Chapter Twelve
brEANNA
AS SOON as the wheels of the grain and hay cart roll on the concrete of the boarding stables, I hear nickers and foot stomps.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody’s hungry.” I chuckle as I toss a slice of hay and a cup of grains into the first pan attached to heavy steel bars across the front of the stalls.
One of the healing geldings sticks his head over his half-door and huffs at me. “Still mad at me, boy?” They are usually mad at me after the castration, but he lets me scratch up his nose. “That’s a step in the right direction, right?” His owner is picking him up this afternoon.
Another head pops out, and I’m super happy to see her alert and hungry. Her owner discovered locoweed in his pasture after she started behaving erratically when he approached her.
There’s not much to be done for the effects of the poison, but her owner brought her here for observation while he sprayed the pasture and switched all the other horses to a different one.
Her hostility has lessened over the past couple of days, and that’s a good sign.
She lets me kiss her nose as I make my way past her.
Pushing my now empty cart through the big doors on the other end of the stable, I stand straight and roll my shoulders, enjoying the cool fall breeze, my hands on my hips.
Ever since I first saw Mato a couple of weeks ago, I’ve had trouble sleeping.
So many memories have started breaking through the lid I’ve held them under for so long.
After seeing him last weekend, it got worse. Now I’m dreaming about those first months at college and the heartache that I’ve kept stuffed away. Back then, the only thing that could make all the pain go away was if I could have woken up from what felt like a nightmare with him back in my life.
Now that he’s back, I don’t want to make room for him in my life. Even as a friend.
With a deep sigh, I look down the hill to my empty house and see a familiar, large blue truck and a white diesel truck that looks like it is equipped to pull heavy loads.
My eyebrows pull together, and I shield my narrowed eyes from the mid-morning sun that is shining around the bill of my ball cap with my hand.
What the hell?
Pulling my work gloves off, I toss them in my cart and start the short walk down the incline to the house, it’s not quite an eighth of a mile, but I haven’t purchased a brush hog to cut down the tall grass and weeds between the hospital and the house yet.
The almost waist-high dead grass is wrapping around my legs as I push through, and the dust I’m creating from that is settling all over my jeans and my long-sleeved t-shirt.
As I get closer, I see Mato standing next to a man almost as tall as him in the backyard, close to the windmill. The man is holding a clipboard and pointing from one area to another as he talks.
Their heads swivel in my direction as I step out of the weeds into the part of the backyard that has patches of short, dead grass. Just as I step up to them to ask what they are doing, the dust I stirred tickles my nose and I have a sneezing fit.
“Can I…” Sneeze. Sneeze. I hold the back of my fingers to my nose. “Can I help…” Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze.
I turn my back on them and cover my mouth with the collar of my shirt. “Damn it!” Sneeze. Sneeze.
With my back still to them, I straighten and take a few breaths to ensure it’s over.
Turning to face them, my irritation ratchets up another notch as I see the amused look on Mato’s face.
Ignoring him, I hold my hand out to the man next to him. “Hi. I’m Breanna Harlow, I own this house,” I shift my glare to Mato for a moment to drive my next point, “and the owner of this land. Can I help you?”
The man looks mildly uncomfortable as he shakes my hand. “Sure. I’m Connor Quinlan. I own a contracting company in Owasso, and,” he points his thumb at Mato, “Mr. Blackwell asked me for a second opinion about your wastewater options.”
My first instinct is to tell him I don’t need his services and to tell Mato to leave and never come back.
I hadn’t gotten around to calling for second opinions yet, and it pisses me off he beat me to it.
But I really want to know if that weasel, Jacob Neil, is screwing with me.
Cutting my eyes to Mato again, I say, “Sure, you can communicate those options to me.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Mato takes a step back and lowers his chin in submission. Now I feel like an ungrateful bitch.
“Well, like I was telling Mr. Blackwell, to know for sure the type of system you need, you would first have to set up the perc test in several locations in your yard. It would be impossible to make that call by looking at the topsoil without a test.”
So, he was messing with me. I nod. “How much will it cost to do the test?”
He hands me a piece of paper with a significantly smaller number that fits comfortably within my budget. “Of course, that is just for the test. I can’t give you anymore numbers until I see those results.”
A weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and I look back up at Mr. Quinlan. “Okay, can you schedule that now, or do you need to call me?”
“Earliest I can do it is next Wednesday, first thing around eight in the morning.”
This is the best news I’ve heard all week, and I can’t suppress my smile.
“Perfect.” I pat my pocket to see if I have any of my cards on me, but I wasn’t expecting to need any when I went out to feed the animals before stomping down the hill through the weeds.
“Do you have a card? I can call you tomorrow to tell you where to send the invoice.”
He hands me a card and shakes my hand again before shaking Mato’s hand and leaving me there with him alone. Turning to him, I tilt my head back. The sun on his hair give the flipped-up ends a blue tint, and his dark eyes are soft over his lips, which are curved up in an annoying little smile.
I’d almost forgotten how gorgeous he is.
Curling my fingers into my palms, I take a breath. “You could have asked me before you did that.”
Taking an at-ease stance like I’ve seen my brothers do a million times, he tucks his fingers under his arms, making his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt. He had just turned twenty when he left, and he was tall and lean, but now he just looks strong.
He’s grown into a man.
Clearing my throat, I roll my eyes as I tear them away from the bulge of his arms. He’s smiling when I meet his gaze again. I don’t smile back.
He tilts his head. “Would you have let me if I’d asked?”
No.
“That’s not the point. It’s about boundaries, and me,” I wave my hands down my front and then wave them toward my house, “and my things, are not your concern.”
Hurt flashes in his eyes, and my heart pinches as his smile falls. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I will ask next time.”
I’d also forgotten how giving he is. When we were kids, if there wasn’t enough of something, he would give me his, or if he knew I needed help with something, he would do it without me having to ask.
He always had a habit of anticipating my needs; he knew me better than anyone.
It was one of the things I pushed into a dark corner of my mind.
Huffing in frustration, I look past him. “That’s the thing.” My heart beats faster as the small part of me that will always love him doesn’t want me to say the words. “There shouldn’t be a next time.” My mouth is dry and I try and fail to swallow as I lock eyes with him. “I don’t want your help.”
Trying to hide the hurt I just inflicted, his eyes volley between mine. But I know what all his looks mean - I’ve seen them all - and I hate that I’m the one who made him feel that way. He squares his shoulders and waits a moment, taking a breath, before he responds.
“I’m back, Breanna. And it doesn’t matter if you’re mad at me; you being mad at me is the last thing I want, but even if you are, I will help you when I see you need help.
” He takes a step toward me, his cologne wrapping around me, and I lean away from him.
“I will always help you when you need help.”
Looking into his eyes is like looking into the peaceful dark orbs of the horses I care for so much, and I can feel him tugging on my shriveled heartstring that used to be attached to his. Maybe it’s not so bad that he’s trying to help.
Is it?
He abandoned you.
Oh yeah.
Breaking the stare-off we’re having, I force my feet to take a step away from him, my hands hanging at my sides.
Pressing my lips together, it’s like my body is physically trying to stop me from pushing him away.
The lump in my throat because of his kindness is trying to block my next words, and the butterflies in my stomach want to fly closer to him.
Flicking my eyes to my house and then back to him, I say. “Thank you, for bringing the contractor, but I remember, very well, what your help feels like, and I don’t want it.”
A tiny wince twists his face just before I turn on my heel and walk away.