Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  “Did you get all the firewood brought in?”

  I glance out the window of my bedroom, toward the stable. “Ah, yeah, the guys were just unloading what we cut today when I jumped in the shower.”

  “Are you sure everything’s okay?” Her gaze shifts to the bathroom and then back to me. “I heard . . . noises.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, “but I’m wet and I need to get dressed.”

  Her gaze is level and assessing. “Alright, well, I have to head into town before the bank closes,” she says. “I was going to grab us some dinner while I’m out.”

  “Perfect.” I smile again, more genuinely this time.

  Alison nods and disappears back into the office.

  I shut my bedroom door and stare at the handle. Generally, I wouldn’t need to lock it; I wouldn’t even consider it because Alison never comes in here. But she’s been watching me more intently lately, and I don’t like it, so I lock the door, just in case.

  With a long, steady exhale I face my room, gazing around like it’s the first time in forever. This is where I sleep, but it’s not a comfortable place to be. That’s outside, in the stable, in the barn where there are things to do, things that keep me busy.

  In here, there are only highlights of my childhood that decorate the tan pinstripe-papered walls. Photos of Shasta, Papa, Mac, Nick, and me are framed and hanging in clusters, unchanged since the first day Papa nailed them in for me. My high school diploma, which I nearly didn’t receive, looms over my desk, an ever-present reminder of how I almost ruined that part of my life, too.

  I open my dresser and pull out comfortable clothes because I’m not ready to go back outside again tonight, not while Reilly might still be down there. Not while I’m angry at Nick.

  Even though the sun is barely even thinking about setting on the horizon, I tug on pajama shorts, shrug on an oversized t-shirt, gather my wet hair up into a messy bun, and don my glasses from the edge of my desk. If I’m going to lock myself away in here, I might as well be productive.

  There’s no air conditioning in the house despite its modernity, but my room isn’t sweltering. I bask in the churning air of the fan spinning methodically above me, then peruse a stack of “to-be-read” books on the corner of my desk. I decide on Sustaining a Small Business: 101, a book that I’ve started twice, but have yet to get past chapter four.

  With an unexpected yawn, I curl up in the pale green cushioned daybed, bathed in the soft glow of the descending sun, and open to the bookmarked page where I’d left off weeks ago. In spite of my aching head and fatigued muscles from a day of wood chopping cut short, I assign myself three chapters to read.

  I barely get through an entire page before there’s movement out the window, and I hear the rumble of the sliding stable door. Unable to resist, my gaze wanders outside.

  Nick and Reilly step around the corner of the paddocks, devil dog being led by Reilly on his rope leash in tow. Petey’s tail wags happily and his tongue hangs from his mouth like life has never been sweeter.

  I can’t hear more than the mumble of their voices, even with the windows open, but I know Nick says something funny. His nostrils flare as he tries to bite back a smile, and then Reilly laughs. Their strides are languid and easy, and since they’re bringing all the tools back, they must have finished unloading the firewood. I study my half-assed mending of the broken paddock fence Target kicked through. At least it would hold him until we could clear out the other “empty” stalls we were using to store things. That was something I would deal with tomorrow.

  As usual, Petey ruins the tranquil moment when he barks at one of the chickens scampering by, and any calm I’m feeling is replaced with a tinge of frustration. Then I hear the soft growl of Reilly’s voice as he scolds the dog. Although Petey seems torn, glancing from the chickens clucking in their pen to Reilly, he surprisingly listens.

  Nick and Reilly exchange a few words, then Nick disappears into the barn, chainsaw in hand. Reilly stays in my sight as he crosses the gravel drive, over to the toolshed. A small, internal voice tells me I’m supposed to be reading, and that I shouldn’t care what Reilly’s doing down there, but I can’t help it and I’m too tired to berate myself.

  Oblivious to being watched, Reilly ties the rope leash around a small oak on the shade side of the shed and disappears inside as he pulls the gloves from his back pocket. A minute later, when Reilly steps back out into the diminishing sunshine that illuminates the sweat soaking his shirt and coating his arms and face, I start to turn my head away but pause.

