Chapter 3
Leave it to the sky to unleash while I’m arguing with Bellamy. Freezing rain spirals from the bleak gray sky, and there are already at least two inches of snow on the ground.
“What does this mean?” Bellamy presses her palms and the tip of her nose against the window like she’s waiting for Santa Claus.
“It means it’s a blizzard.”
Nostrils flaring, she looks over her shoulder at me. That flash of fire in her amber eyes tells me she’s pissed, and she makes a little shooing motion with her hands. “If you go now, you can make it home.”
A scoff rumbles low in my chest. “Great idea. Why not take a leisurely drive in a superstorm that can down power lines and strand me in my car for an extended period of time?”
The wind howls, the cabin creaking as if to illuminate my point. Last year’s storm wreaked havoc on Silverwood, turning Main Street into an icy ghost town.
I huff a laugh. “Or maybe you’d like that, Bell.”
“No. I wouldn’t like that.” She raises her chin. Exhales stoically. “So. Again. What does this mean?”
I shrug. “I guess this means we’re stuck together.”
Her calm facade cracks. She tosses her hands up. “Great. This is just fucking great.”
I study my ex-wife. Tiny and messy haired and ferocious. Like some beautiful forest creature emerging from her winter hollow to rip me a new one.
And yet. My heart misses a beat, and then another.
Still so goddamn beautiful.
Her dark chestnut hair’s longer than it was when I last saw her, wild and unbound like she can’t be bothered to brush it. Creamy white skin. Sharp collarbones. A straight nose, freckles dancing over the bridge. Her burgundy lipstick makes her amber eyes pop.
I tear a hand through my hair. Dammit. I hate the reaction my body still has to her. “Relax. It’ll be cleared up in a day or two.”
“That’s still too long.” Her mouth purses into a thin line that makes me think she’d rather shack up with the corpse of Charles Manson than be trapped here with me.
Bitterness gathers in my chest.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing through a growl. “Trust me, Bluebell, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.”
She glares at me. “Don’t call me that.”
Fuck. Why, three years later, is her sweet nickname still stuck on the tip of my tongue?
“Bellamy Blue,” I whispered on our wedding night. “That name was made for you, sugar.”
“I was made for you.” She rolled over, into my arms, kissed the hollow of my throat.
“Bluebell. My bluebell.”
Gripping her thighs, I made my way down her body. When I came to the heat, the heart of her, I breathed her in. Pressed my mouth against her slickness and licked and bit and teased. I was famine and she was a feast, and goddamn, I was ravenous.
Her whole body trembled. “Hank.” Her hands went to my hair and hung on. All she could say was my name. But I knew what she meant.
I never wanted to taste anyone else, ever.
Bellamy shucks off her fur-trimmed parka, the rustling sound of it stealing my attention, and drapes it over the back of the leather couch.
I stiffen. Her tight white long-sleeved thermal hugs her full breasts. Those leggings do the same justice to her pert little ass. My cock jerks in my jeans.
Bellamy’s always been beautiful, but I think her evil superpower is she keeps getting hotter. Sexier.
Thirty will look damn good on her.
Clearing my throat to conceal a groan, I turn away.
I’m a man. A cowboy. It’s called motherfucking control, for Christ’s sake.
One of the walkies blasts from its perch on the kitchen shelf.
Grateful for the distraction, I stomp across the room and grab it up. “Pops? You okay?”
As I turn and prop myself up against the counter, I catch the hint of a smile on Bellamy’s face.
She’s always had a soft spot for my father.
The feeling is mutual. Back when we were dating, he saw her sneaking out of my place one morning, offered to cook her breakfast and told her to call him if I ever so much as put a tear in her eye.
“Doin’ just fine. You kids hangin’ in up there?” My father chuckles, too much humor in his tone. “Or should I ask if you’re still alive?”
I press the button on the side of the walkie and respond. “We’re alive.”
“For now,” Bellamy mutters as she hangs up her jacket.
“Gonna close up the tree farm until this storm blows over. If we’re lucky,” he says, sorrow staining his voice, “we’ll still get to open on Christmas Eve.”
I close my eyes. I’ve been dreading this day all year.
“I’ll take care of the horses.” I clear the emotion from my throat. “I can get around on the snowmobile.”
“Stay warm, son.”
Eyes narrowed, Bellamy takes a single step closer. “What was all that about?”
“Nothin’.” I head for the front door and rip it open. “I’m goin’ to get firewood.”
Without another word, I turn my back on Bellamy and head into the flurry of snow and wind.
The granite peaks west of us are barely visible by now.
Fuck. If we get stuck without heat, we’ll have a hell of a time.
