7. Willa
SEVEN
Willa
I needed to make a decision.
I was either going to stay with the Holts…or I was going to leave. There was no way I was going back to the homestead, that was for sure; but now the whole world was open.
Any sane person would have left, would have run as far as they could…not endangered the nice family that lived next door. But I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving them. I wanted to stay. Stay with these people who’d made me feel safe.
Stay with Nickel.
Stay with Forrest.
And it didn’t help that I’d devoured that book, asked Haven for another one, moved on to the next…and kept picturing Forrest as the hero and myself as the heroine.
Doing lots of things.
Like—Forrest on his knees, my skirt hitched up around my hips, head tilted back.
Forrest with his lips pressed to my neck, my legs wrapped around him, his hips thrusting.
Forrest…Forrest, Forrest in every single one of my dreams and my wildest fantasies.
It didn’t help that he kept doing things.
Not anything weird or inappropriate, just nice things.
He’d pour me a cup of coffee without asking and add plenty of cream and sugar.
He’d tell me what he was working on and describe it all—teach me about architecture, about the brewery he was designing for his cousin here in town. He always said good night and meant it.
And when he did that…I’d lie in bed in the dark and think about the way he said it, think about his voice, and I’d feel something warm and confused move through me.
I was twenty years old and I’d never had a crush before.
I was fairly certain that’s what this was.
It was terrifying.
In the books, the heroine always knew what to do; she’d say something sharp and funny and the hero would look at her like she’d surprised him, and they would just…it was always so sure. They were in love. He wanted her. She wanted him.
I was not that girl. And I wanted him because…because why? Because he’d given me my own room and a deadbolt?
No.
Because he’d given me safety. Because he’d given me kindness.
…because I’d seen him with his shirt off and a towel around his waist one time and it made heat bloom between my legs and I’d felt the strangest urge to touch myself.
Tonight, he was making us dinner in the cottage—mostly to make me feel safe.
The other nights I’d been here, we went over to the house…
but I couldn’t imagine stepping foot out onto the porch, not after my family had come so close to finding me.
I’d barely even wanted to leave my room until Forrest coaxed me out with grilled cheese and tomato soup.
I’d told him it wasn’t the season for it, it was too hot.
He told me that it was always what his mom had made after a hard day.
I ended up in the kitchen sometime around seven, and Forrest immediately set to work. For a few minutes, the only sounds were Forrest flipping the sandwiches on the stove…stirring the canned soup every so often. Nickel whined for cheese, and Forrest gave it to her.
I sat down at the table and looked at his designs—at the straight lines, perfectly measured, beautiful and orderly.
“What made you want to design buildings?” I asked.
He shrugged, his back still to me. He was wearing a white t-shirt that draped too perfectly across his broad shoulders, his shoulderblades visible underneath, the fabric hugging his chest and looser at his waist. I wanted to touch him. Comb my fingers through his onyx curls, taste his brown skin—
“I think it just made sense,” he said, derailing my thoughts. “It looked nice. Something about it scratched an itch just right.”
His voice went smooth at the tail end of that sentence…made me warm. I’d been warm too much lately.
“And there was a pretty girl enrolled in the class,” he added. “I wanted to meet her.”
I bit my lip. “And did you?”
Still wasn’t looking at me. He sighed. “Yeah.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could feel the hurt in it.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
Now he turned around, letting the grilled cheese sizzle in the pan.
“Nobody told you?” he asked. “I guess…I figured Haven would’ve mentioned it. Something about it being good for me to have company.”
“She hasn’t told me anything.”
“Oh.” He paused and crossed his arms tightly, like he was trying to protect himself.
“Um…it feels fucking trivial compared to what you’ve been through, but…
I was engaged. Her name was Sophie. We were together for six years.
” He stops again. “She died,” he finished.
“COVID. All of a sudden and she was just…gone.”
My breath caught.
“Forrest,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He swallowed hard and turned back to the stove.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I mean—not really okay, but it was a long time ago.”
I sat at the table and looked awkwardly at his sketches, twisting my hands in my lap. I had no idea what to say…no idea what to do.
“What happened to me isn’t that bad,” I said. “I haven’t had someone die.”
He looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have to make it seem that way. I saw…we talked to Mr. Daley today.”
I went still.
“You did?”
“I didn’t want to tell you until you felt safe,” he said, “but yeah, we did. He was at the fence with a few other men. Gage warned them off, made it clear they’re not welcome on our land. Didn’t say we’d ever seen or met you.”
I licked my lips. “He knows I’m here, doesn’t he?”
“Not as far as I know.”
I stayed seated as he dished out the soup and sandwiches, then he came over to set them down. He carefully tidied his sketches and put them on the counter, then he sat too.
Then he looked me in the eyes, leaning over his food. “You’re safe,” he said. “I swear.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled.
“I know,” I said. “Thank you.”
We ate then—sitting in companionable silence, just enjoying the food. He’d been right; it was comforting, even though it was hot outside. I cleaned my plate in what felt like seconds, and I knew he would be fine with it if I went back to my room…but I didn’t want to.
I wanted to tell him what had happened to me. Like he had told me what happened to him.
“I didn’t even know it was wrong,” I said.
Forrest frowned, watching me…but listening.
“I didn’t—” I paused, twisting my hands again. “I was raised that way. Not with the Daleys, with my family…up in Oklahoma? And then when I was sixteen, they said they—” I stopped again. “—they traded me for one of Mr. Daley’s daughters, and…and I became his wife. His fourth wife.”
