Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  With each rapid breath comes another question, another reevaluation of the things he’s said, of the things he hasn’t said. On more than one occasion, Reilly’s made it clear that he’s happy in the military. Being home is hard for him, being here is hard for him. He’s told me how the Army gives him purpose, that he misses his friends, that he feels like he belongs with them.

  It doesn’t matter that I’ve known something like this might happen, that he’d probably leave soon, but now it’s so close to being here, I panic.

  I stand up, peering around the room. I can’t let him change his plans, change his life for me. He’ll resent me for his decision to stay, just like I resented him for wanting to go.

  The water shuts off in the bathroom. I try to steady myself, but my hands are shaking. My heart’s galloping in my chest and my mind is racing with arguments for him to stay, but none of them overshadow what I know I should do. He’s already suffered so much because of me.

  “Almost ready,” he says from inside his bedroom.

  I let out a deep breath and brace my palms against the table. The thought of letting him go burns—my eyes, my heart, my throat, my chest.

  I can smell his fresh scent before he walks out and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck. “I can’t believe you agreed to see this movie with me. I thought for sure you—”

  “Josh,” I say in a rush, and I turn around to face him.

  His shadowed blue eyes widen, cautiously searching my face. His muscles tense. “What is it?”

  Thirty-Four

  Reilly

  Sam stares back at me, brown eyes gleaming, and my heart drops to my stomach. “What is it, Sam?” I ask again, more anxious this time.

  She tries to smile, but it falls short and she nods toward the kitchen.

  I follow her gaze. “What?”

  “Mad Dog called while you were in the shower.” Her voice is hoarse, filled with a sadness or hurt I don’t understand.

  She must notice my confusion because she lifts a shoulder and takes a deep breath. She’s trying to be strong, trying to rally herself, though I have no idea why. “You’re reenlisting?”

  I let out a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it to begin with, and shake my head. “Is that what this is about?” I smile in relief. “No, I’m not reenlisting. That’s why he’s calling me. I haven’t told him that yet.”

  The expression on Sam’s face doesn’t change, and uneasiness tightens my gut.

  “I’m not reenlisting, Sam. I was going to, but that was before.”

  She blinks, taps her fingers on her thighs, moistens her lips, and blinks again. I take it all in, read her so that I know where this is going. “I think you should take some time, you should really think about this—”

  “I did. I want to stay here with you.”

  She takes a step back, shaking her head. “You always planned to leave. You didn’t want to come back and now suddenly you’re changing your mind. You’re changing everything, all your plans, to stay here with me. How can you be sure it’s not just an “in the moment” thing? What if you regret it?”

  “I won’t.” Taking her wrists, I pull her gently toward me. “This is what I want to do.” I’m not sure how I can make myself any clearer.

  Her lips purse and her gaze narrows on me, like I’m the one who’s not getting it. “You know what you think you want,” she says. “But what will you do if you stay? You don’t know what it’s like to regret and resent, how much it consumes you and ruins everything. I don’t want that for you. And you will resent me if you turn away from the only place you’ve ever felt like you belonged. If you’re not certain.”

  I take a steadying breath and rub my temple, trying to be patient. “Sam, why won’t you trust me on this? Why do you always have to assume the worst? Can you not see us together, with a life of our own? Can you not see how much I care about you, that you make me happy? Why would I leave?”

  She turns for the door.

  My heart starts to gallop as I realize how serious she really is and I grab onto her arm, forcing her to come back to me. “Sam, don’t walk out.”

  “I’m not ending things,” she says more quietly and yanks her arm from my hold. She reaches for the handle. “I’m just telling you to take some time, make sure this is what you really want, and let me know.”

  “Sam . . .” I can’t bring myself to say it, but I can’t go through this again. I can’t survive another broken heart. “Sam, please don’t leave,” I say, willing her to just listen to me, but she opens the door and disappears outside.

  I’m reeling, too pissed, too blindsided and confused to go after her.