I brought a few logs in yesterday, but we’ll need more if this storm continues, and they’ll need time to dry.
Working quickly, I gather as much wood as I can.
Then I return to the cabin and stack it in the entryway.
By the time I’m finished and wiping snow from my shirtsleeves, Bellamy has removed her boots, and Zelda, traitor that she is, is curled up on the rug, watching her unpack her things. A familiar paint-stained backpack that I know contains easels and art supplies sits in a corner of the room.
The sight of it makes something in my chest wrench.
Fuck.
She came up here to paint. She’s got a whole new life now. Successful. Maybe a man. A boyfriend.
My heart gives a painful lurch. Fuck. I don’t want to know. How she’s moved on without me.
Bellamy plunks a duffel bag on the counter. Out come fancy meats. Cheeses. Nuts.
“What’s that?”
“Girl dinner.”
No wonder she’s so thin.
Scoffing, I stride past her to the fridge. “That’s not dinner. That’s food for mice.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls out a small jar of chocolate-covered almonds. “Well, I like mice dinner, then.”
Beer in one hand, ground beef in the other, I spin around. “Good thing I stocked the place for Christmas.”
“My Christmas,” she shoots back, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome for not starving over the weekend.” I take a long sip of my beer, then roll up my shirtsleeves and wash my hands. “You take the loft.”
She arches a brow. “I planned on it.” Her teeth sink into her lush lower lip as she bends to grab her overnight bag. “I’m going upstairs to unpack.”
“Be careful.” Even now, it’s ingrained.
She stiffens, but rather than respond, she scurries to the ladder, in a hurry to get away from me.
Below her, Zelda whines, pawing at the first rung. While I brown ground beef, I keep one eye on Bellamy, making sure she doesn’t fall.
This was a mistake. A bad fuckin’ idea. But you’re full of those, aren’t you, Hank?
I couldn’t resist coming back here. How could I, when my brain is still stuck on Bellamy?
At twenty-two, I knew a few things. I liked horses. A damn good rodeo. I’d work the ranch, eventually take over my father’s Christmas tree farm. And I knew I’d know the one when I saw her. That night in Buck’s Bar, Bellamy was it.
I knew I’d be taking her home that night. The perfectly smudged eyeliner, the bold way she approached me, the drawing. Fuck, I was a goner. We drank whiskey, popped quarters into the tiny jukebox and talked about life and Christmas trees.
When we woke the next morning and she said she had to go back to San Francisco, I said stay. She called in sick.
For the entire week.
We did long distance for six months before I asked her to marry me.
I never expected her to sacrifice her dreams for me.
She was only twenty. She had so much waiting for her in California.
But that night, parked on that dusty back road lined with big trees and bathed in moonlight, I laid it all out.
“I’ll move, Bell. I already told Pops—”
“No.” She laughed like I was being ridiculous. “I want to stay here with you.”
“Sugar—”
“I love Silverwood, and I love you.” The ring on her finger glinted as she brought her small hand to my cheek. She gave me a flirty little smile. “So shut up, cowboy.”
I kissed her then, hard, almost pleading. So damn in love with her I swore my heart would crack through my chest just to sync with hers.
Even now, it still eats at me. Guilt over letting her give it all up. But she loved the farm and the ranch, so who was I to argue? I felt so goddamn lucky. Like I had gotten everything I’d ever wanted in life.
By the time I crawl out of my thoughts and Bellamy returns, the fire is roaring and the sauce is nearly finished. She’s changed into gray sweatpants and an oversized Christmas T-shirt that reads I Do It For the Ho’s. She’s washed her face. Tamed her dark hair into glossy waves.
She fiddles with the radio, settling on a Christmas station. She’s still Bellamy. A hopeless Christmas romantic. Me, I lost that spirit when she walked away.
“Can we not?” It comes out gruffer than intended. “With the Christmas music?”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You love Christmas music.”
“Not today.”
“Fine.” Brow furrowed, she scans my face. Then she changes it to an old country station, one of my father’s favorites.
Merle Haggard croons, his voice filling the old cabin.
Phone in hand, Bellamy steps closer, almost a shy tiptoe. “What are you making?” She rests a hip against the counter, peers over the island, wrinkles her nose.
I chuckle. “Like you can afford to be picky when you brought mice food.”
She smiles. Barely. I may have spent the last three years without her, but even I can tell she’s faking it. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
It bothers the fuck out of me. I’m a fixer. That used to be my job. Help Bellamy. Make her laugh. Give her anything she damn well wanted.
Even if it wasn’t me.
“Spaghetti.” I flip off the burner. “Pasta’s done.”