by Claire Cain
“This is so nice. I expected a rickety old thing with wind whipping through and all the poor horses huddled together in a corner.”
He shot me a disappointed glare.
I chuckled. “Just kidding. I can’t imagine Wyatt Saint owning anything rickety or less than perfect.”
He didn’t respond, but I saw the little head shake as he approached the second stall in. “Sorry I’m late, bud. I hope you won’t hold it against me too long.”
The horse chuffed and snuffled but leaned into Wyatt’s hand when he stroked his cheek.
“This is my friend, Callaway. She’s nice.” He fished around in his pocket, then pulled out an apple and handed it to me. “Here.”
I took the apple, but my pulse quadrupled in the seconds that my hand closed around the firm fruit. “I don’t know what to do.”
A gentle smile flickered across his face, but then he sobered and reached for my wrist. “Hold your hand up with hand and fingers totally flat. Good. Just like that.”
The apple sat in my palm, cold and smooth. I wondered how easily horses detected fear in humans and whether that made them bite. Because now that I was this close to Wyatt’s beloved horse, it registered how gigantic he was, and I’d have a difficult time strumming guitar without this arm.
“Don’t worry. Sheridan’s a good fella. He’s going to use his teeth to take the apple, but he has no interest in your fingers. Just keep ’em flat and he’ll be able to take what’s his.” Wyatt’s hand came to my lower back and walked me forward.
I kept my hand out, doing an internal chant that sounded something like I’m not scared. See, I’m nice. Don’t eat my fingers. You’re a nice horse, right? Over and over until warm giant horse lips, bristly with whiskers, or whatever they were called on a horse, brushed over my palm and neatly took the proffered fruit.
“Good boy, Sher. Is it a good one?” Wyatt’s arm slipped around my shoulders and hugged me to him too briefly, then reached out and patted Sheridan’s muzzle again.
“It tickled. I didn’t expect that.”
Wyatt just smiled at that. “Want to pet him?”
I swallowed but nodded. The horse’s chestnut brown fur—or was it hair? Yeah, hair—looked so soft and smooth. Slowing my breathing, I reached up and, after his nod of encouragement, pressed my hand to Sheridan’s jaw.
“Hi, Sheridan. It’s nice to meet you.”
His whole body shifted and he stomped, then made a gusty snuffly sound. I pulled my hand back slowly, unsure if quick movements might freak him out but nervous about all the sound and movement.
“You’re fine. He’s happy.” Wyatt nuzzled his head against his horse’s. “Aren’t you? You’re a sap.”
The serious, particular Wyatt was a big softy when it came to his horse. It didn’t surprise me, now that I saw it, but it did stick a little arrow in my heart. The piercing pain of his sweetness, this big man with his horse, just about did me in.
“I can’t imagine what you were like with your dog if this is you with your horse.” But as soon as I said it, I realized how awful it might’ve sounded. “I didn’t mean that to be hurtful. I’m—”
“No, it’s fine. And you’re right. That dog had me wrapped around his little paw. It’s how I know I’ll be a pushover dad.”
And there it was. The catalyst for a thousand tiny wishes. To be with Wyatt. To see him with a new puppy. To see him with a baby—a son or daughter. To have a family of my own with someone so steady and kind that I could never doubt him.
I cleared my throat, the origami of those wishes unfolding and clogging my airway.
“If the smell is too much, you can wait in the truck. I just need a few minutes. Clayton does the grunt work, but I want to do a few things, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no it’s fine. Just a, a frog in my throat.”
The hours after our visit with Sheridan held shoveling walks and snow blowing, which I had to insist I could help with. Before anything, we tromped around the yard knocking off branches. Heavy snow continued to fall, and Wyatt said he liked to keep a few of the trees from getting too weighed down.
After that, we took a ride in his truck to plow the long road between the main canyon road and his driveway that he said county assets usually didn’t bother with since he had a plow attachment for his vehicle. He kept giving me outs, like I’d want to stay at my empty, cold house, or even at his lovely, warm one.
I found I had no desire to be anywhere but with him.
We stopped for lunch halfway through—a quick meal of sandwiches and canned tomato soup, which Wyatt apologized for at least three times. His embarrassment hit me right in the chest and made me feel all kinds of soft on him.
My feelings for the man had ballooned over the course of the day—well, over the course of every day since I’d arrived here. He was constantly aware of me and trying to help me—offering a hand into and out of the truck, steadying me when I nearly fell over while shoveling, checking my hands for blisters.
That moment had made my heart flutter so fast. I’d thought it’d flatline. We’d shoveled the porches of both houses and the deck of his house. Not a ton of work, but my hands weren’t used to the friction of the movement. A sore spot I’d had before today intensified, and he noticed my wince when removing my gloves after we stopped for the afternoon.
