But she wasn’t that girl any more. That girl had grown up. Moved on.
She saw the headline on the same page, Local Bull Rider Returns to His Roots. What?
The article gave sparse details about him partnering with a local custom harvester. No dates were mentioned, but the article clearly stated he was moving back to Redbud Trails. It didn’t make sense.
Back when they’d made plans to run away together, he’d vowed that once he got out, he would never come back to Redbud Trails. He’d wanted to leave his past—and all the people in town who wouldn’t let him forget it—behind. Including her father.
She’d been so in love with him, she would’ve gone anywhere with him.
Until he’d left without her, abandoning her without a word.
She’d tried to contact him, obtaining his phone number at a hotel where he’d been staying near one of the out-of-state venues, but he’d hung up on her. He’d well and truly left her behind.
What would make him come back? Why now?
The doorbell rang. With Jilly already out for the morning, there was no one in the house but Iris and her Boston Terrier, Rowdy, who, at twenty pounds, wasn’t much of a guard dog. His toenails clicked on the wood floors as he followed her to the front door.
If Jilly had left the newspaper article as a warning that Iris’s past had come calling, it wasn’t warning enough.
She opened the door to find a dark-haired cowboy on the doorstep.
#
Iris.
The name slipped from his lips like a prayer.
The smell of earth baking in the early summer sun filled his nostrils as his breath stuck in his chest.
Seeing her unexpectedly, he felt like he was right on the edge of taking a nasty spill from a two-thousand-pound bull. That moment of anticipation, fear, weightlessness.
What was she doing here?
He hadn’t meant to speak aloud—again—but she answered him anyway.
“I live here.”
His world tipped a little more, like he’d left the bull’s back and was flying through midair.
She what?
She looked the same, and yet, different. Her blonde hair was cut chin-length and highlighted the structure of her cheekbones. She wore a blouse and flowing, knee-length skirt. The cowboy boots on her feet surprised him. The coldness in her eyes did not.
She was supposed to be in New York City, dancing professional ballet. It was the only reason he’d dared to come here, to her uncle’s place. He was two chances past his last one, looking for a nanny for his boys for the summer. Joe Tucker knew everyone in town and had been Callum’s last resort.
Questions swam through his mind, spinning slowly as if swimming through molasses. Why was she living here? Why not at her dad’s place in town? What had changed her plans?
But none of it was his place to ask. He swallowed back his curiosity and glanced over his shoulder to his truck, a ten-year-old red Ford. No heads popping up, no windshield wipers going or horn honking. The boys were staying put, for now. Surprise.
He had to remember why he’d come, even if this conversation was more painful than he could’ve expected.
He took off his hat and ran one hand through the curls matted to his head. “Is your uncle at home? I was hoping to talk to him.”
Iris’s shoulders dropped slightly, her lips pinching. “Uncle Joe had a heart attack three years ago. He passed away.”
The stiffness didn’t surprise him. He deserved it if she hated him.
Then her words registered and hurt sliced through him. Joe was…gone?
Agitation made him shift his feet as grief bloomed in his chest cavity, filling up every corner. Chimes blew from a corner of the covered porch, and a cow lowed in the distance, the familiar sounds and familiar landscape intensifying his despair.
Joe had been a mentor and friend when Callum hadn’t had anyone else.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Real sorry.” The floorboards of the porch creaked under his weight as he shifted again.
Something of his despair must’ve shown on his face, because her expression softened slightly before she firmed her lips into a pinched white line.
Almost grudgingly, she asked, “What did you need? Uncle Joe ran his own harvest.”
Curiosity flared. He couldn’t help it. She’d heard he was back in town, knew about his partnership with Buck. Was she running the ranch now?
But his curiosity and her circumstances didn’t change what he’d come here for. “No. No, I needed…” Nothing she could give. There was no way he was asking Iris to watch his boys. Hadn’t he hurt her enough five years ago?
“I’ve got to go.”
He jammed his hat on his head and doffed it at her before he spun on the heel of his boot and stalked to his truck.
The door creaked when he opened it and he had to shove aside some fast food wrappers before he could buckle his seatbelt. He hadn’t cleaned his truck out yet after the drive up from Texas.
Goosebumps ran up his arms. He’d left the A/C on, expecting it would be a short visit, even though he’d hoped differently, but the frosty air that blasted him in the face offered no relief from the heat and grief that stayed with him as he settled behind the steering wheel.
A glance in the backseat showed why the boys hadn’t been causing trouble. The triplets were out cold in their booster seats, their little booted feet hanging limply. It had been a long couple of weeks, packing up their lives in Texas to move here.
There had been a lost stuffed bear two nights ago, a midnight low-grade fever, and later bedtimes than their normal schedule as they settled in.
One last glance at the farmhouse, and he swallowed back the old wishes and dreams, swallowed back the hurt of seeing Iris again after all this time and the grief at the sudden loss—even though she’d said it had happened three years ago—of the man who had changed his life.
