Chapter 20
HESTON
My head is throbbing because I haven’t been able to get Hattie off my mind.
I toss an armful of scrap into the dumpster I rented. The wood scatters against the metal with a loud clank. Lucky doesn’t lift her head from where she’s sprawled out in the shade, but I can still see the side-eye she’s giving me.
“You’d be pissed at yourself too, if you were me,” I tell her.
But I’m not you, and I wouldn’t have walked away from the conversation like that, you big dummy. Sometimes I wish I couldn’t read her mind.
I wonder which stage of madness it is when you start talking to your animals like they’re human.
By the time I walk back into the barn to inspect the trim I just installed, I’ve made up my mind that this habit of wallowing isn’t sustainable.
There’s very little work left to be done here.
The next time I find myself messing things up with Hattie, there will be no more projects for me to take the frustration out on. Obsession only fades when you’re busy.
Flat-out telling her “Don’t do it” was a huge risk. I knew that all along, and stupidly, I took it anyway.
My best chance would have been to keep my mouth shut and listen, or at the very least catch up with her in a way that didn’t end in a demand.
Unexpected and somewhat heated conversations leave little room for logic, though.
For what it’s worth, we didn’t scream at each other, and she didn’t sprint away in tears. That’s a small win, I guess.
I trudge through the room until I reach the door that leads to the stalling area. For a brief minute, I stop to test the light switches on the wall next to it. They’re in working order, unfortunately. I’d rather spend the afternoon trying to fix or finish something instead of losing my mind.
It doesn’t make me feel any better to slam the door after walking through it.
I quickly scan over the squeeze chute, wash rack, and supply area—all ready to roll. My fist clenches at my side.
A surprising wave of relief washes over me when I step into the alley between the stalls and spot the can of topcoat sitting on a step ladder. I’d forgotten about letting the last gate dry before finishing it.
It’ll take at least an hour to seal over the stain. If I play my cards right and take my time, maybe more.
I’m searching for a can opener tool when Lucky breaks out in a fit of barking outside. I crane my neck to see what she’s pitching a fit over, but the sound gets quieter by the second as if she’s running away.
I slip out the back door this time, in search of the commotion. When my line of sight finally lands on my dog chasing full speed through the dry pasture, my senses heighten immediately. She only sprints excitedly like that toward one thing. One person.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
I doubt walking to my truck and acting like I was just checking the place out will do any good. My forearms are covered in sawdust, and there are tools everywhere. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. It’s not the right time.
I pull the hem of my t-shirt up to wipe the sweat from my brow before slowly walking out front.
My dad brought his old feed truck out here so I could use it to haul supplies, saving mine from a handful of scratches and dents.
It’s parked out near the well between the barn and where Hattie is currently stalking through the pasture, so I walk toward it, hoping her eyesight’s gone bad and she won’t notice the big white building behind me.
I make it to the truck before she does. She’s a vision, heading toward me with her hat sitting atop her light blonde hair that’s full and down, just barely curling in at the ends.
I recognize the hat by its traditional cattleman’s shape and the dusty rose beige color of the felt.
She only wore it a few times when we were together because she was determined to keep it in pristine condition.
It’s her favorite, and seeing it on her now makes me swallow hard.
Not all women can pull off a Stetson. Hattie does it better than any girl I’ve ever seen, and it makes me think back to the night we first met.
I can picture her walking behind those chutes in fitted jeans, broken-in boots, and a hat that made her look like someone had taken the version of a dream girl who only lived in my head, turned her into a real person, and plopped her right down in front of me.
No one was holding my heart in their hands and wringing it out like a soaked dish rag that night. But it sure felt like it.
When she’s close enough to give me a questioning look, I lean my hips against the side of the truck’s flatbed, bracing one hand behind me, and shoving the other in my pocket.
Hattie’s gaze slides past me and over my shoulder, like she’s trying to catalog every inch of this place. The pasture. The trucks. The fence line running toward the horizon. I feel it the second her eyes hit the barn.