  Reilly wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He pulls a bottle of water from his back pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes one gulp and then another. He dumps what’s left in a small empty container—what looks like a small flower pot—that he grabbed from inside and sets it down in front of Petey.

  Like he’s deprived and near dehydration, Petey laps and slurps at the water for a brief moment, then splashes and plays with what little is left. Then he barks again.

  “No.” Reilly doesn’t yell or placate the animal but says it loud and even enough for me to hear, and Petey seems curious enough to pause a moment. The dog tilts his head to the side and his ears perk up. He barks again, his tail wagging excitedly, and he pounces like he’s ready to play. “No,” Reilly says again, and again the dog stops and stares at him. “No.” They play this game for a few more moments before the puppy gets distracted, itching himself and gnawing on his own foot.

  Reilly is Mr. Patience himself and he seems to be good for Petey, despite the dog’s flare-ups every so often. When Petey’s not barking and annoying me or the animals, I almost think he’s sort of cute in a ragamuffin sort of way.

  Reilly rubs Petey’s black head. When the dog tries to lick his face, Reilly mutters and topples over, smiling as Petey jumps around in excitement, nudging him and whacking him with his tail. Reilly curses and I can’t help but chuckle.

  Seeing Reilly’s smile makes my heart skip a beat. Although it feels like it was eons ago, I remember the taste of his firm lips against mine, and I remember the way he’d look at me when it was just the two of us, like I was some prize he’d won and he still couldn’t believe it. I could tell him anything. He made me feel so special and loved, and I guess that’s why it hurt so bad when he left—when that feeling was gone. No matter what I tell myself, I know I miss him. I miss him enough to wish I’d been strong enough to hold on.

  Realizing I’m smiling again, I flush in embarrassment, happy I’m alone in my room. I’m intent on refocusing on the book sliding down my lap when my cell phone rings.

  Getting to my feet, I snatch it from my side table, groaning before I plaster a fake smile on my face that I hope is reflected in my tone. “Hello, Mr. Naser,” I say, wishing he would’ve called me back tomorrow when I was in a better mood. He’s an intelligent guy, and I’m not feeling very confident about my faking-it skills right now.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Miller. I’m sorry I missed your call, I was in meetings all afternoon.” His voice is kind and velvety, and I remember thinking him very attractive the one and only time I’d ever met him.

  “This is actually Samantha, her, uh, daughter. I’m the one who rides Target. We met when you were here with your sister back in January.”

  “Ah, yes.” The way he says it makes my stomach flutter a little, though I’m not sure why. “I remember.”

  What sounds like typing on his end of the line brings me back to the point. “I had left you that message because I wanted to check in with you about a few things.” I don’t appreciate the unsteadiness of my voice.

  “Is everything okay with my sister’s horse?”

  I nod, as I usually do without thinking, and only after a prolonged moment of silence do I realize he can’t see me. “Um, yes, Target’s fine, but I have a confession to make, Mr. Naser. Hopefully not one that will worry you too much.”

  He laughs. “Please,” he says, “call me Adam. The last thing I want is to feel like my fa
ther, the old bastard.” He chuckles again. “So, what’s this confession, Ms. Miller?”

  I take a steadying breath, fanning in the fresh air from outside so I can breathe easier. “Well, although Target is absolutely fine, he did have a small adventure today I thought you should be aware of. Something must’ve spooked him,” I half lie. “Anyway, he knocked through the fence and went on a little joyride . . . er . . . run this afternoon.”

  Adam’s quiet a long moment, and my heart almost stops by the time he speaks again. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Miller. I’ll pay for whatever damage—”

  “No, really, you don’t have to do that. Please, don’t worry about that at all. I just wanted you to be aware of it because, assuming Tara is still stopping by on Wednesday now that finals are over, he may still be limping a bit, and I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  “Limping?”