He had to think about the boys. They were the reason he’d come back to this town he’d never wanted to see again.
He’d find a nanny. He had to. Their future depended on it.
And he refused to screw things up for them. He would give the boys everything he’d never had.
#
Iris watched through the window as the red pickup pulled a three-point turn in the gravel drive and headed toward the two-lane state road in a cloud of dust.
Then she allowed her shaky legs to fold and sat with her back to the wall. Rowdy sniffed her face, then licked her chin.
Callum Stewart.
Seeing him again had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She was still trembling all over, short of breath. His dark hair and fathomless clear blue eyes were the same as she remembered, but the breadth of his shoulders had seemed wider beneath the faded T-shirt.
“At least it’s over,” she whispered, pressing her shaking hands to her eyes. At least their first time to see each other since he’d left had been in a private setting and not in town. In a small place like Redbud Trails, if they met in public and there were a scene, gossip would spread faster than wildfire during a drought.
And the gossipy townsfolk didn’t know everything. Five years ago, she and Callum hadn’t made a secret of their romance, but the town didn’t know about the ring buried in a shoebox in the back of her closet.
Even Jilly only knew parts of it.
And that was a good thing. If her nosy sister or the town got wind of how deeply her heart had been broken back then, things could get mighty uncomfortable.
She’d thought to never see him again. How would she face him around town, at the grocery store, in church?
His ignorance of her uncle’s passing and his obvious grief had brought her own sense of loss back to the forefront. It had seemed more poignant seeing the corresponding loss in his eyes.
How in the world was she going to pretend indifference around him? Then another terrible thought snuck in.
What if he had a girlfriend? Or worse, a wife? Her stomach roiled.
&
nbsp; She was over him. It didn’t matter if he was with someone, did it?
But his presence here threatened the careful world she’d crafted, managing the ranch and caring for Jilly.
She had to be over him.
She just had to.
#
For a week, Iris let the red truck’s presence around town derail her plans. If she saw it in the grocery store parking lot, she drove on past. Post office? She could run that errand later. She’d even missed her Thursday-evening book club meeting because it had been parked at the library.
Things came to a head on the eighth day after she’d faced Callum on her front porch.
After picking up a salt lick and some glucosamine tablets for Jilly’s favorite mare, that now suffered from arthritis, she was on her way to pick up lunch for Jilly at the local cafe—a rare treat because of Jilly’s dietary needs. Walking past the town square, there was nowhere to hide when Callum’s red truck came tooling down Main Street.
She had already ducked beneath an awning of one of the downtown dry cleaners to dodge a burst of rain from the summer shower, and she strongly considered bolting down the street to slip into the library, but not this time. She couldn’t hide from him forever. She hiked her chin and prepared for the worst.
Hopefully he was driving through town and not stopping.
The training she’d received to become a paramedic had her assessing road conditions and noticing how the street glistened with moisture. Surprisingly, he drove the twenty-five-mile-an hour-speed limit, something she remembered he’d complained about often as a teenage boy. His window was open, and when he passed her, he lifted one hand from the steering wheel in a casual wave.
Her hands were full with the feed store bags, but she forced herself to nod a greeting—mostly because Mrs. Timmon was peering out the library’s front window up ahead and would know something was up if Iris hadn’t.
With a prickling awareness on the back of her neck, Iris couldn’t help but follow the truck’s progress down the street. Redbud Trails was a one-stoplight town, and he had a green light. A few moments, and he would be gone.
But then as she watched in horror, a tricked out newer model version with too-big wheels ran through the stoplight—speeding—and crashed into Callum’s truck.
Time seemed to slow as she heard the squeal of brakes. She saw the front end of Callum’s truck crush beneath the larger black one, and then it spun out. The momentum of the black truck pushed Callum’s over the curb. It crashed through the window of the historical building that housed the Town Hall and the Police Department.
There was a moment of stillness and the echo of tinkling glass, where she drew a rain-soaked breath that sawed against the inside of her throat. Callum!
And then the black truck backed up with a screech of metal and drove off with another squeal of tires. She squinted, trying to see a tag, but only got a blur of white and the bright metallic bumper.
Her adrenaline spiked, her training kicked in and focused her movements. She dropped the ranch goods and bolted toward the wrecked red truck. She dug through her purse until her nerveless fingers wrapped around her cell phone. She mashed the number for dispatch and connected as she ran across the four-way intersection. Looking both ways, there wasn’t another car in sight. The black truck was already gone.
Callum’s window was still down, and she got a glimpse of blood tracking down his face from a cut at his hairline.
The phone connection clicked on. “Dispatch.”
“Andi? It’s Iris. There’s been an accident at Main Street and Elm.”
She forced herself to push aside the choking fear and allowed her training to take over. Head, back, internal injuries. In an accident like this, those were the main worry areas.
Andi’s voice rang in her ear through the tinny cell connection. Was he conscious?
Callum groaned. His eyes opened. They were glassy and unfocused as he squinted at her.