I didn’t want to look at Forrest. It was so embarrassing—so disgusting, now that I was saying it out loud. Not at all like a novel.
I kept my eyes on the table.
“He wasn’t cruel exactly,” I said. “Never hit me or anything. He just…he had rules. Rules about everything. What we wore, where we went, who we talked to. You didn’t question the rules because the rules were God’s rules and questioning them was the same as questioning God.
” I let out a short laugh, because if I didn’t laugh I was going to cry. “That’s what they said, anyway.”
Forrest hadn’t moved.
He was probably judging me. I wanted to sob.
But for some reason, I kept talking.
“There were four of us,” I said. “Wives. I was the youngest, and the others had been there longer and they just…stopped expecting anything different. I think I did too, for a while.” I reached up to turn the empty mug of soup, peering at the orange longhorn silhouette on the side.
“I tried to be good. I tried to do everything right. I thought if I was good enough he’d leave me alone, and then I thought if I had a baby he’d leave me alone, but then four years went by and there was no baby and everyone looked at me like I was broken and the other wives looked at me like it was my fault he wasn’t leaving them alone anymore—”
My throat closed.
“And then I think I just…I stopped thinking they were God’s rules.
So I started saving up money. Little bits everywhere I could find it.
And I…I stitched it into my dress, and I ran.
I ran as fast as I could.” My hands clenched too tight around the mug, knuckles white.
I ran as fast as I could, and this was the farthest I got. ”
Silence. God…no, please, I’d said too much—
Warm, big hands closed over mine.
And I looked over to see that Forrest was kneeling beside me…touching me.
“What happened to you wasn’t your fault,” he said. “None of it. Your whole life you’ve been told what to do by…by evil fucking men.”
I could tell he was actually angry. But…not at me. It was all directed at the people who’d hurt me.
And that…
I should have said something, should have said thank you, or I know, or yes, they were evil, I won’t go back—
But I did something stupid instead.
I stared at him…looked into his deep brown eyes, let my eyes flick downward to his lips.
And then I just—
I leaned in fast and I kissed him.
It was over too fast, but in that split second…it felt good. Heat shot through me, filled me up, erupted inside me. My breath came fast, hitched, I moved my hands and practically fell out of my chair to get closer to him—
He pulled away, his hands firm on my shoulders now.
“Willa—”
“I know,” I said. My face was burning. “I know…I know—”
“We shouldn’t,” he said, his brow furrowed.
But I could feel his breath against my lips.
And I did it again.
My hands were on his chest now…feeling him through the thin fabric of his shirt, fingers curled to pull him closer.
And Forrest didn’t push me away, didn’t stop me—he kissed me back hard, and I let out this breathy exhale, and he swallowed it whole.
I swept my tongue out and he…he let me. God, he let me, it felt so good, I needed him, needed him naked, needed him inside—
He pushed me away.
“We can’t, Willa,” he said. “God…I’m such a bastard—”
“You’re not,” I breathed. “I want this. I want you.”
“I know you do.” His voice was rough. He was still close, close enough that I could feel the heat off him, and his hands were on my waist and hadn’t moved. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You’ve only been free for a week,” he said. “One week. I’m the first man you saw outside and…I hate it, but I’m the first person who’s been kind to you, Willa.”
“So?”
“So you should have higher standards than the bare minimum of being kind and making you feel safe.”
It hurt. It hurt, it did, but he was right. He was right.
I stood up, staggering to my feet and back.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I—this was—I’m so embarrassed.”
He was on his feet too, shaking his head. “Willa, you don’t have to be embarrassed—”
“But you didn’t—” I bit my lip. “I’m not her. I know. And it’s not fair to…to put all my expectations on you. I know.”
He went very still.
"What did you just say?"
"I'm not Sophie," I said. "I know that. And it's not fair of me to—"
"That's not—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Willa, that's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?"
"It's about you." His voice had an edge to it now, not angry at me, something else—frustrated with himself, maybe.
"It's about the fact that you've been through something that would break most people and you've been here a week and you're still—" He stopped again.
"You deserve more than someone who's been half-dead for three years and doesn't know how to—"
“I’m going to bed,” I interrupted. “I’m…we should…we can talk in the morning.”
“Willa—”
“It’s okay,” I said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I’m—good night.”
I didn't wait for him to answer.
I went down the hall. Shut the bedroom door. Slid the deadbolt home.
Then I stood there in the dark with my back against it and my hand still on the lock and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
Nickel materialized from somewhere and pressed her nose to my knee. I didn’t even know she’d followed me.
I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor and she climbed half into my lap, too big for it, not caring, and I put both arms around her and pressed my face into the top of her head.
You deserve more than someone who's been half-dead for three years.
I turned that over in the dark.
He wasn't wrong, maybe. I didn't have enough experience to know what I deserved—I'd spent my whole life being told exactly what I was worth and it wasn't much. But I knew what I'd felt in that kitchen. I knew the difference between being handled and being wanted. I'd spent four years being handled.
That wasn't what that was.
He'd kissed me back.
Twice.
I pressed my lips together and felt them, still warm, and stared at the ceiling I couldn't see.
Outside, the creek moved in the dark. The goats were quiet. Somewhere across the property a dog barked once and stopped.
Half-dead for three years.
That was the thing he'd said that I kept coming back to. Not I don't want you or this is wrong or any of the things I'd been bracing for. He'd said half-dead. Like he knew it. Like he'd been watching it happen to himself and hadn't been able to stop it.
I understood that. More than he probably knew.
The difference was I'd had someone keeping me half-dead on purpose.
His had just happened to him.