  Thirty-Five

  Sam

  Lying by the gravestones, I let the early afternoon sun burn the outsides of my eyelids and scald every unwanted notion away. No matter how I’m feeling, the sun is always a warm blanket that soothes me, cooking me from the outside in and filling my mind with a soothing haze instead of tumultuous, unwanted thoughts.

  “I should be working right now,” I tell Papa. Talking to him helps clear my head sometimes, especially on days like this. “But I can’t focus.” I let out a breath. “I called Alison’s cell, but she didn’t answer.” I think about the ranch without her, how empty it feels, even though we barely talked as it was. “I’m not sure if she’s coming home.”

  Everything in my head is jumbled, and I can’t think of anything other than how much I hate the absence of noise coming from Reilly’s house. “He doesn’t understand.” I stare at Papa’s name on the gravestone, the way it’s permanently etched there, never fading, like I fear his memory might one day do. I rest my chin on the backs of my hands. “I just want him to be sure . . .”

  The sound of crunching debris alerts me of someone’s approach. “Nick, I know you’re angry with me, but—”

  “Nick left for town,” Alison says, her voice tired, and I feel a sudden surge of emotion.

  I jolt upright. “I thought you were at your sister’s?” I ask, though it comes out sounding more offensive than I mean it to.

  Alison’s arms hang loosely at her sides. Her eyes are red, like she’s been crying.

  “I got your message,” she says carefully. “I’ve actually wanted to call you for a few days now, but I was worried you wouldn’t answer. So, when I got your call . . . well, I figured it was time to come home.”

  Her eyes veer past me toward Papa’s headstone. She stands there a moment. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing down here. We’ve never visited Papa’s grave together—never been to the lake at the same time. If it weren’t for the early mornings I’ve seen her walking from this direction back into the house from my bedroom window, I wouldn’t know she comes down here at all.

  Finally, she steps onto the deck, and I stand up, walking down the incline to join her.

  “I hoped I’d find you down here.” She stares at the rickety patio chairs, rusted and rotted from years of sun damage, brushes a few fallen leaves off one of them, and sits down.

  I plop down on the edge of the dock, thinking about all the times Reilly sat directly beside me growing up. “A lot’s happened since you left,” I say, but I’m not sure whether I’m referring to my life or just what’s happened around the ranch. I peer out at the water. It’s steady, unlike my nerves.

  “Sam, I want to apologize,” Alison says, her voice both filled with emotion and hollow all at once. She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “For what happened last week . . . for everything.” She peers at me, her shoulders slumped and her eyes bloodshot. “I shouldn’t have slapped you—I shouldn’t have snooped.”

  Although I knew she’d regretted slapping me the moment she did it, I never expected her to apologize for it. “It’s alright. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I deserved it—”

  “No.” When I look at her again, her eyes are shimmering. “No, it’s not alright. And I’m sorry. There are a dozen different ways I could’ve approached that situation
, but I was too worried about myself and how scared I was to think about it from your perspective. I was too busy being angry to be levelheaded about it.”

  Hearing the strain in Alison’s voice, hearing it tremble, makes me feel strangely protective of her.

  “Sam, you were right about a lot of things. I know it’s been difficult since your father died. And I’m not just talking about between us. Clearly you’ve been struggling. The cutting—”

  I look at her. Her expression is softer than I ever remember seeing it. Her shell is gone, leaving a vulnerable, uncertain woman in its place.

  “I know how hard everything has been for you since your father and I got married. I just didn’t realize the toll it was taking on you. I actually didn’t care,” she says, shaking her head, like she’s disgusted. “I know you may not believe this—I don’t expect you to—but the last thing I want is to make things even harder on you . . . or harder than I already have.” She takes a deep breath and sits back against the flattened cushion. “I’ve been so lost in my own mixed-up feelings, and I haven’t dealt with things the way I should have, the way a parent should. I’m the closest thing you’ve got to that now, and I forget—”

  “It’s just the way we are, I guess—complicated.”

