34. Kaitlyn
THIRTY-FOUR
Kaitlyn
AFTER LEAVING NORTHPOINT, the rest of my morning was spent faking a stomach bug while waiting for Brock to show up with his father or maybe a few of his friends, demanding to know who attacked him at the lake last night. I imagined him making up another story that would undoubtedly paint me as the villain and him as the victim.
My father would undoubtedly hear about it. The whole town would know what happened—or at least Brock’s version, anyway—and I’ll be cast out even further. No one will talk to me. Even the few people left in Barrett who’re still kind to me will look the other way when I pass them on the street.
Judgmental looks.
Snide, behind-the-hand whispers.
More of the same, except this time, there’ll be no hope of escape. No plan to get out of Barrett. No possible future away from this place or the nightmare life as Mrs. Brock Morris that’s been planned for me.
Trying not to think about it, I fall asleep with Went’s red notebook under my pillow and don’t wake up until I hear my mother shout my name from the bottom of the stairs.
Kaitlyn Nicole Barrett—come down here, this instant.
Pushing myself up, I sit on the side of the bed. Feet on the floor, I roll my shoulders, the one Brock slammed into the side of his truck, stiff and achy, while my head swims through a sea of nausea and my face throbs.
The inevitable is here.
Standing on wobbly legs, I make my way through the door and down the hall. Stalling out on the second-floor landing, I look over the railing to see Abbey standing in the living room doorway, face aimed upward like she’s waiting for me to make an appearance. When she sees me, her face pales, and her gaze darts toward the front of the house in clear warning.
“Kaitlyn—” My mother calls for me again, this time louder, panic edging her tone. “Kaitlyn Nicole, if you don’t—”
Taking a few steps forward, I stop to stand at the top of the stairs, grip tightened around the banister in an effort to keep myself from pitching forward. “ I’m right here, Mom.” Looking down, I can see my mother standing at the foot of the stairs, Brock is standing behind her. His mouth is split open at the corner and there’s a long, ugly wound gashed into his forehead, held together by what look like staples. Went was right—he’s in absolutely no condition to cause anything even vaguely resembling trouble.
But that doesn’t mean he won’t try.
When he sees me watching him from the top of the stairs, his hazel eyes narrow slightly while my mother lets out an audible gasp.
“ The flu .” She aims a look down the hallway that connects the foyer to the living room where Abbey is undoubtedly still watching. “Abigail Maureen you said your sister had the—”
“I asked her to cover for me.” I say it without thinking, my only thought to protect Abbey from any further trouble, because spoiled brat or not, she came to my rescue when she could’ve sold me out and I owe her for that. “Don’t blame her.”
My mother’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why on earth would you do something like that?” She shakes her head, probably wondering how she’s managed to lose control of her household less than forty-eight hours after her husband left town on family business.
“I asked her to.”
I look up and my mother turns, both of us looking at Brock in stunned silence. Before my mother can repeat her question, Brock gives her a sheepish smile. “The truth is, we hit a deer last night, coming home from the Saddle.” When he says it, my mother makes a soft, fluttering sound in the back of her throat and she sways on her feet, her gaze flying up to meet mine, Eyes round and suddenly slick with tears.
I’ve never hated Brock Morris more than I do right now.
My mother reaches out to grip the banister, trying desperately to keep herself upright. “Kaity…”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Ignoring the caustic smirk Brock is giving me over her head, I practically tumble down the stairs in my rush to get to her before her legs give out. “I’m okay,” I tell her, gripping her elbow before gently guiding her to the bench at the foot of the stairs. “It wasn’t as bad as Brock’s making it out to be.” Kneeling down in front of her, I wrap my hands around hers and shake my head. “The deer actually hit us —clipped the tailgate on its way across the road.” Remembering what Went told me about what happened last night, I try to make the story sound as plausible as possible. “I was asleep and hit my head on the passenger side window—that’s all.” Reaching up, I brush the hair away from my face with a shaky hand. “See—just a bump.” Looking up at the man grinning down at me, I give him a sharp smile. “Brock got it much worse than I did.”
