Chapter Twenty
“I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and I will not be one till I die.”
Mom’s calling. This can’t be good.
“Hi,” I say.
She doesn’t say hello back. Instead, there’s a long, deliberate silence. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” she says. “It’s about Betty.”
My chest goes heavy. I clutch the edge of my foldout kitchen table. “Alright,” is all I can manage to say.
“Well,” Mom continues, “the good news is that Melissa isn’t getting her. But that’s because Reed’s sold Betty to a polo player in Florida. Cash, all up front.”
“A polo player?” My teeth scrape together. “No, no, no. That can’t happen.”
“Reed gets to decide,” Mom says, as if explaining the weather. “He can do what he wants. And frankly, we could use the money. The divorce has been a strain—”
“Polo barns treat horses like ATVs, Mom.” I hear my voice escalating a pitch higher. “You know what they do. Betty’s not cut out for that.”
Mom huffs. “God, Jane. Don’t you want Reed to get through this with his pride and our business intact? He’s your brother.”
“Right.” I laugh, though it’s humorless. “If Reed wants to punish me, tell him to do it in a way that won’t hurt a poor, innocent animal.” My tears come hot and fast. But a ball of rage grows inside my stomach, even hotter. “Reed could have at least given me the chance to buy her myself.”
“Oh, Jane . . .” Mom’s tone turns gentle “. . . he’s getting ninety thousand for her. This isn’t about punishing you.”
“Is it about punishing Betty? Because polo horses get worked until they break.”
Just like hearts. Just like promises.
“I realize it’s not ideal,” Mom says. “But it’s how it’s got to be.”
“We’ll see about that.” I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. “Mom, I have to go. But you can tell Reed that he’ll hear from me.”
“Well—”
“I’ll talk to you soon.” I hang up—there’s nothing more to say—then toss my phone onto the bed, where it bounces off the edge and clatters to the trailer floor without a hint of drama. My vision’s swimming, but I know what I have to do.
I run.
Out the trailer, across the gravel lot, past the hayfield shimmering in twilight, and straight up the drive to Chet’s house. We haven’t spoken since this morning, during Theo’s visit. My bare feet, still healing from their burns, skip and sting on the stones. But all I feel is the nausea.
Chet opens the door before I’ve even raised my hand to knock. He must have seen me barrel up the walk. Or maybe he knew somehow, the way dogs know when an earthquake’s coming.
“Jane.” Chet blinks at me. “What’s wrong?”
He’s in sweats and a ratty tee with faded letters—some tech conference in Seattle, 2012.
“Only everything.” I hiccup. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic. And I’m about to make things even more awkward between us. It’s not about Mason or Grace or if you and I are a bad idea . . .” I sniff back more tears. “It’s about my family, and my horse, Betty.”
Chet takes me in—my dirty feet, blotchy face, the hair I must have wiped snot into twice on the way over. Then he steps back and makes space for me. Like he’s clearing a runway.
“Come inside,” he says. “Let’s talk this through.”
He leads me into the living room, gesturing toward his couch. I sit, and Chet moves to the built-in bar. I’m hugging myself, half frozen in place. He hands me a double bourbon. I drain half in one go, then inhale so sharply it hurts.
“Thank you.” My voice is tight as a stretched rubber band.
Chet waits, patient, arms crossed. His eyes are wary, but not cold.
“I need a favor.” The words scrape out. “And you have every right to say no, but I can’t pretend that this isn’t happening. Chet, I’m desperate.”
He nods, one of those slow, deliberate dips of the chin. “Just tell me.”
I stand. Drain the rest of my bourbon. Then I pace, not knowing where to start or how not to sound like a lunatic.
“Betty’s my favorite horse. I raised her from a foal, and I’ve been saving up, thinking I could buy her, but I was deluded.
Because my brother just sold her to some Palm Beach freak who’ll break her on the polo field. ”
Chet says nothing.
“Polo horses don’t last long,” I tell him.
“They race them, play them hard until they snap—” My fingers make a quick, brittle snapping sound.
“And Betty, she’s trusting. A gentle soul.
The wrong people will take advantage of that, and when I think about her getting whipped by some pencil dick trying to shoot a wooden ball into a goal—well, it’s enough to make me lose my mind! ”
“I understand.” The way Chet says this, it’s more like he’s breathing than speaking.
“Do you? Do you understand? I mean, I know it’s ridiculous, but—” my throat clogs again “—if I don’t do something, I’ll never see her again, and she’ll break herself for a man who treats her like less than a toy, and—” Out of words, I rub my forehead.