“Yes, he’s conscious, but he may be concussed.”
She attempted the handle, intending to pry the door open, but the impact had crushed the front fender and driver’s door. It wouldn’t budge.
She knew the arrival time for their volunteer fire department was under six minutes. The fire station was five buildings down. She was off-duty. But her training and the sense of duty that infused her wouldn’t let her walk away.
Callum’s head rolled on the headrest.
“Stay still,” she ordered.
He mumbled something incoherent.
She scrabbled for a hold, some way to boost herself up on the side of his truck, but there was no running board, and she was too petite to get a good look inside.
She ran around the back of the truck, noticing the crowd gathering around, huddling beneath awnings to avoid the rain pattering around them. She didn’t even feel it.
The truck was wedged against the building, bricks at the corner crumpled, red dust raining down. Glass crunched underfoot as she sidled up to the passenger door and yanked it open. She had to suck in her stomach to fit between the door and frame.
Inside, the smell of gas was nearly overpowering, and her nose wrinkled in protest. There was glass everywhere inside the truck, and she was careful not to stick herself as she knelt on the seat.
Callum struggled with his seatbelt. She wished she had a neck brace but settled for holding both sides of his jaw between her palms. From her position, she could see that his left leg was caught in the twisted metal.
“Be still,” she ordered.
His eyes were focused on her, his pupils a normal size and not the pinpricks she’d see if he’d suffered a concussion.
“The boys,” he mumbled. But his words weren’t making any sense to her.
“What?”
There was a whimper from the backseat, and she startled. She twisted in the seat and found three matching pairs of Callum’s brown eyes staring wide-eyed at her.
Triplets. They looked so alike that they must be.
“Hello,” she said dumbly. Callum had children? Her insides twisted like the metal of his truck, crumpling the foundations of her heart.
Forgoing Callum’s possible injuries momentarily, guessing that he wouldn’t settle until she’d checked over his kids, she leaned over the back seat. She used precious moments to touch each of their little legs. She knew better than to ask if they were scared or hurt—if they were hurt, they’d be screaming. And their wide-eyes told her they were scared. She did a visual check. Their car seats were intact, there was no glass on them. They didn’t appear to have even been scratched.
“They’re all right,” she said to Callum. “Their car seats kept them safe.”
“Are you sure?” His voice was rough with desperation.
Sirens blew, loud because they were close.
Her stomach dipped at the fear in his eyes. He loved his sons completely, the way he used to love her. A responding pang of long-dormant emotion rang inside her like a distant gong—unhelpful.
“You know you can trust me,” she said quietly. “They’re fine.”
He held her gaze for a long silent moment, dark anguish behind his eyes. Was he letting her see because of the insanity of this moment? He blinked, and it was gone.
He levered his hand against the steering wheel, apparently trying to pull his leg out of the metal.
“You need to be still,” she said as she popped the glove box. A wide belt buckle thunked to the floorboards, followed by a cascade of fast food napkins. Jackpot. “If you have internal injuries, you could be aggravating them—”
“I don’t have internal injuries,” he muttered.
“Are you a paramedic?” she asked tartly, attempting to press the napkins against the blood pouring from his temple.
“Are you?” he returned, giving his leg another jerk. The napkin slipped out of place.
“Yes.” She pressed against his shoulder, trying to hold him still.
She sensed that she’d surprised him when he stilled benea
th her hand. “I can’t see from here, but if your leg is bleeding, you’ll make it worse with your struggling. The team is almost here.”
As if her mention had made them materialize, the rig drew up right in the intersection, and the volunteer firefighter crew jumped off, dressed in full gear.
“I’m going to take the boys out,” she told Callum. “Won’t they be scared if you have to get pried out of here?”
“Good idea,” he said.
“What are their names?”
She started unbuckling the closest boy, leaning halfway over the seatback so she could reach. He had his thumb stuck in his mouth, and she had to wrestle him to get his arms through the seatbelt loops.
“Brandt, Tyler, and Levi. They’re three.”
All three boys had been nearly silent until now, but as she reached for the middle one who clutched a worn teddy bear, he started to cry. And of course his brothers echoed him as she struggled with the buckle.
“Hey, hey,” she said, in a soothing tone she’d taken with other children who’d been shaken up by wrecks. “My name is Miss Iris. I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”
The white lie burned her throat nearly as badly as the tears she was holding back—the product of her roiling emotions and seeing these little carbon copies of their father up close.
She would hold it all inside until she was alone. She had enough practice. She could do this.
And the little boys needed whatever comfort they could get.
She handed the first one out to a suited-up firefighter, and the boy kicked and squirmed, shrieking.
She wrestled the next one out of his car seat, getting a small shoe to the jaw as he struggled against her. “It’s all right, it’s all right.”
Out Callum’s window she could see they’d unloaded the extraction tool, jokingly called the jaws of life. She knew how noisy it would be as they cut Callum loose, and she redoubled her efforts to get the third child out.
The Art Of Falling Page 12