I’ll probably pay for it later, in one way or another, but I don’t care. It was worth it to see that snide grin of his slide right off his face. Before my mother can ask, I do my best to minimize the damage Brock caused with his well-placed lie. “Brock asked me not to say anything before we had a chance to tell you, together .” Reaching for her hands again, I give them a squeeze. “He knew how upset you’d be and he wanted to make sure you could see with your own two eyes that we’re both okay.” I give Brock another sharp look. “Isn’t that right, Brock?”
“It sure is.” Gaze slightly narrowed, his expression shifts seamlessly into one of compassionate concern when my mother looks in his direction. “I know after what happened to Luke, you’d have been unnecessarily worried—” He places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze while flicking a quick look in my direction. “especially without Mr. Barrett here to look after things.”
There’s a threat in there somewhere. I can hear it, clear as day. A reminder that my mother, sister, and I are all but alone here. Before I can process it, Brock lifts his hand from my mother’s shoulder and offers it to me. “I should get home—I’ve got quite the insurance mess to untangle. Walk me to my truck, Kaitydid?”
Even though I’d rather walk into a burning building, I slip my hand into his while fighting the urge to rip myself from his grip. Looking over my shoulder, I find Abbey hovering in the hallway. “Take mom into the kitchen and make her some tea—I’ll be right back.” Standing slowly, I force myself to let Brock keep ahold of my hand while he leads me through the open front door and down the front porch steps.
As soon as we’re no longer in view of the house, I yank my hand out of his. “A deer?” I hiss it at him, my fists clenched so tight my fingers start to ache. “You had to tell her we hit a deer ?”
“I suppose I could’ve told her I found you in a bathroom stall at the Saddle, sucking Damien Bravebird’s dick instead,” he says with a shrug that tells me that the thought more than crossed his mind. “That the two of us fought over you and that, unfortunately, you got a little banged up in the scuffle.” His expression hardens. “I even have witnesses.” Witnesses. Undoubtedly nothing but his friends, willing to corroborate whatever story he decides to throw out there. “What do you think your father—or the rest of this town for that matter—would do to him if they knew what’s been going on between the two of you? ”
I don’t have to guess.
I know.
I know exactly what would happen if Brock were to tell people that Damien and I are involved and the thought of it tightens my throat in an instant.
“That’s a lie,” I tell him, fighting the urge to scream it in his face. “There’s nothing going on between Damien and me.”
“I thought you’d understand by now, Kaitydid.” Brock cocks his head to the side, the corner of his mouth lifted in a shitty smirk. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth—all that matters is if your father will believe it. I think we both know that when it comes to you, your father will believe anything I tell him.”
He's right.
That’s how much my father hates me.
How much he wants to punish me.
So much that he’ll do everything in his power to make sure that I’m miserable for the rest of my life.
“What do you want, Brock?” I ask, silently conceding because I’m suddenly tired of fighting. Just want to go back to my room and hide for as long as I can. Pretend none of this is happening.
“I’m picking you up for church tomorrow morning.” Moving away from me, he opens the drivers’ side door on his truck and slowly maneuvers himself into the seat—a reminder that Went broke at least a couple of his ribs last night. When I see it, I can’t help but feel a savage sort of satisfaction to know that as banged up as I am from last night’s episode, Brock really did get the worst of it.
Seeing my smile, Brock slams his truck door closed to glare down at me through the open window. “I’ll be proposing to you after service, in front of the whole town and you’re going to say yes. I’m sure Mrs. McCaffery will want to take a picture for the town paper, so make sure you wear something nice.”
Brock made good on his threat—he proposed after this morning’s service while the church ladies battled the warm, late spring air with their paper fans and young kids, who couldn’t give a damn about grown folk business chased each other in circles around the base of the statue of my far-flung grandfather.
I know we’ve had our share of troubles but these last few years apart have been torture for me. I love you and I forgive you for everything that happened. These past few weeks have shown me just how much you’ve changed and that you’re deserving of my trust. I want us to move on and I want you to marry me so I don’t have to feel that torture ever again.
