Crossing Hope (Cross Creek Series Book 4)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “Of course we will,” Tobias said softly. “Let’s get you home.”

  But as her brothers and Tobias crowded in to hug her, dry her tears, and take her back to the farm, Marley’s heart still ached.

  She wouldn’t be exactly where she belonged without Greyson. Greyson, who had believed in her. Cared for her. Greyson, who she’d left without saying goodbye.

  Greyson, who probably hated her right now as much as she loved him, which meant she was going to have to do everything in her power, no matter how crazy, to get him back.

  30

  Greyson’s muscles fought between burn and burnout, but still, he kept moving. He’d left Cross Creek yesterday evening and gone straight home, diving headfirst into a bottle of Jim Beam, no glass. He’d run the spectrum of emotions, dwelling mostly in the gray area between pissed off and defiant, because, hey, better the devil you know. He’d had a weak moment somewhere around ten thirty, when he’d been drunk enough to tumble into bed but sober enough to realize that his pillows and bed sheets smelled like wildflowers—all of them, because Marley was a consummate cover hog. He’d snatched every stich off the bed with a curse, wadding them up and throwing them all on the floor before finally crashing face-first on his couch. The few fitful hours of sleep he’d managed, coupled with the ice-cold shower and piping hot pot of coffee he’d mainlined before heading out the door two hours ago had been enough to sober him the rest of the way up, but, funny, they hadn’t touched the gaping hole in his chest, or the anger and sadness that had filled it.

  Marley was gone. She’d left him without a goodbye, and she wasn’t coming back. He really needed to get his head together, focus on his farm, and get the fuck over it.

  “Somethin’ must be under your skin pretty good,” came a voice from the barn doorway, and son of a bitch, this was the last thing Greyson needed right now.

  So, of course, it was exactly what he got. “The work needs done,” he said, breaking stride with the lift-and-toss of the hay bales in the bed of his truck only to shrug.

  His father raised one graying brow. “You’re bailin’ hay, which is a job we pay farmhands for, when the roosters have only been up for an hour? Seems less’n smart to me. Unless you want to walk around dog-tired all day.”

  “Maybe I do,” Greyson said, sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes, making them sting.

  His father, who normally would’ve lost interest by now since Greyson was, in fact, working on the farm, lingered. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that Cross girl haulin’ out of town yesterday, would it?”

  Greyson’s gut tilted, and he dropped the bale of hay that had been in his grasp to the barn floor with a heavy thump.

  “What?” A smile twisted at his old man’s lips. “Her sisters-in-law called half the damn county lookin’ for her. You didn’t think word wouldn’t get around, did ya?”

  “I didn’t really pay it much mind,” he said, although, fuck, he should’ve. Millhaven’s grapevine had probably caught fire once word got out that Marley had taken off.

  His father raised one hand in a dismissive wave. “Ah. I told you that girl was trouble. Them Crosses always did think they were so much better than the rest of us.”

  Something deep inside of Greyson snapped, sending his words up like a rising tide. “Why are you so goddamned angry all the time?”

  “Because life’s full of broken promises.” The words, which always emerged in bitterness, were oddly quiet. Quiet enough that, instead of pushing back or mouthing off like he’d always done in the past, Greyson simply listened.

  “Nothing was supposed to turn out this way,” his father finally said, because for the first time ever, Greyson had given him the chance instead of trying to get in a tangle with the man. “The farm. The work. The legacy. None of it.”

  Greyson’s jaw unhinged. “What do you mean, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Apparently not,” Greyson said, unable to keep his attitude fully in check.

  But his father surprised him further by letting go of a soft laugh. “I always thought Steve had told you, or at least mentioned it, since he was going to be your boss and all. Figures he’d have left that to me, too. I did get everything else.”

  Greyson’s what-the-fuck-ometer spontaneously combusted. “Seriously, Pop. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your uncle, that’s what. You remember what he always used to say, about there bein’ two types of folks around here?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, calling up the phrase in his mind. “The people who love Millhaven, and the people who leave it.”

  Greyson’s old man nodded. “He always was a lover, ever since we were kids. Our daddy raised us on this farm just like his daddy raised him. Steve never wanted to do anything else. Always felt right as he could be, workin’ the land. Reminds me of you, actually.”

  “But not you,” Greyson said, and holy shit, it all made perfect sense.

  “No. I worked on this farm for over twenty years, and never did love it. After my daddy died and left us the place eleven years ago, Steve and I agreed. I’d stay long enough to make sure everything was in order and running right, then I’d sell my half to him and leave Millhaven with your momma. You and your sisters were grown, they were all married. Steve promised to make you his right-hand and leave the farm to you when he passed. The only thing he wanted was to see Washington, DC one time before he took over.”

  Something loud and insistent sounded off close by, and Greyson was stunned to discover it was his heartbeat in his ears. “But then he was killed before you could sell him your half.”

  “He was.” Bitter sadness carried his father’s words. “I lost a brother I wanted, and gained a farm I didn’t, all in one day. Life’s what happens when you’re busy makin’ plans.”

