Chapter 13
Our farm. She called it our farm.
That thought wiggled its way through my head as Bellamy marched up to the bank and demanded to speak to someone. As she pulled out her purse and paid off our back taxes in their entirety.
Talk about a Christmas fucking miracle.
The merry jingle of bells follows us as we exit the bank. At the bottom of the steps out front, she stops and looks up at me. “There.” She smiles. “Problem solved.”
I grasp her hand and tangle our fingers. “Think that’s the understatement of the century, sugar.” In a single hour, she solved everything.
It makes my chest tight and my eyes burn. This glimpse of the determined, clever, driven woman I love. She saved the farm. There’s no way I can ever repay her, but damn if I won’t try.
“Thank you, Bluebell.” I clear the emotion from my throat. “You don’t know how much it means.”
She hits me with that smile that goes straight to my heart. “No. I think I do.”
There on the sidewalk, she launches into a little spin, laughing. I lift my arm, twirling, then pulling her into me.
“Blue Mountain Farm is saved.” She cocks a brow. “In the nick of time too. No thanks to you, you mean ole secret-keeper.”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in days. “This is like the squirrel. You got your way, and it tore up my shop, not to mention that damn saddle.”
She bats her eyes. “I can’t help it that I’m very, very persuasive.”
“Try stubborn.” The words leave me with a grumble, but I’m smiling.
“You wanna take a stroll?” I nod down the block, signaling to where garland and bows line Main Street. “For old times’ sake?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is breathless. “I do.”
So we walk.
Silverwood is bustling, the late afternoon sun sinking, giving way to the winter chill.
One last rush for last-minute shopping. One after another, the storefronts are decorated with colorful bulbs, and “Jingle Bells” pumps from the candy shop.
We pop into Java Junkie for to-go coffees and pumpkin scones.
We stop at a new kitchen store and browse, quietly wondering about the kind of person who needs all these damn gadgets.
When we step outside, ready to head for my truck, her gloved hand finds mine. Our breaths puff white in the chilly air as we wander. Apple cider spices the air. Locals lift their hands in greeting, and I find myself doing the same.
Since Bellamy left Silverwood, I’ve stayed away from our old haunts, only hitting up the hardware store and the grocer. Today, I’m seeing it fresh. And it feels like home.
Home.
My gaze lands on Bellamy, keeping pace beside me.
I still haven’t told her how I feel. How I’ve felt for the last three years. Because once I do, once I ask her to stay, there’s no going back.
She belongs to me. Yet an irrational fear plagues me, warning me that she might not agree. That in three days’ time, she’ll get back on a plane to San Francisco, and it’ll be like the last seventy-two hours have been a dream.
I’m not prepared for that. In my mind, there’s no going back. There’s no me without her. She saved the farm, but if I need to leave it in order to be with her, then I will. Because she’s given up more than enough for me.
“Hank, you coming?” She steps forward and turns, assessing me.
My breath catches at the sight. Backed by the blue sky, lit up in the late afternoon sun, she’s stunning. Her white sweater and jacket have slipped, exposing one bare shoulder. Her dark hair is soft around her face and cascades down her back.
“You want to go out?” I nod at the bar across the street. Buck’s. Next to the door, an animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos and waves a beer. “Grab an early dinner?”
Her eyes widen with surprise. But she nods, almost shyly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Yeah. Okay.”
Hand in hand, we cross Main Street. As I hold the door open for her, the scents of fried food and stale beer and sawdust hit us.
Bellamy inhales deep. “Missed that smell.”
I take the place in and let out a low whistle.
Buck’s Bar is decked out, floor to ceiling, for the holidays. Garland wrapped around the buck head over the bar. A North Pole sign over the jukebox. Bartenders in Santa hats pulling draughts in Santa-shaped steins. Twinkle lights strung from the ceiling.
“Damn. Buck didn’t just deck the halls, he Griswolded the whole damn bar.”
Bellamy lights up, joy radiating from her. She loves this. “Hank.” She giggles, pointing. “Those elves-on-a-shelves are violating the liquor bottles.”
Chuckling, I guide her toward an empty high-top.
“How do you feel?” she asks, those brown-gold eyes of hers searching my face. “About the farm?”
“Honestly, sugar, I fuckin’ hate that I let you do that.” It stings, letting another person step in. It’s not the cowboy way. But I’m not so proud that I’d lose the farm.
“Accept it, cowboy, and buy me a drink.” The stubborn tip of her chin makes me smile.
“You drive a hard bargain.” I lift a hand, signal to the bartender. My eyes go to her. “Still like the amber?”
“You know it.”
Once we’ve ordered, I reach across the table and grip her hand, feeling the pulse that beats in the soft pad of her palm. Can’t resist the urge to touch her in public. Touch her like my wife.
She sucks in a breath but doesn’t pull away. “Think we’re taking old times’ sake to a new level.”
I hum, lower my head. “Ain’t upset about that.”
We watch each other. Like we’re pushing this as far as it can go, like we’re trying to figure it out on the sly.
The beer is dropped off by a waitress. A waitress I, unfortunately, recognize. Fuck.