Suddenly, the contents of my stomach threaten to come up. I double over.
Chet’s by my side like a shot. He rubs my back in slow circles, murmuring, “Breathe, Jane. It’s going to be okay.”
I don’t trust myself to meet his eyes. “Buy her. Please. I know I have no right to ask, and even though I’m too upset right now to feel humiliated, tomorrow the shame will come. But I don’t care. Betty’s too important. She needs me.”
He nods. His face is etched with concern. “Of course she does, Jane. Don’t worry. We’ll fix this.” Chet kneels in front of me, wiping my tear-stained cheek with his thumb. “Whatever the pencil-dick polo player has offered to pay for Betty, I’ll double the price.”
“Then you’d be paying almost two hundred grand—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chet answers. “I mean it. Once you’ve made your first billion, it seriously doesn’t matter. My money’s invested, which means passive income. In the last few minutes, just standing here, I probably accrued as much as we’ll spend on her.”
I let that sink in. “If that’s true, then why are the world’s wealthiest men still so greedy?”
He shrugs. “Can’t answer you that.” Chet stands and slides his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Tell me who to call. Let’s get Betty here, with you, where she belongs.”
“Thank you.” I suck in a breath, careful not to dissolve into tears of gratitude.
Minutes later, Chet raises his phone, thumb already tapping. Reed’s number is dialed up. Chet tilts his head, waiting for the line to connect. “I’ve put it on speaker,” he whispers.
Reed picks up. “Hello?”
With zero preamble, Chet starts talking. “This is Chet Edwards. I’m calling regarding your mare, registration number ending 2268. You just sold her to a man in Palm Beach, correct?”
I pace in tight loops, hands pressed to my mouth, as Chet leans against his living room’s built-in bar. His voice isn’t unkind, but there’s no mistaking that Chet fully expects to get what he wants.
Meanwhile, Reed’s voice is fuzzy. Confused. “Yes. Who is this again?”
“Chet Edwards. Jane’s boss.” He glances at me, quick. “But that’s not important. I’m calling to offer a buyout on Betty.”
I hear shuffling on the other end, the sound of Reed’s breath all static and superiority. “Sorry, but Betty’s spoken for. The buyer’s wiring funds as we speak.”
Chet interrupts, chuckling. “Yeah, except you’re going to cancel that transaction, because Betty’s coming here, to Resilience Ranch. Don’t fight me on this. Otherwise, I’ll sic my legal team on you.”
“On what grounds?” Reed says. “Betty is my horse—”
“Oh, Reed.” Chet’s tone is a potent mixture of condescension and impatience.
“Jane took care of Betty, not you. And Betty loves Jane, not you. In my book, that makes Betty Jane’s horse.
In addition, Jane was unethically forced out of the family business, where she only ever acted in good faith.
Now you think you’ll sell Betty off to be mistreated? Think again.”
“Look here.” Reed huffs. “Legally, you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Perhaps,” Chet answers. “But I sure as hell can slow down Betty’s sale and present mountains of red tape.
My lawyers could temporarily halt and then delay things so long that the buyer loses interest. Or you could just be happy that I’m doubling whatever the polo player is putting up. Wire transfer. Immediate.”
For three full seconds, there’s only Reed’s breathing and the ticking of the wall clock. “Jesus Christ,” Reed says. “Fine. I hope Betty’s worth it. Or,” he mutters wryly, “that my sister’s worth it.”
“Don’t test me, Reed,” Chet barks, his cold tone making my skin pebble. “We both know Betty’s value. But if you don’t understand your sister’s value, that’s your problem. My advice? Take the money and run.”
Silence. “Deal,” Reed says, voice sour milk, and then the line pops dead. Chet punches a button, spins on his heel, and fixes me with a look that is both a question and an answer.
It’s so matter-of-fact and unshowy, like he’s just secured a dinner reservation instead of saving my entire reason for living. Some part of me wants to collapse from relief and sob again, but the rest is giddy and loose, floating in a post-adrenaline fog.
“I’ll send people to pick her up tomorrow,” Chet says, “a team that will take good care of her while on the road. You’ll have Betty here by Monday.”
I’m still standing, numb, bourbon on my tongue and hope flooding my blood. How is it that in the space of an hour, my entire life could fall apart and be put back together, better than before? Not sure. All I know is that I want to kiss Chet until I’m dizzy for days.
Perhaps the bourbon’s gone straight to my head.
“Gee,” I say, jaw trembling, “that was—impressive.”
