Chapter Seven Savannah
Chapter Seven
Savannah
Every time I think I’ve clawed myself free of him, he drags me back under. Blaze Hartman isn’t a man. He’s a damning curse branded into my heart.
I glare at the back of his truck, my wet hair stuck to the back of my neck, skin prickled with sweat and lust. Smug-ass bastard just waltzing in here like he owns the place.
Like he owns me.
And I proved his point. Because I don’t know shit about running a ranch. What I do know is how deliciously good it felt to have his eyes undress me, his fingers locked on my hips, his skin like fire against mine.
The touch sent a charge of electricity straight through me even though my brain screamed for me to pull away.
Stupid. Reckless. Dangerous.
Dammit.
Six years ago, his touch felt like possibility, like we had all the time in the world to figure out who we were and what we wanted to become.
My heart is still racing. From anger, I tell myself. Just anger.
Not from the way he looked at me. Not from the magnetic pull I felt when he invaded my airspace. Not from the traitorous parts of my body that wanted to close the distance between us instead of shove him away.
I slam the barn door harder than I mean to, which isn’t smart since everything on the ranch seems to be on its last rusty hinge, and stalk back to the house.
Inside, I pour a glass of water, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I gulp it down too fast, then fill the glass again.
You felt nothing. That was just shock. Surprise. Heart muscle memory. Whatever the hell.
But they’re lies. All lies.
I felt everything. That’s my problem.
Sinking into one of Aunt Marg’s kitchen chairs, I drop my head into my hands.
Six years ago, I let him make me believe I was someone he could love, someone worth sticking around for. I figured I could be the one to help soothe his pain, the one to help battle against his demons.
I stupidly thought love would be enough to conquer all.
Silly, naive girl.
It wasn’t. Not even close.
He shattered me, then disappeared. His actions made it crystal clear that whatever I thought we had was just in my head. Never reality.
My parents died, and he broke my heart right after their funeral.
That’s who Blaze Hartman is. Not the boy who used to drive me up to Lover’s Bluff with chocolate chip cookies and cheap wine. Not the one who made me feel like the only girl in the world when he looked at me.
He’s the one who turned his back on me when things got hard.
I know him. And I despise him.
So why did my entire body light up like a Christmas tree the second I saw him today?
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes to force away the image of him standing in my barn. The way his jaw tightened when I told him to leave. The way his eyes tracked my every movement like I was something he’d lost and found again.
No. Absolutely not.
I’m not doing this. Not letting him twist me up again. He doesn’t get to walk back into my life and make me feel things. He lost that right when he abandoned me.
But—and my heart sinks at this realization—the fact that I wanted to grab him by the shirt and demand answers to my questions like why he suddenly left, why he’s back, and why he feels the need to show up here uninvited means I’m already letting him back in.
Which is exactly what I can’t do.
I won’t survive Blaze Hartman breaking me a second time.
Groaning, I get up and stagger into the powder room off the kitchen. I almost laugh when I catch a look at my reflection. Mud-stained face, raccoon eyes, soaked and now-transparent T-shirt. Sweet Jesus, I am a total wreck, and he just witnessed that unarguable truth.
Black mascara streaks the undersides of my eyes like war paint. With a frustrated huff, I use my fingers to wipe it away so I don’t look like Alice Cooper. My shoulders slump, and I hang over the sink, squeezing my eyes shut.
I’m not the same girl I was when I left this town, and he can’t manipulate me into falling under his toxic spell again.
His woodsy, spicy scent lingers in the air, sticking to my skin, almost as a taunt.
“You can’t walk away from me.”
I turn on the water and wash my hands, his words pounding between my ears.
“You’ll never be free.”
“Fuck you, Blaze,” I yell, soaping up my hands and rubbing them hard. As if that can erase the memory of him. But it doesn’t work. His seductive smirk and rugged, gorgeous bearded face still wallpapers my mind.
Because the truth is, he’s permanently etched onto my soul, like a dark stain I’ll never be able to scrub clean.
I dry my hands and walk into the kitchen. I need a sweet treat, something to take the edge off. My mind trips back to the way Blaze would lick the cake mix from my fingers. Before . . . everything.
No! I am not tainting my love of baking with that man.
I find Aunt Marg’s recipe box in a kitchen drawer. I run my finger over the top of the wooden box, the edges worn smooth from use and time. Recipes scrawled on index cards are neatly organized in alphabetical order inside the box.
I flip through them, my heart clenching as I scan all of her favorite dishes to prepare. Her pot roast. Her blackberry cobbler. Her lemon poppy seed loaf that Nash always claimed to be the best in Wyoming.