  Alison groans and rubs her hands over her face. “But it shouldn’t be complicated. It’s just me and you now, and we should’ve made things work. I should’ve made things work. I should’ve asked you how you were doing more. We should be a team.” She shakes her head. “Your father would be so angry and disappointed with me.”

  I can’t look at Alison. Her words stir the darkest parts of my soul and I remember Papa’s disappointment in me. But when she’s quiet for too long, I can’t help it. I look at her to make sure she’s still there.

  She’s staring down at her feet, rubbing her palms on the thighs of her pants, slowly, methodically. For the first time, she looks as lost as I sometimes feel. I suddenly want to understand.

  “What did I do?” I ask, unable to help myself.

  Alison stills, tilts her head, and frowns at me.

  “Before, when you and Papa got married. What made you hate me so much? Did you think I didn’t like you? Was I so horrible to begin with?” I really can’t remember anymore. We’ve had our differences from the start, but I’m starting to forget why.

  Alison’s face crumples, but only for a moment, and she lets out a long exhale. “Oh, Sam, I never hated you.” She’s quiet a minute, like maybe she’s trying to find the right thing to say or maybe she doesn’t know the answer either. “When I first met your father, I thought he was so handsome and chivalrous.” A grim smile pulls at her lips. “I’d just moved back here from art school in New York. I didn’t like big cities. I didn’t like the men I met there, how impersonal the whole place was. So I didn’t last long, just enough time to finish my program. And then one day, when I got back, I was reacquainted with your father—I’d met him years ago, shortly after your mother had died, I think—and I thought I’d never met a man so good.”

  I smile, remembering Papa that way too.

  “Before we got married, we talked a lot about our future together, about our age difference and him holding me back from my dreams by staying here at the ranch. I told him I didn’t have a country bone in my body, but none of it mattered, as long as he wanted to start a family with me. That’s all I wanted, a family.” She stares at me for a few breaths before she continues, “It wasn’t until almost a year after we were married, I found out I couldn’t have children.”

  Her admission sobers me.

  “You didn’t like me, and I was angry. I felt cheated and robbed . . .” She wipes a tear from her cheek. “I was so sad and heartbroken that I would never have with my child what you had with your father. Then feeling like an outsider here on top of that . . .” She shakes her head. “It was too much, and I guess it was so easy to be bitter that I forgot to try to be happy after that.”

  “I had no idea,” I breathe. “How come I never knew about this?”

  “Because it wasn’t your father’s story to tell, and I didn’t ever want to talk about it,” she says simply. “And then, suddenly he was gone, and I didn’t even have him anymore.” She can barely utter the words. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. Seeing Alison like this . . .

  Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and my insides bleed with pain—for her, for Papa, for me. “I’m sorry,” I say, but it comes out as a choked sob. “I’m so, so sorry. I wish I could bring him back. I wish you could’ve had your baby.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sam. The accident was a horrible thing that happened, but it wasn’t your fault.”

  I shake my head, tired of hearing everyone say that.

  “It’s true. I should’ve said it a long time ago. What happened isn’t your fault. Bad things happen. I was the one who answered the phone. I could’ve left to get you like you’d asked me to, but I didn’t. I sent him. I have to live with that, too.”

  Tears are dripping down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. “I lied,” I say.

  “Teenagers lie, they make mistakes.”

  I shake my head, slowly. Numb. “Not like that.”

  The chair creaks. I hear a footstep, and Alison’s arms wrap around me. “Samantha,” she whispers, “what happened wasn’t your fault.” She pulls me against her, her chest heaving against my shoulder. I’m stuck, the wind, the metal, the blood, the look on Papa’s face etched in my mind for the rest of my life.

  Alison’s arms tighten. “It’s not your fault,” she says so quietly I barely hear her. I wish her words were true. I nestle closer, grabbing onto her shirt, wishing I could wake up from this never-ending, miserable dream.