My shoulders stiffen, and I keep my back to it.
She finally comes to a stop at my side, close enough that I can catch the scent of her shampoo over the sweat and sawdust. For a beat, she just stands there, hands loose at her sides, hat brim shadowing her face.
Then she lifts one palm and sets it on the rail of the flatbed next to my hip, mirroring me.
Lucky paces between us in a wide arc, circling twice like she can’t decide which one of us to lean on. She ends up flopping down in the thin strip of shade from the truck, tongue out, bandana crooked around her neck, watching us like she knows something’s about to snap.
The silence stretches so long, I start to wonder if it’ll ever end.
The wind whistles through the short grass.
I catch the outline of the bluffs in my peripheral vision.
That rise she loves so much. My chest pulls tight, knowing how much this place means to her.
Her family spent a lot of their time here in the summers when she was little.
Other than her childhood home, I’m not sure any place in the world plays host to more of her happy memories.
She doesn’t like to forget things like that. She chases the feeling constantly and wants to feel close to it. Buying this piece of land next to the bluffs was always something I’d planned on doing after I learned that about her. The break-up didn’t change my mind.
Explaining that giving her the life she wanted has been the north star guiding me through these last two years isn’t going to sound right. I haven’t said a word yet, but I already know I won’t be able to articulate it the way I want to.
I shift my stare straight ahead, jaw locked, and let the seconds stack between us until it almost hurts too much to breathe.
“What are you doing out here, Heston?” she finally asks, voice unsteady. Her hand curls on the metal beside mine. I see her knuckles out of the corner of my eye, white from how hard she’s gripping. She tips her chin toward the barn. “What is this?”
A dozen answers clog my throat. The real one tastes the worst.
“I—” The word sticks and splinters on its way out. I clear my throat and try again. “I’ve been working out here for a while.”
She draws her brows together. “Doing what?”
I shrug, eyes pinned on the horizon instead of her face. There’s nothing I can say that she won’t dig her claws into, so I try to stay vague. “A project for a friend.”
“A project for a friend,” she echoes slowly, like she doesn’t buy it for a second. Her gaze drags over the barn’s wide doors and the alley she can’t quite see from here, but I know she’s trying to picture it anyway. “Looks like more than a weekend favor.”
I want to explain, but every thought that could possibly turn into spoken words is scrambled in my head. What I wouldn’t give to feel smooth and confident in conversations. Maybe right now more than ever.
“You don’t think it’s strange that you’ve been spending time . . . here, of all places?” she adds.
No. I don’t think it’s strange.
Because every board on that barn has her name written all over it.
I just don’t know how to tell her that without making her think this was some sort of ace-in-the-hole I’ve been saving to leverage her back into my life.
It was never about that. It was only about wanting to help heal those parts of her that had been broken so long.
This place is special to her, and I’ve seen firsthand how it reminds her to feel joy.
The memories she made here with her family before her mom and brother both passed away are still alive on this land. It should be hers. Once upon a time, I promised to make sure it would be.
How can I begin to explain that her leaving our relationship in the dust, even marrying someone else eventually, couldn’t stop me from keeping a promise like that one?
“No stranger than you popping up here out of the blue,” I say quietly, attempting to switch the focus elsewhere like the avoidant coward I am.
Her mouth twists like she wants to argue but doesn’t quite know where to start.
The breeze kicks up again, tugging at the ends of her hair.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
It’s stupid because for days—hell, years—I’ve been wishing for a moment like this.
All I wanted was a chance to tell her right this time.
A chance for her to listen. A chance for her to understand.
Just . . . not here. Not yet. Not when my tongue feels like it’s made of sand.
“Well, as you said, I’m here,” she quips. Her fingers flex against the truck, and her eyes gloss over. “Whether you were expecting me or not, you can at least give me an idea of what the hell is going on.”
My jaw ticks, and I look away from her again. “The timing is all wrong.”