  I wince, second-guessing that telling him a version of what had happened was the right thing to do. “Like I said, it’s nothing serious. He had a rock stuck in his shoe. It’s just bruised, but he might still be tender for the next couple days.”

  Papers rustle on the other end of the line and I hear the squeaking of a chair. “As long as it’s nothing serious, I won’t lose any sleep over it. Thank you for the heads-up.”

  “That’s my job,” I reply.

  “I’ll actually be in Saratoga Falls this week on business,” he says, catching me by surprise. “I was hoping I might be able to stop by. I’d like to drop off a board check for the rest of the year, if you don’t mind. That way I don’t have to worry about it. Plus, it gives me an excuse to check in on my sister and see how she’s been doing since she convinced me that allowing her to get a horse was a good idea.” When I say nothing, he continues, “My flight arrives tomorrow morning. I could stop by then.”

  My jaw slackens. “You’re—” I clear my throat. “You’re coming tomorrow?”

  “Yes, like I said, business,” he says, sounding a bit distracted.

  I’m not sure if it’s the thrill of excitement or the surprise in having him at the facility that’s making me sweat like a pig, but I smile and try not to let my tone give anything away. “Oh, that would be great!” I say it a little too enthusiastically, and I curse myself for sounding overeager.

  “Would it?” he asks with a chuckle. I can’t help but think he’s enjoying my obvious befrazzlement.

  I glance out the window, desperate for this conversation to end, when I notice Reilly staring up at me. Instantly, I look away. “Yes, of course it would. We love having our boarders out here as much as possible.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What time do you think you’ll head this way? Should we plan on a ride or something?”

  “Midmorning, I think. Before I get wrapped up in my afternoon meetings. And no, Ms. Miller, a ride won’t be necessary. I’ll leave that to my baby sister.”

  “Please,” I say, “call me Sam.”

  “Alright, Sam. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow then.”

  “Same here, Mr. Naser—”

  “Adam,” he corrects.

  “Okay. See you then, Adam,” I say, and with a goodbye, I hang up the phone.

  Tomorrow? Hosting a boarder isn’t on my list of things to do tomorrow. I groan but know it could be worse. It could be an old man with a beer gut that spits chew on my boot when he speaks that I’m meeting with, but it’s not. It’s Adam Naser, a young, successful exotic-featured charmer with a gorgeous smile, if I remember correctly.

  Reilly’s voice carries in on the breeze. I peer outside to see him playing with Petey, and I find myself strangely anxious for tomorrow to come.

  I could use a little distraction.

  Fourteen

  Reilly

  Petey fidgets in the shade, too hyper to lie down even for a moment while we wait for Nick to come back with beers. As much as I want to know how much trouble Petey’s actually caused in the months he’s been roaming around, I’m afraid to ask, especially after what I witnessed today. I don’t blame Sam for being angry, not after I’ve seen what they’ve done to the place—how much it’s changed and how hard they’ve been working to keep it running.

  Peering up into her window, a window I’ve looked up at many times in my childhood, I’m not surprised to see her gazing down at me. She’s on the phone, having an animated conversation with someone, and she’s actually smiling. Her cheeks are flushed.

  She holds my gaze a second longer, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then steps away from the window, leaving me wanting. Just wanting to see her, to remember what it used to be like between us, to know what she’s thinking and who she’s talking to that makes her smile reach her honey-colored eyes—it seems I want a lot of things I wasn’t expecting.

  Whistling tears my gaze away from her window.

  “Here,” Nick says, handing me a cold beer as he steps closer. “Your payment, as promised.”

  My throat’s dry from working out in the field and stacking firewood under the awning behind the barn, so I gladly accept the perspiring bottle. “Thanks.”

  Nick pops the cap off of his beer, then hands me his key ring.

  I glance over at the broken paddock wall. “But I think it’s me that owes you. I didn’t realize the old man’s dog had been such a pain. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a dog. I’m still trying to figure out why.”