At the bottom, tucked under the stack, I find a card with no recipe on it. It’s just a note.
For Savannah—when you finally come home.
My throat tightens, tears springing to my eyes when I flip the card over with a shaking hand.
Baby girl, home is always here. Waiting. So am I. Love you to the moon.
—Aunt M.
It’s dated six years ago. Right after I left for Denver.
She wrote this six years ago and kept it here, waiting for me to find it.
Waiting for me to come home.
I press the card to my chest and let the tears fall. Loud, ugly sobs rack my shoulders as I slump over the counter with my head in my hands.
For Aunt Marg. For the years I wasted. For the home I left.
When the tears finally stop, I slowly rifle through the recipe box again. Flipping through the cards, I stop on the recipe for her famous chocolate fudge cake. She always used raspberry jam as the filling, and Nash and I would finish half of the cake in one sitting whenever she’d bake it.
Mom used to love to bake too. She and Aunt Marg and I would have Bake-Offs every month. We’d make all sorts of treats, and Nash, Dad, and Uncle Aaron would be the judges.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about those times.
Does Nash, I wonder?
I busy myself opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients as a way to distract myself from the guilt and the grief when Nash walks in.
I didn’t even hear his truck pull back up.
I wipe my eyes, but he barely acknowledges me before sliding past to grab a bottle of whiskey.
He pours some into a glass and swallows it in one gulp.
“Maybe you should eat something first—” I start to say.
He whirls around, lancing me with a fire-hot glare, the glass in his hand. “Don’t fucking mother me. Don’t pretend you give a damn if I drink myself to death. It’ll be on me, not you.”
I slowly walk around the island even though his expression warns me to stay far away. “I understand why you’re so angry. I was wrong for leaving you, and I’m sorry. But we’re both hurting. We need each other, Nash.”
“You think you’re here playing house, but doing little bullshit chores ain’t gonna help this place. You don’t know how to fix things because you never gave a shit enough to stick around and learn.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, and you learned so much over the years? So much that the ranch is completely underwater?”
I cringe once the words hit air. It was the wrong thing to say, but I can’t swallow them back now.
Fury flares, his lips twisting like he just tasted poison. “Don’t make assumptions about things you don’t understand, Savvie.”
“Well, instead of always being so secretive, why don’t you explain them to me?
It’s like you want me to fail,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice.
He’s standing right next to me, but he may as well be on the other side of the world since I can’t figure out how to break down the massive walls blocking me out.
“I want to fix us, Nash. But if you don’t feel the same way, if you can’t even stand to be in the same room with me, then maybe you should just go. ”
He freezes, the glass halfway to his mouth. Eyes narrowed to slits, he slams the glass down on the counter.
“This ain’t your home. No matter what she willed to you. Home is the people you turned your back on. I’m the only one left, and you ain’t welcome anymore.”
He storms out the front door, boots thumping hard along the creaky floorboards. Each angry footstep drives nails into my chest. And the farther away he gets, the less confident I feel about ever reaching him.
With a heavy heart, I grab my keys and walk to my car. I made choices that led me to this point, ones that I can’t change. I might not be able to fix everything I broke by leaving, but I can try. And it starts here, at Red Rock.
I open the windows as I head down the drive toward town. The air is so crisp and clean. The faint scent of lavender from the fields drifts over, filling my lungs and stinging my eyes. It warms my insides, making me feel closer to Aunt Marg.
But the harshness of Nash’s words and his caustic accusations weigh in my gut.
I’ve never felt so alone, so unwanted and out of place.
I didn’t keep in touch with anyone after I left, so it’s not like I have a group of friends here waiting for me.
I feel like a fish out of water being back here after all this time, but somehow, I need to find a way to fit back in because I have to keep our family legacy alive and in our hands.
I also need to figure out how I’m going to finance the ranch. I have close to twenty thousand dollars in savings, but without a steady paycheck, it won’t last long. Months, if I’m smart with my spending.
I tick off monthly expenses in my head as I pull up to an empty parking space. My eyes narrow on a blacked-out sedan parked directly across from me.
My God, it looks so much like the car that ran me off the road that night.
A flash of memories assaults me—screeching tires, exploding glass, the coppery taste of blood on my tongue. And then, blackness . . . cold, agonizing, and menacing.
My gut hollows, like the bottom has just dropped out. Short, sharp gasps of air become a struggle.
A horn behind me blares, jolting me from the haunted thoughts. I jump with a yelp, startled. I slide the car into the spot and then look around, my pulse hammering hard against my throat.
The sedan is gone.
I press my trembling fingers to my temples.
You’re seeing ghosts. That’s all. You’re safe.
But my body knows better. It remembers.