Looking down at him, in yet another one of my sister’s dresses, while he knelt in front of me, black velvet ring box in his hand, I had this insane urge to laugh in his face.
Or maybe punch him in it.
Looking up from him, I see them—the entire town—watching. The church ladies whispering behind their fans. The young women who are my age, whispering behind their hands. They’re all saying different versions of the same thing.
That girl is lucky he’s willing to give her a second chance that she doesn’t deserve.
I can see my mother standing on the fringe of the crowd, watching us with an air of quiet resignation. Abbey beside her, blue eyes round and anxious while Damien hovers behind them both, the sharp angles of his face pulled together in a frown.
What do you think your father—or the rest of this town for that matter—would do to him if they knew what’s been going on between the two of you?
There is nothing going on between Damien and me. There is no us. There never has been.
But that won’t matter.
Once it comes out of Brock’s mouth, the accusation will become reality. Lie will become truth and everything Damien has fought so hard to build here will be wiped away.
It all happens in a handful of seconds and when I look back down at Brock, he’s still there. Still kneeling in front of me with that fucking ring box in his hand, a smug, self-assured smile planted on his handsome face because he knows. He knows that in a blink of an eye, I ran through every possible escape scenario before I remembered the truth.
I’m trapped here and there’s no way out.
No way to say no.
Not without damning myself to a life as the town pariah and Damien to something far worse.
“Yes.” I nearly choke on the word, tears springing to my eyes while a desperate sob claws at the back of my throat. Thrusting my hand into the space between us, I nod my head. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
I watch, helpless, as Brock slips his ring on my finger—a big, gaudy rock that I instantly despise—while Luke’s voice whispers through my head.
What have you done, Kaity? What have you done…
After what felt like an eternity of being chained to Brock’s side while he paraded me around the picnic, showing off the engagement ring while saying things like everyone deserves a second chance and Kaitydid’s promised me that things will be different this time , I finally manage to extricate myself from his grip with the excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, his lie about hitting a deer while driving me home Friday night, working in my favor. Everything that happened last night, coupled with the nightmare I just forced myself through comes at me, all at once in a dizzying wave of mind-numbing exhaustion. All I want to do is crawl into my bed and sleep for a thousand years.
Or maybe I’ll just crawl under it and hide.
When I start to make my excuses, Brock’s mother offers me a pinched smile. “Of course, dear,” she says, patting my hand before flicking a look of barely concealed contempt in Damien’s direction. Even though church isn’t usually his thing, he turned up on the front porch, just as Brock arrived and my mom was trying to herd Abbey out the door, in a pair of nice, dark-wash jeans and a pale blue button down, hat in hand. When he realized Brock was here to drive me to church, Damien looked like he was going to tackle him into the dirt so he could finish what his brother started. Instead, he made it a point to say, we’ll just follow along, right behind you then, while glaring at Brock from across the porch. As soon as we were parked, he met me at Brock’s truck and made sure we all walked into the sanctuary as a group. He hasn’t let me out of his sight since.
Still looking at Damien like he’s something she just scraped off the bottom of her shoe, Brock’s mother aims the look in my direction. “You make sure that hand of yours watches the road on your way home—where there’s one deer there’s bound to be others.”
Finding Brock’s father standing with a few of the other ranchers near the dessert table, a few feet from Damien, I remember the story about finding us together in the bathroom at the Saddle that Brock threatened me with yesterday. A lie like that wouldn’t just ruin my reputation. It would get Damien ran out of town—and that was if he was lucky. Chances are, he’d simply disappear, and no one would even look for him or wonder where he went. It would be like Damien Bravebird never existed. Forcing a smile onto my face, I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have your mother call me, dear.” Another hand pat, this one purposely nudging the ring her son put on my finger, before she lets me go. “We have a lot to do before your father comes home.”
Twenty minutes later, we pass what looks like a delivery van coming home from church.
