed in years, her journeys home always taking her straight to the ranch or on a jaunt to Main Street.
Instead, she headed in the direction of the mountain, driving toward the blinding sun, the rays hitting the windshield and warming her skin, the seemingly endless road making her feel a sense of freedom that she never experienced inside the ranch gates.
It was only when a wisp of cloud cover shaded the view that she noticed the battered sign that read, Hawkins, held on a perpetual backward swing by the rust on its hinges.
She should have driven on past but as she got closer, she couldn’t say why she did it, she suddenly turned the wheel, she didn’t even indicate, it was like her body decided to do it despite her brain; defying her like it did on stage.
Or maybe she knew exactly what she was doing, and it was a deliberate case of self-destruct.
Willow drove past the long-forgotten gate and nosed the truck down the dirt path. Rain had carved out potholes that made the vehicle shudder, weeds and dry-looking shrubs sprawled on either side of the track.
Her heart was racing. She shouldn’t be here. She told herself that she had turned because she was worried about Thunder—the Hawkins weren’t a family to be trusted, and for all she knew, Dylan might have the horse hobbled into submission. It was her duty to check on her.
Now that she had a verifiable reason, she drove on more confidently, pulling up where the road disappeared into tufts of grass and turning the engine off.
She sat for a second, taking the place in—the once white ranch house was now dirty-gray in patches from damp and decay, the paint stripped and peeling from the red, gabled roof; trailing weeds crept up over the veranda, which had half collapsed from a fallen tree.
Out the front was a disused, battered Ford, jacked up on bricks.
Apprehension making her heart tremor, Willow got out the car and closed the door quietly.
She’d never been here before, never seen what the Hawkins place looked like beyond the pasture that boarded one far corner of Silver Sky Ranch.
There was an element of foreboding in the derelict, unkemptness of the place.
It made Silver Sky seem like a palace in comparison.
“You looking for me?”
She jumped, startled by the voice, had to take a moment to catch her breath.
When she looked, she saw Dylan walking up behind her. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his Levi’s and he wore the kind of threadbare sweatshirt that filled Noah’s wardrobe. Blond hair tied back, no hat, the sun in his eyes, making him squint as he looked at her.
Willow swallowed at the sight of him, all the hairs on her body standing on end. “Sorry, you surprised me.”
“Seems you Carters can’t keep away from the place.”
“I just wanted to check on Thunder.”
Dylan gave a slow nod. “Is that so.”
She felt herself redden. It was like he could see straight through her lie. “I wanted to see that she’s okay.” Her voice came out more prim than she’d expected, making it sound as if she suspected Thunder was being mistreated.
Dylan took a hand out of his pocket and gestured toward the wildflower meadow in the distance. “Go take a look if you want.”
“I will,” Willow replied, unable to stop the stiff defensiveness in her tone—she told herself it was embarrassment at having been caught trespassing but knew it was really because of how just one glance from him made her feel so girlishly coy.
Dismayed at her reaction, she took off in the direction of the pasture.
The weather was mild; the sun bright in the blue sky.
The ground was overgrown and uneven. Willow’s leg jarred with every step but she refused to let it show, walking with a straight-backed, chin-raised defiance despite the pain.
She could feel Dylan watching her as she crossed the brutally shadeless grass.
She was dressed for the physio appointment in leggings, a vest and a thin long-sleeved top; she felt the fabric clinging to her, outlining every line of her body.
“You’re here for Thunder,” she muttered under her breath, although she was starting to wish she’d never met the darn horse. The distance seemed to stretch like a mirage. Why was she here? Imagine if Noah showed up—or her dad!—and saw the truck, it didn’t bear thinking about.