Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
A dull ache in my jaw stirs me awake. I rub the back of my cheek, trying to soothe it. Am I grinding my teeth again?
I think about downing some Advil and trying to go back to sleep, but a pale sunbeam is peeking through the blinds, illuminating the shapes of my guitar and violin cases. It reminds me of the favor I need to grovel for.
Last night, I quit playing when William came home, and though I had no right to resent him for it, it made the silence feel oppressive.
When he walked past my room, his footsteps paused, and I lay there with my heart pounding and heat rising through me like a storm.
I sat up, my thoughts at war—did I want him to come in, would I let him? —but he kept walking.
A moment later the shower turned on. Thinking of him under the hot water shouldn’t have made my skin tense beneath the sheets. When the shuffling and creaks of him getting into bed filtered through the walls, my breaths came easier but sleep eluded me.
I don’t want to be back here. Facing all that I destroyed. But here I am. Doing it anyway.
The front door clicking shut makes me think William’s gone out, but Theo’s voice fills the house. He and Will share a few words, then the stairs creak and a door closes upstairs.
After popping some Advil, I take a shower in the shared bathroom between my room and William’s. I brace myself for signs that he’s got a regular visitor, like maybe a pink toothbrush or specialty shampoo.
Standing there naked while the water heats, I pinch the bridge of my nose and remind myself that William seeing someone would be a good thing. It would mean he’s moved on.
Inside his shower, I have no choice but to use his bar of Dial soap, but I make sure to rinse it off in the water before using it on my skin, which makes me feel like an idiot. It’s just a bar of soap. It doesn’t mean anything.
After, I dry my hair and put all my things away so I don’t cramp his style, then dress in jeans and my favorite fall sweater, an orange cashmere from my favorite thrift store in the U-district, and carry my violin to the door.
Theo must still be upstairs, because in my periphery, it’s just William moving around in the kitchen. Thankfully, Ollie only comes for a passive sniff of my shins.
“Since when are you afraid of dogs?” William asks.
I suck in a breath. “I’m not.”
He exhales heavily. “There’s coffee,” he says, his voice still too firm.
“I’ll get something later.” I step into my clogs and tug on my coat and without looking at him, grab my violin and slip through the door. But I don’t get two steps before William’s at my side.
He’s barefoot and wearing black work jeans that have faded to a soft charcoal at the creases and cuffs, and a gray T-shirt that stretches across his muscular chest. Annoyance flashes beneath my skin. Could he just stop looking so damn delectable?
“When are you going to talk to me?” he asks, those slate blue eyes dark with frustration.
“Do we have something to talk about?” It’s so much easier to make him hate me when we’re hundreds of miles apart. When I’m not here on his porch, surrounded by his peppery scent and the determination in his gaze.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Where are you headed today? Can’t you let me help?”
For one instant, I imagine slumping against him, even if all he does is keep me from crumbling for a handful of seconds.
“I have to go to Thunder Mountain, then to the hospital.” I leave out my plan to drop in on Crosby, even though telling Will would put some space between us. I’ve hurt him enough.
Will’s expression softens. “Let me go to the rescue with you.”
It should be Dad offering, or Theo. Having William by my side would make facing this less daunting, but it brings on a whole new set of problems that I don’t have the energy for. “I should go alone this time.”
Relief flashes in his eyes at the mention of this time , and it makes me feel like shit for giving him hope.
He nods. “Okay.”
“Did Dad come to you about The Limelight, or was it the other way around?” I ask, unable to keep the question inside any longer.
“Neither.”
I’m tempted to keep digging, but I tell myself I got the answer I needed.
He nods at the violin case in my grip. “You going to play today?”
“Yeah.” I don’t tell him why. Maybe he thinks I play for Morgan’s rescue horses.
“Hang on.” He slips back into the house.
I sigh, letting my shoulders slump. Before I can bolt for my car, Will comes back outside with a travel mug and a small white bag.
I stare him down for an instant, but he gives me a sheepish shrug. “I have a feeling you could use this.”
The scent of my favorite hazelnut creamer tickles my nose, and I know by the Glory Holes logo on the bag what I’ll find inside it. “You went out for donuts this morning?” I must have slept deeper than I thought.