  “People make mistakes, but the rain—the weather and the tree—that wasn’t your fault.” It’s like Mac’s saying this to me all over again, but coming from Alison, it hurts more. It doesn’t just sting, it burns. And her embrace, her faint scent of lemongrass, is somehow comforting, like I’ve been yearning for it all these years but could never quite have it.

  “Shhh,” she murmurs, rocking me back and forth. “We’ll make this right.” She pulls away from me. Her face is red and swollen. “We’ll get help, Sam. We’ll make this ranch work, for him.”

  Thirty-Six

  Sam

  Standing in the shade of an old oak, on a hill I’ve stood on a hundred times, staring down at the Reilly property, I wait. I wait to see movement through the windows, wait for answers, for the new owners to pull up the drive. I’m not sure what exactly I’m waiting for, but I just wait.

  Shasta nibbles on weeds behind me, snorting in the dry heat as she searches the ground for something to curb her ever-growing appetite.

  It’s been almost a week since I spoke to Reilly, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore my fears, to ignore the darkness. Counseling with Alison and catching up on chores and tasks I’d fallen behind on fill up the minutes—the days—but not my mind. I notice I’m rubbing the healing cuts on my hip, and I wonder if pride and progress are enough to keep the darkness at bay.

  Sitting down, I cross my legs in front of me, trying to remember why I felt it was so important to walk away from Reilly—to give him space. Lost and growing desperate, I lean back against the rough, unyielding bark of the tree and take in the house’s fresh façade—the planter boxes with seedlings already planted, the white picket fence, the For Sale sign that swings in the breeze with a big red SOLD covering it . . .

  Nick told me about the offers.

  I’m not sure what the glaring red sign means. Yes, there are new owners, but what has Reilly decided? Will he stay? Will he leave? Have I pushed him away entirely—forever? He’s said nothing.

  I keep telling myself that I want him to be happy, to leave if that’s what he wants, but the selfish part of me wants to believe that I can make him happier—that I want more than anything to try.

  Reilly’s front door creaks open, and he steps outside. He squin
ts up at me, steps back inside, returns with a ball cap, and makes his way up the hill toward me. My heart’s thudding, my armpits are suddenly sweating, but I’m both ecstatic to see him and petrified to hear what he has to say. Apologies, questions, and pleas fill my mind, but when he finally stops in front of me, I’m a mindless mute.

  With a grunt, Reilly sits down beside me, staring down at the house that seems to be the only remaining tether between us.

  “Hi,” I say, tasting blood as I bite the inside of my cheek.

  He nods at the house. “Not too shabby, huh?”

  I smile. “It looks amazing. Your dad would be proud of you.”

  “Ha. No. He’d give me shit, saying it was fine the way it was, that I shouldn’t have spent the money to fix it up.”

  We’re quiet another minute, me pulling anxiously at the weeds around me while Reilly just sits there, staring out at his property. “So, did you come to see the house or talk to me?” he asks lightly, and I huff a small laugh.

  “I’m not quite sure. Since I hadn’t heard from you, I figured that maybe you didn’t want to talk to me yet.” I give him a sidelong glance and see that his jaw is clenched, but I can’t see his eyes hidden in the shadow of his cap. The house seems like a better topic, better than the silence. “Well,” I say, twisting my hair behind my back, “I think the house looks beautiful. The new owners are going to love it.” My voice clips at the end, but I clear it away.

  Reilly nods, still not looking at me. “Thanks for all the great ideas.”

  I nod once, because that’s all I can manage, and rest my head back against the trunk of the tree. I let my hands fall in my lap and shut my eyes, taking a deep breath.

  “You know, Sam, I realize that you’re used to meandering the property as much as you want, but I’m not sure the new owners will take kindly to someone loitering around their house.” He finally looks at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t smile the way he’s smiling.