I tried to act nonchalant about it—truly, it wasn’t a huge deal. But he grabbed my wrist in his warm, dry hand and held mine cradled in his. He brushed his thumb over a red spot on my palm. Brow furrowed, he frowned as he said, “I shouldn’t have let you shovel so long.”
“I would’ve stopped if I needed to.”
“Still.”
I closed my hand so he couldn’t see the irritated skin, and he hit me with a look that sent my stomach through the floor, right down to the frozen earth below us. Something protective and almost possessive lay there, like I was his to guard and feed and care for. Nothing threatening, only offended on behalf of my hand and determined to right the wrong.
No one had ever, ever looked at me like that.
Like they cared about a blister because it was part of me, and their care for me bled over into every action. Like they wanted to keep me from all future harm and mend the hurt any way they could.
I swallowed thickly. “I’m just fine. It’s nothing.”
“Let me know if it bothers you. Fresh air’s probably best, but if it gets worse or hurts, please tell me.”
The pleading in his voice was genuine, and I couldn’t be too annoyed at his overbearing reaction. Sometimes, people fawned over something like this, but it never happened because of me. It always came from their concern over their job being in jeopardy, like I’d sue someone or get them fired if I twisted an ankle on their stage or got a paper cut at their conference table. Or they wanted my help, so they’d decided to help me.
Wyatt? He was genuinely bothered. Maybe by some sense, he’d transgressed by having a role in my silly little blister, but more so, it felt like, because he didn’t want me to have any discomfort.
My opposite hand found its way to his cheek. I loved the rasp of his beard on my palm. “Thank you for your concern. I promise I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”
His gaze swept over my face in a look both hungry and cherishing. “Good.”
My heart sprinted and I leaned closer, tipping my chin up without looking away from his gorgeous blue eyes. Pure desire twisted in my belly.
And then, he pressed a kiss to my forehead and backed away. “How about sledding?”
Wait. What?
THIRTY-TWO
Wyatt
Stirring the spicy chicken soup with green chilis, I had one recurring thought. If dunce caps were still a thing, I’d be wearing one. I’d botched not one but two opportunities to kiss Calla today, and I wanted someone to slap me. Where was Warrick when I needed his heckling?
But something had happened to me that first time when I’d looked at her roughed up hand. All these crazy thoughts about ho
w much I wanted her had been galloping through my head for weeks, intensified exponentially in the last few days, and damn near toppled me the last twenty-four hours.
And then I had a chance to kiss her, and I wussed out. I’d like to say it had something to do with the impermanence—of us not being on the same page and me having a cooler head. Or maybe that lingering reality that we were such different people, we might not even work together. But no.
It was simply because I lost the nerve. The combination of discovering more qualities I liked about her paired with coiling tension in my gut spelled danger. Sledding with her—hearing her bold laugh and incessant energy. Seeing her with Sheridan—her hesitance and determination to feed him his apple correctly. The way she looked at me, clearly mildly terrified but persistent. She didn’t back down, and that moment gave me a glimpse into what she must’ve been like before all the trash headlines and grief had hit her. She was fire.
Once we started, I wasn’t sure where we’d stop. I couldn’t imagine wanting to stop, and her hints after the date the other night seemed a little like she might not want to, either. That was all good—great, in fact. But I knew myself.
My lonely little heart was a greedy one. It’d waited so long for its partner, and I suspected once someone got close enough, it’d suction right on like a starfish and never let go. Maybe hold the other heart too close or end up being… the wrong kind of starfish. The wrong heart in the wrong body.
I’d finally gotten to the place where I felt ready. I’d wandered through the wasteland and had finally come upon the oasis—the understanding that I could really live my life and not betray my dad. And I wanted to do that with her, whether it made sense or not. But the reality couldn’t be ignored completely—she had days left here. She wanted to stay, but even she didn’t know if she could.
Okay, so maybe it was because I had permanence on the brain. Seeing her standing in the kitchen this morning or meeting Sheridan or even shoveling the walk, all of it made me want that again and again over time.
But when I had a chance to take from her, I couldn’t do it knowing we had such different end points. She’d leave here in a matter of days, and I’d be left wondering what happened to my life.
“Need any help?”
Calla’s voice jarred me from my thoughts.
“Can you grab the cilantro out of the fridge?”
I glanced at her as she walked by and nearly choked when I saw her outfit. Slouchy gray pants again, but this time with a little white top that stopped halfway to her navel. She wore a cranberry cardigan over that, and the old man in me, if anything in my brain had been working, would’ve wondered what the point was if she was only going to wear half a shirt anyway.
But my brain wasn’t forming real thoughts. It was occupied by the immediately ravenous and nearly overpowering desire to touch the bare skin at her waist. It’d be smooth like her back, and warm from the shower she’d just taken, and I’d probably black out from the contact based on how much I wanted just that one small thing.