“Asked Theo to stop on his way home,” William says.
I meet his gaze one more time. “Thank you.”
When I go to take the items from his hands, he jerks his chin toward my car. “I got it.”
In silence, he walks me to my car, seemingly unaffected by the damp grass or the gravel under his bare feet. He waits for me to set my violin safely in the backseat then settle behind the wheel before handing me my breakfast. Our fingers brush, sending a wave of gooseflesh up my arm.
I force a smile as thanks, and our eyes lock for another tense moment before I slide my key into the ignition and pull away.
When I reach Morning Star, I peek into the bag, and the shell around my heart cracks a little.
Six perfect cinnamon-sugar donut holes are waiting for me.
I pop one in my mouth and close my eyes to savor the airy cake and the gritty-sweet cinnamon-sugar coating.
It pulls me right back to my freshman year when Theo would take me to Glory Holes or the taco truck next to the 76 station on our way home from school.
In between scarfing down our snack, we’d debrief the day.
A pang of yearning flashes in my chest. I miss my brother. How close we used to be.
A sharp honk startles me back to where I’ve been idling for far too long.
I give the woman behind me a wave and turn left, passing the turnoff for the Huttons.
That William bought a house near Barb and Henry makes me think they’re still close.
I brush unexpected tears from my eyes and try to distract my mind with the classical music playing quietly from my radio.
But it’s impossible to pretend I don’t miss them all so much.
When I turn down the long gravel road marked only with the faded green “SALT CREEK” sign, the donut holes in my stomach turn to bricks.
The road is rutted and bumpy with washboards, and so dry a thick plume of gray dust rises like a storm cloud behind me.
Tall pines mixed with aspen and huckleberry brambles line the left side of the road, their leaves and needles coated with road dust, like it hasn’t rained in weeks.
On the right, bordered by barbed wire fencing, are back-to-back horse pastures complete with barns and abandoned farm equipment, rusty pickup trucks, modest homes, and other outbuildings.
After I dip down to the creek crossing, the road forks.
I veer left, passing beneath the sign for Thunder Mountain Horse Rescue.
That old sense of hope scratches at the surface of my thoughts, but I kill it with a firm breath.
Back when this land became ours, I was broken and scared.
It seemed like the right choice. Especially for Morgan.
It wasn’t wrong to think that way then, but now, I know better.
Now I know the price of keeping my secrets.
And I’m sure Morgan does too because why else would she be back in that place?
Is that why she let Dad sell The Limelight?
She didn’t have the strength to confront him about it?
The gravel road curves around a band of trees to a turnaround with a two-story farmhouse that looks even older than I remember.
The 322 acres of open prairie and forest are fenced by a combination of pole and post and barbed wire.
Close to the house are four small pastures for the more social horses or the ones that need more care.
Beyond is a bigger pasture for the horses who like more freedom, with lean-to shelters and watering systems throughout.
The hayfields in the distance are pale yellow and stubbled after the last harvest.
Morgan’s best friend Adeline is attending a horse therapy training in Oregon, so I’m not surprised her car isn’t here.
I have questions for her, ones that she might not like.
Morgan’s Dodge Ram is parked in front of the house, dusty and with a few more dents than the last time I saw it.
Gus’s Ford is parked past the barn, but I’ll deal with him later.
When I step onto the dry gravel, a horse whinnies from somewhere out of sight.
The air is rich with the scent of animal musk and dry prairie, the cool autumn wind whistling through the gaps in the fences.
Instead of going inside the house, I walk to the nearest fence, clicking my tongue.
The Appaloosa is already plodding toward me, her head bobbing.
Despite her age, her coat looks thick and healthy and her eyes are soft and clear.
The scar that runs down her left shoulder is barely noticeable now.
“Hey, Misty,” I say when she scarfs up the horse treat I stuffed in my pocket earlier.
As she crunches it, I stroke up her dusty forehead to the swirl of cowlick and give it a good scratch with my knuckles.
Misty’s long eyelashes lower and she huffs in contentment, nostrils flaring.
Her bestie Maverick ambles over and crowds in next to her, snarfing up the treat I offer him.
He’s the rescue’s oldest horse and the one with the most problems, but he makes up for it with his charm and the way he watches over his ladies.