  Funny, Greyson had always attributed the phrase to his uncle, but right here, in this moment, he realized it was his father who had always uttered it. “Why didn’t you sell the place anyway?” he asked. The thought made him nauseous, and not a little, but still…if his old man hated Whittaker Hollow that much, surely he’d at least considered the option.

  “It didn’t feel right,” his father said with a shrug. “It’s been in our family for a long time. Sellin’ it to Steve would’a kept it that way. Sellin’ it to a stranger, well, who knows what would’ve become of it, or if they’d have given you a job. At least if I kept it, I knew you’d get to run the place, even if I had to stay while you did. Kinda figured it was just my lot to live and die here. I just didn’t realize it would make me so angry to do it.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?” Greyson asked.

  “I thought you knew about Steve. Plus, talkin’ about it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  Greyson could count at least fifty different ways it might’ve changed things, but saying as much probably wouldn’t help. Not right this minute, anyway. “So, where does this hatred for the Crosses come from, then?”

  “Some of it is pure rivalry,” his old man said, gesturing to the open barn door behind him. “You of all people know what it’s like to want to be the best around here.”

  Yeah, he kinda had Greyson’s number, there. “And the other part?”

  His old man paused. “Old man Cross got to live his dream. He was close with his sons, they’re livin’ theirs, too. Truth be told, a lot of it is just bitterness grown over time. Hell, even you got to live the life you wanted. I ain’t too proud to say I feel like all I got were broken promises.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”

  The look on his father’s face was a testament to his doubt, but rather than push, Greyson just went for honesty. “Look, I’m not saying we can make changes overnight, and even though it would make us both happier than pigs in a mudpile, I can’t buy you out of Whittaker Hollow.” At least, not unless the bank gave him a monster of a loan, and even then, putting the far
m up as collateral gave him hives the size of silver dollars. “But maybe if we sit down and really look at operations, we can figure out somethin’ that’ll work better than fighting like cats and dogs.”

  “It ain’t like you to be so level,” his father said, and Greyson’s stomach knotted. At least Marley’s influence might come to some good. Even if she’d never be around to see it.

  “You, either. But I’m tired of picking fights instead of having conversations. This is who I am, Pop. I can’t promise I’ll always be a dream to work with. I’ve got rough edges, same as you. But I love this farm, and I swear I’ll do the best I can to help you run it.”

  One corner of his father’s mouth lifted, barely, but it was enough. “You know we’re probably still gonna tussle over how to get things done. Ain’t none of this gonna be easy, and it ain’t gonna come quick, neither. There’ll be a lot of hard work in front of us.”

  Greyson mirrored his father’s expression, and you know, maybe the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree after all. “That’s okay,” he said, extending his hand to his father for the first time in a decade. “I’m kinda counting on it.”

  After all, he was going to need all the hard work he could get to fill the Marley-sized hole in his heart.

  Ten hours later, Greyson had to admit defeat. He’d stockpiled just enough energy to make it from his truck to his apartment to his shower to bed, although he’d probably be snoring before his head even landed firmly on his pillow.

  The pillow that was currently on his floor, and would probably smell like wildflowers no matter how many times he freaking washed it.

  “Knock it off,” he muttered, pulling the Silverado out of Whittaker Hollow’s driveway and onto the main road. His cell phone had remained quiet all day. No calls from Marley, and nothing from her brothers, either. Not that he’d expected anything—he’d told them she wouldn’t come back. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing it.

  And hadn’t Greyson learned that the hard way.

  Leaning a little harder on the gas pedal, he made his way toward his apartment building. His exhaustion was growing teeth, the dull thud behind his eyes pulsing along to the soundtrack of his heartbeat. He focused on the road in front of him, covering the ground as fast as he could, and ah, yeah, only a few minutes to go. Maybe less if he could hustle just a little faster…

  Lane’s police cruiser appeared from out of nowhere, blue and white lights flashing full-bore, and seriously? Seriously? If Greyson didn’t know any better, he’d have said the guy had set himself up strategically, just waiting for his ass to come barreling by.

  He pulled over, swearing every inch of the way so it would be out of his system once Lane arrived at his window, which happened about ten seconds later. “What seems to be the problem, Sheriff?”

  “Greyson.” Lane’s expression was practically impenetrable, his eyes shielded behind the brim of his uniform hat and his mirrored Ray-Bans. “Can you step out of the vehicle, please?”

  He had to be kidding. “I was only going like ten miles over the speed limit,” Greyson protested, gritting his teeth. “Listen, I get that you’ve got a job to do, but I’ve had a really long day, and I’m not—”

  “In the mood, I know,” Lane said, and wait, what was that look that had flickered over his face? “This’ll go quicker if you don’t argue.”

  “What will?” Greyson asked.

  “I need to take you down to the precinct.”

  Irritation flashed, deep and hot in Greyson’s chest. Okay, fine. So maybe it had been twelve miles over the speed limit. Fifteen at the absolute worst. But still… “You’re arresting me? Again?”

  Lane stepped back, his jaw like granite, and gestured to his cruiser. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Greyson. Step out of the vehicle. Please.”