His lips barely move, but his eyes do. “That was nothing,” Chet murmurs. “Not compared to how impressive I find you.”
That’s all it takes. I jettison myself toward him, colliding with Chet’s chest, knocking half the air out of us both.
“Jane . . .” he murmurs my name, once, twice, then just a ragged sigh. His hands snake around my waist. I snake myself around him.
Our kiss is fast and a bit messy, but I don’t care.
Not at all. It’s verging on violence, how much I want him.
I pull at his T-shirt, fingers latching onto that tech conference logo until the shirt gives, just a little, and then I’m clawing my way underneath it to the skin and the ridges of his back.
“Jane.” He tilts back, blinking. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah. I do,” I breathe. “Chet, I want this. I want you. Don’t push me away.”
Chet closes his eyes. Opens them again, a darker shade of dark than before. “You’re emotional. You’ll regret it.”
I back off him, just a millimeter. “No I won’t.”
“Are you sure? Because the last thing I want is to take advantage of—”
“Yes.” The room is spinning. “I’m absolutely sure, Chet.”
He studies my face, looking for signs of doubt. Chet laughs, the most broken sound, and says, “You’re going to ruin me, Jane Adkins.”
I whisper, “Same.”
This time when we kiss, he holds nothing back.
Chet moves with a slowness that makes me wild—palms up my ribs, the lightest drag of his calloused fingers along my sides, a carefulness that only amps up my craving because now his mouth is on my jaw, then my neck, then my collarbone. My knees go pudding-soft.
He lifts me by the hips and sits us both down on the couch so I’m straddling him.
We’re kissing, wrapped around each other.
His fingers plunge into my hair, his mouth pressing against the base of my throat.
Then, Chet places baby kisses along my shoulder, underneath one of my tank top’s straps.
His lips are so cautious and light that it makes me yearn for more. I claw at Chet’s shirt.
“Hold on.” He leans back, chuckling. “Don’t rip my favorite T-shirt.”
“Sorry,” I murmur. Instead, my hands reach up underneath the thin cotton, caressing his velvety, warm skin until he trembles.
“Wait.” Chet pulls his shirt off, dropping it somewhere behind us. He’s like this perfectly sculpted specimen of flesh and muscle, plus an undercurrent of danger. I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Just—who knew that a tech geek could be so sexy?”
“On behalf of tech geeks everywhere, I’m offended.” He smothers my laughter with more kisses.
“Mmm . . .” My mouth softens against his. “How can I make it better?”
Impatient for an answer, I reach my hand down his sweatpants, inside his briefs. Wrapping my fingers around his erection, a tidal wave of heat and desire rushes through me; it’s so powerful that I almost pass out.
“Chet!” I gasp, my mouth pressed into his neck.
“Jane . . .” He groans, pushing himself back and forth inside my grip.
Then, Chet stops, prompting me to lift both my arms so he can remove my tank top.
When he pulls it over my head, he sucks in a breath.
Because I’m not wearing a bra. Chet takes a moment, just a half second, sweeping his eyes over me.
“Damn, Kentucky Jane,” he says. “You’re even more beautiful than I pictured. And how I pictured you was—” his lips part like he wants to devour me “—already mind-blowing.”
I place my palm on his chest, over his rapidly beating heart. “Is this really happening, or am I dreaming?”
Chet reaches for my hand, entwining my fingers with his. Our gazes lock. “Last time I checked, I’m not a figment of your imagination.”
We shift, and the couch is barely big enough for us both.
Skin hot, bare chests pressed together. His hands grip my thighs; his breath is close enough to steal right out of my lungs.
Soon, we’ve both removed the rest of our clothes, and I’m ready for him like I’ve never been ready for anything in my entire life.
When he’s finally inside me, I gasp—so loud he pulls back and whispers, “Too much?” but I can’t even form words. I just shake my head.
Our bodies find a rhythm of their own, a slow push and pull, growing frantic and then slowing down again, so that I’m never able to predict what will happen next.
It’s not just sex, though, my God, it is sex. It’s weeks and months and years of loneliness being answered. It’s two stubborn people giving in all the way, finally, and letting something else—something fragile and nearly lost—take up space inside our lives.
We move to the floor at some point; the rug is scratchy, but I hardly care. My stomach presses against his, and his hands are under my shoulders, cradling me like I’ll break apart if he lets go.
I dig my nails into his back, pushing him deeper inside me. No way am I breaking apart. Not tonight. Because now that Chet and I have found each other, letting go is not an option.