  “Maybe he was lonely.”

  I shrug and open my beer bottle. Petey sniffs the cold bottle cap when it drops to the ground. “Leave it,” I say. He sits down and peers up at me, panting.

  I take a swig from my bottle and pick up the cap.

  “Things happen,” Nick says, and he lifts a shoulder. “It’s just a wood fence, and I have two-by-fours, nails, and a hammer. I think we’re good as gold. He’ll be okay in there tonight.”

  “Well, if you can think of anything else you need—materials, beer—let me know.”

  Nick shrugs. “I won’t say no to the beer.” He smiles, and we both stare at Target, eating in his stall. I almost grin at the haphazard patch job that Sam rigged over the broken boards with rope and stakes. It’s enough to give the horse the illusion he can’t get out, at least.

  I take another swig of beer. Nothing compares to a cold beer after a long, hot day in the sun and being haunted by a woman you’re not sure you should want if even you could have her. I take another swig and study the label, surprised by the taste of citrus and the aroma of pine. “This is good. You drinking pale ales now? I thought you were a light beer man.”

  Nick pulls two rusted chairs over from behind the toolshed. “What can I say, I have a more sophisticated palate these days.” He sits down, gesturing to the chair beside him, and picks idly at the label on his bottle.

  I sit down in the rickety old patio chair that appears to be as weathered and rusted as the toolshed. It creaks under my weight, and I hold my breath a moment, waiting for it to break.

  It’s quiet for a minute, and I enjoy the sound of the ranch—what seems like a completely different world than my house on the next hill over. It’s quiet there, overwhelmingly still, and lonesome.

  “You’ll tell Sam I’m sorry again? I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so upset.”

  Nick gives me a quick nod. “She’ll be okay,” he says. “She just gets worked up over this place a lot. She changed a lot after the accident, this place is her whole life.” I eye him, waiting for him to continue. I knew she wanted away from this place once Robert married Alison, but then, I guess things change when your life is turned upside down.

  “She’s never said anything to me,” Nick says, “but I know she thinks she’s letting her dad down if she can’t keep this place going—if she can’t work things out.”

  “So they’re having a hard time keeping the place afloat?” It seems in good condition and full enough of horses.

  “Yeah, Robert had just finished remodeling the farmhouse right before he died. He’d taken a loan out, that sort
of thing.” Nick crosses his legs out in front of him. “He made his money on breeding and horse training, two things Sam never really learned much about, and Aunt Alison only just married into the family a couple years before he passed. Plus, he had some big contracts lined up that obviously never went through—the whole thing’s kind of a mess.”

  It’s hard to imagine what life was like right after he died, and part of me wishes I could’ve been here to help out in some way. “At least Alison and Sam have each other,” I say, glad that Sam’s not completely alone in this.

  Nick lets out a despondent sigh and leans his head back, staring up at the tree. “Aunt Alison is complicated. She and Sam live together, but they’re not a family. They act like they’re both alone in all of it. It’s really aggravating.” I study him, waiting for him to elaborate.

  Nick pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. “Sam never talks to me about it, because she knows I don’t think their relationship is healthy. But it’s obvious Aunt Alison blames Sam for what happened to Robert, even if she doesn’t actually say it.” Nick rubs his forehead and lets out a puff of smoke.

  My gaze travels back to Sam’s empty window. My grip tightens on the arm of the chair, and I resist the urge to walk upstairs to apologize to her again—an excuse to see her, to make sure she’s okay. “It sounds bad.”

  “Yeah, well, it is what it is. I can’t make either of them do anything,” Nick says, his voice strained as he takes another puff from his cancer stick. “They just have to figure it out on their own, I guess.”

  “Well, it’s good that they’ve got you.” I lean back in my chair. “I wish there was something I could do, but I’m not sure Sam would appreciate my help. Things are a little—complicated between us, if you couldn’t tell.”

  Nick brushes a few stray wood chips off his pants. “Yeah, I can tell. Mac’s worried about it.”