  Greyson nearly argued. He nearly told Lane to fuck straight off, that he could haul him in front of the judge just so Greyson could prove that Lane had a grudge. But Judge Abernathy had said not to ever show up in her courtroom again, and even though Greyson was pissed, he also knew fighting Lane fell under the heading of Epically Dumb Things.

  “What about my truck?” he asked, and Lane nodded once in assurance.

  “I’ll take care of it like last time.” He led the way to his cruiser, going through the whole mind-your-head routine as he deposited Greyson in the back. The trip to the police station was quick, the walk through the front doors uneventful, and finally, Greyson broke the silence.

  “Are you seriously going to throw me in jail for going a few miles over the speed limit?”

  “No,” Lane said, although he kept walking down the hallway.

  Greyson resisted the urge to pull up in shock. “No?”

  Lane gave him a look akin to a nonverbal “was I unclear?”, and Greyson had to ask. “Okay, then why did you drag me here, exactly?”

  “That is an excellent question.” Lane stopped in front of the jail cell and looked pointedly past the open door. “And there’s your answer.”

  Marley stood in the center of the eight-by-eight space, wearing the same white tank top and cutoffs and motorcycle boots she’d had on the day Greyson had first met her, right on this very spot, and holy shit. Holy shit.

  She was back in Millhaven.

  “In you go,” Lane said, and finally, Greyson’s mouth caught up with his rushing thoughts and his slamming pulse.

  “What if I don’t want to talk to her?” he asked, his anger not one to take a knee. Marley didn’t look shocked that he’d asked, although her bright blue eyes went wide with pleading that threatened to wreck him.

  “Thought you might go that route,” Lane said, touching his handcuffs. “You were going fifteen miles over the posted speed limit, which, according to section 146 of the traffic code, is a moving violation punishable by—”

  “Okay, okay,” Greyson said. “I get it.” He took the few steps necessary to get himself well over the threshold, because Lane was anything if not thorough, and yep, the door clanged into place a second later.

  “You owe me, Rallston,” the sheriff said, and Marley nodded.

  “That skinny dipping thing? Consider it in the vault.” She drew a line over her lips with one finger, finishing the movement with a twist of an imaginary key. Lane grumbled as he walked away, leaving Greyson alone with Marley and every last one of his churning emotions.

  “Can’t say I was expecting to see you back in town,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Yeah.” She looked him right in the eye even though he was giving off every junkyard-dog vibe he could rustle up, and God, he had to hand it to her. Marley was tough. “I was hoping we could talk about that.”

  “You had Lane arrest me just so I’d talk to you?”

  “Technically, he didn’t arrest you. You’re not in any trouble, and Owen was right behind him to get your truck. It’s probably in the parking lot right now. If you still want to leave in five minutes, I’m not going to stand in your way. But I’d really like it if you’d listen to what I have to say in those five minutes.”

  Greyson opened his mouth to say no. He should say no. But what came out was, “Fine. I’m listening.”

  Relief splashed across Marley’s face, so genuine that it chipped at his resolve even further. “I did a really stupid thing in leaving yesterday,” she said. “I had good reasons. Or, at least, what I thought were good reasons. I’m sorry I had Lane bring you here so I could tell them to you, but I knew the only way I could get you to listen was to do something extreme.”

  “We’re in jail,” Greyson pointed out, and Marley smiled.

  “Would you have answered if I’d called?”

  Well, shit. “No.”

  “And would you have opened your door if I’d shown up at your apartment?”

  She had him there, too. “Probably not.”

  “Considering the circumstances, jail seemed like my best option.” She took a step forward, and it was then that Greyson noticed the s
hadows smudged under her eyes, as if she’d lost as much sleep as he had last night. “I owe you an apology. It’s not enough, I know, but I owe it to you all the same. God, I owe you so much more than that.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Greyson said, the words way more truthful than ticked off.

  “But I do,” she said. “All this time, you’ve shown me that I belong here in Millhaven, and I was too scared and stubborn to see it. I thought Tobias was sick even though he’s not, and I panicked. I ran away, when what I should’ve done was trust. I’m so, so sorry, Greyson. You weren’t wrong. Eventually, bad things are going to happen, because that’s life. But I can’t be afraid to live it, and to let people in for as long as I can as I do. I can’t be afraid to love.”

  “Oh.” His arms loosened to his sides, hope glimmering somewhere deep in his chest, covering his anger. “Well, I’m glad Tobias isn’t sick.” He’d gathered as much yesterday, when none of the Crosses had said so, but still.

  “I am, too, but that’s not why we’re here,” Marley said. She took another step forward, only an arm’s length away now, and Greyson’s heart pumped faster, his breath going tight.

  “It’s not?”

  “Nope. We’re here because I love you.”

  The declaration caught him so off-guard that he couldn’t speak. Which, as it turned out, was okay, because Marley wasn’t done.

  “You’re arrogant and bossy and fierce, and you push me when I need to be pushed. You showed me who you are, and you showed me where I belong. I might’ve had good reasons to guard my heart, but I have even better ones to trust it to you. My heart belongs to you, Greyson. I don’t just belong in Millhaven. I belong with you. I love you.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” he said, when he finally recovered his voice.

  Marley’s dark brows lifted, the hope on her face along with them. “It is?”