When my mother sees it, she turns in her seat to aim a narrow-eyed look directly at my sister. “Did you order something?” Again is the unspoken ending to the question. Abbey has been known to borrow our father’s credit card for a trip into town, only to do a little online shopping before she gives it back.
“No.” Abbey shakes her head, shooting a quick, embarrassed look at the back of Damien’s neck before looking out the window, gaze aimed toward the house waiting for us in the distance. “Dad’s not even here—how could I?”
Unsatisfied with her answer, my mother shifts her gaze over to me. Before she can even answer, I give her the same head shake as Abbey. “I’ve never even seen Dad’s credit card,” I remind her. “Maybe he sent you flowers—he usually does when he’s gone away on business.”
“He’s only been gone for three days—he’s not even in Texas yet.” Turning in her seat with a small huff, the three of us stare out the window, waiting for the front porch to appear, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s waiting for us. When the porch comes into view, Abbey claps her hands and does a little happy dance in her seat.
“It’s a package,” she reports like we can’t see it for ourselves. “A pretty big one too.”
She’s right, the white box leaning against the front door is nearly as big as the doormat beneath it. As soon as Damien brings the Land Rover to a halt, Abbey throws off her seat belt and dives for the porch because my father has also been known to send her gifts while he’s away and if it’s not for my mom, then it’s most definitely for her .
“I’ll head on back to the bunkhouse, Mrs. Barrett,” Damien says politely. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll be there all night.” He flicks me a quick look in the rearview while Abbey charges up the porch steps. He won’t be in the bunkhouse. He'll more than likely be at Northpoint,
“Thank you, Damien,” My mother says, giving him a warm smile. “Are you sure you won’t stay for supper?”
“I appreciate the offer but I’ve got some work to catch up on.” Another quick look in my direction before he opens his own car door. “Besides, Randy makes chili every Sunday,” he tells her, mentioning one of the senior hands we employ on the ranch. “He’d be hurt if I missed it.” Touching the tip of his finger to the brim of his cowboy hat, Damien gives her a polite smile and an evening, ma’am before he points himself in the direction of the outbuildings and starts walking.
“He’s a sweet boy,” my mother says wistfully, almost to herself. “He reminds me of him.”
Him is Luke.
I know because I feel the same way.
Before I can agree, my mother is out of the car and on her way to the house, leaving me alone. Extricating myself from the back of the car slowly, I wait for the excited squeals and chatter from my sister over what is surely a gift for her. Rounding the back of the car, I open my mouth to announce that I’m heading inside to start supper when Abbey lets out a sound that is more confused than excited.
“It’s for you.”
Looking up, I see her standing at the top of the porch steps, large white box cradled in her arms.
For a second I have no idea who she’s talking to. Finally, I shake my head. “Me?” I look at my mom. “I didn’t order anything—I swear.” I don’t have money. I don’t have a credit card or even access to one. Ordering something for myself would be next to impossible and despite her earlier question, she knows it.
Mounting the porch steps, I take the box from Abbey’s arms. It’s heavy. Sitting, I balance it on my knees before looking up at my mother. “It’s probably an engagement gift from Brock.” He used to do that when we were together. Send me things—gifts—especially after a fight or after doing or saying something hurtful. His way of controlling me. Conditioning me to accept his abuse.
“Of course.” My mother gives me a smile while she latches a hand around Abbey’s arm. “Let’s give your sister some privacy, sweetheart.”
Abbey looks at her like she’s crazy. “But—”
“Inside.” My mom tightens her grip and starts to drag a protesting Abbey across the porch, toward the front door. “You can help me get supper started.”
Abbey’s still protesting when my mother shoves her through the open front door and shuts it between us, leaving me alone again.
Struggling with the packing tape, it takes me a few minutes to get it open but when I finally lift the lid on the box, I let out an audible gasp because I know right away who it’s from and I know it’s not Brock.
It’s a laptop.
By the looks of it, an expensive one—much larger and heavier than the broken one still sitting in my backpack.
Pulling it from its styrofoam housing, I open it. Sitting on top of its sleek keyboard is a notecard. Flipping it open, I recognize his handwriting right away.
Come back –
Went