“Hank Blue.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Hey, Cynthia.”
She peers over at Bellamy, pulls a few coasters from her apron and drops them on the table. “Been a while since you called me.”
“Yeah. It has.” Two years, in fact.
Bellamy tenses and sits up straight, squaring her shoulders.
I squeeze her hand, holding her attention, and her entire expression softens.
“Well…” Cynthia looks from me to Bell and back again. “I’ll let you get back to your date.” She saunters away, returning to the bar.
“She seems…nice.” Bellamy grits her teeth.
I grin. “You jealous?” Won’t lie. It makes me happy to see that fierce flare of fight in her eyes.
“Shut up. No.” She takes a swig of her beer, breathes out, then blurts, “Who is she?”
“Went on a date with her a while back.” I shake my head. Might as well get this out now. Move one step closer to the truth. “But she wasn’t you. Not even close.”
Bellamy’s body becomes less tense as she considers my words.
“I dated too,” she says.
It’s my turn to go rigid, but I tamp down on the urge to act like a possessive asshole. No matter how much I want to.
“I hated it.” One dark brow arched, she wraps her hand around her beer. “But for the record, this is not a date.”
“Whole bar seems to think otherwise, sugar,” I growl out, low and quiet.
She flushes, subtly surveying the folks nearby, discovering it’s true. Every eye in the bar is on us. But I only see Bellamy. It feels so good to be this close to her, like she’s mine.
Her slim fingers slip to rotate the silver band on my finger, her attention bouncing from it to my face. She studies me with an unreadable expression. “We met like this.”
“We sure did.” I shove a napkin her way. “Think you can draw me again?”
For a brief moment, hesitation creeps onto her beautiful face. Then it resets to determination, and she’s digging a pencil out of her purse. Tongue quirking out of the side of her mouth, she sketches.
While she works, she hums. Soft. Sweet. Happy.
God, I miss that sound.
Finished, she slides her sketch across the bar.
“What do you think?” She props her chin in her hands and looks at me from beneath long lashes.
Damn, she’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but this three-years-older version of her is incredibly sexy. Confident and put together and perfect. With her wild chestnut hair and rosy cheeks, she’s as stunning as the day she ambushed me at my table, all brazen and beaming.
It’s a quick sketch of me in profile, beer wrapped in my hand. “It’s too fucking good, sugar.” I lift it up, one soft napkin edge drooping. “You’re gonna make it. And when you do, you’re gonna be big.”
“Sounds like you know everything, Hank Blue.” She bites her lower lip to hide her smile.
I don’t know everything, but I know my girl.
How she likes to have a glass of ice-cold white wine and watch Forensic Files.
How her tummy always hurts when she’s worried.
But never about herself. Always about someone else.
How she does a little happy shimmy dance when she eats food she loves.
How she never gives up, even when she’s scared or doubts herself.
“But yeah, maybe you do know something.” She takes a long sip of beer, tracing a fingernail over the sketch on the napkin.
“Tell me something you know.” I skim my fingertips along the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. Just the touch, the feel, of her grounds me.
“I miss this town. This bar.” She nods at a group of busybodies in a corner, their focus fixed solely on us. “Those stupid idiots too.” Smiling, she props her chin in her palm and looks at me. “I forgot how to do this. Go out. Have fun.”
A long exhale escapes me. “Me too.”
Her eyes search mine, silently asking where I’m going with this.
So I chance it. “But it’s better with you,” I say. “It’s always been better with you.”
Her eyes widen and an audible exhale escapes her. “Hank…”
With each word, I inch closer to the truth. Will she let me in? Will she tell me why she left? Give me just one damn hint as to whether I can give her what she wants. Maybe I never did. Maybe that’s why she left.
Only one thing’s for certain. I’m scared out of my fucking mind that I’ll lose her at the end of this.
The bells above the front door chime as it swings open, and on instinct, the two of us turn toward the sound.
Clint and Laura wander in hand in hand and claim a corner booth.
“Must be date night,” Bellamy murmurs.
“Must be.” I drain the rest of my beer. Set it down harder than I intend.
Their appearance is like a big bucket of water. A reminder that Bellamy’s not mine. That we’re still divorced and in less than three days she’ll be on her way back to San Francisco.
Unless I do something about it.
“Listen, Bell—”
I’m cut off as the microphone on stage crackles with an announcement that trivia will begin shortly.
Bellamy breaks into a full grin. “Tuesday trivia. Things sure don’t change in Silverwood.” Her tone’s wistful, if not a little sad.
Across the room, Clint zeroes in on me, one brow raised. With a bullshit gleam in his eye, he lifts his trivia sheet. Laura, face alight, waves a hand, gesturing wildly at their table.
I huff a laugh, scraping a hand over my jaw.
“We’re being beckoned,” Bellamy murmurs, an eager smile topping her words.
“What do you think?” I nod at Clint and Laura, who have now scrawled SOS on the back of their trivia sheet and are waving it in our direction. Unexpected nerves thrum through my veins. “Think you still got it in you? Old times’ sake?”
Bellamy squares her shoulders, hiccups, then slugs down another sip of beer. “Always.”