“Sure thing. It smells great in here.”
I watched as she bent over to search through the produce drawer, then wrenched my eyes away because I did not need to be satisfying my every urge to look at her, however hard keeping myself under wraps might be.
“I hope you like a little spice. This is one of my go-to winter weather soups. Always warms me up.” My voice sounded unnaturally high and chipper.
“I don’t mind some spice.” She held up a bunch of bright green cilantro. “Rinse this?”
“Just maybe four stems of it.”
The soup did not need to be stirred this religiously. In fact, it didn’t need to be stirred at all. It was a simple broth with some onions, jalapeños, garlic, and grilled chicken chopped with seasonings. It could sit and warm on the stove with no intervention whatsoever, and yet right now, the ladle in my hand felt like the only thing tethering me to my determination not to destroy myself.
“Can do.”
“Great.”
“The shower felt so good. I swear it took me a few minutes before I could fully feel my toes again, even though we’d sat in here for a while.”
Not helpful, woman! I didn’t need to be thinking about her in the shower. Do not think about her in the shower. “It’s funny how the cold can cling to your skin after you come inside, especially without proper snow gear.”
She shot me a look, and I chuckled. I’d reprimanded her for not having good snow pants, and sadly, I only had mine. She refused to wear them, so she wore only jeans with a layer underneath. I just about ribbed her again, but then she froze with her hand on the faucet.
“What you said about the cold is true, but I feel like that’s what grief is. Like anytime I think I’ve gone through it and moved past it, there it is hovering at my toes, making them tingly when something warm touches them.” She huffed out a breath. “Probably taking the metaphor too far, but—”
“No, I get it. Obviously, I was a lot younger when I lost my dad, but I lost my grandma a few years back, and she lived with us for a lot of my childhood. And then Charlie. I feel like I grieve for my dad even still. Every year on my birthday, now that I’m older than he ever got to be, it hits me really hard.” I hadn’t realized just how hard until this past week. What would my life have been like, especially the last decade, if I’d confronted those feelings sooner?
“That makes sense. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were filled with compassion, and for them, I set down the ladle. She seemed to have the same idea I had because we stepped together and wrapped our arms around each other.
“I’m sorry your loss is so fresh. And complex. I wish I could do something to help.”
Her response was muffled, but I heard her perfectly. “You are.”
After a few more minutes, we pulled apart, offering shy smiles at each other. I dipped soup into bowls and after confirming she wanted all the toppings, layered on cubed avocado, chopped cilantro, and a pinch of Maldon sea salt. Grade A garnish.
“You are truly fancy, Wyatt Saint,” she said as she sat at the table.
“I’m not. But when I slowed down at work, I was so bored out of my skull, I decided to find a hobby. Since I already cook, I decided to try making more of an effort and ended up following this food blogger. Long story short, she’s big on garnishes and I’m now a man convinced—as she says, ‘Real men garnish.’”
“God bless her. If I ever meet the woman, I’ll be sure to thank her personally.” Her beaming smile sent a wave of warm satisfaction through me.
“I hear she and her family are looking to move from Colorado. Maybe they’ll choose Silverton and you and she can become best friends.”
She pointed her soup spoon at me. “Now you’re talking.”
We chatted while we ate, and though I dreaded the conversation, I didn’t think I could go another night with her in my house without knowing. “The other day, you mentioned that you didn’t want to go back to LA.”
She nodded.
“What’s going on there?”
She set her spoon in her empty bowl and nudged it back from the edge of the table. “I’m so tired of it. I just can’t imagine going back.”
“Do you have to?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about what my life might look like if I just… didn’t.”
My heart kicked at the thought.
“Well, you’re welcome here. I’m sure Warrick will let you have the place as long as you want.” I smiled reassuringly, then realized that might’ve sounded desperate or a little too hopeful, so I rushed to add, “Of course, there are some nice places near town too, if you, uh, you know, if you wanted to be closer to civilization.”
She gave me a tight nod. “True. I’ve been talking with my assistant about some of the logistics. We’re working through it.”
That closed the issue obviously enough, so I stood and grabbed our plates. “Dessert?”
“Sure.”
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We moved around each other in the kitchen in silence, only the fire crackling in the living room accompanying our movements. I dished up vanilla ice cream and drizzled chocolate sauce from a pan over top.
“Not my best work, but I don’t want to run the oven with the generator.”
“This looks amazing.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room, then down to sit next to her on the couch facing the fireplace. “I’m guessing you don’t normally eat over here.”
“Uh, no.”
She bit back a smile. “If it makes you uncomfortable, we can go to the table. I just thought it would be cozy over here.”
“No, it’s nice.”
And amazingly, it was. Normally, I hated the idea of slumping into the couch and dropping crumbs into the cushions. It nagged at me, the thought of spilling or dropping something onto the living room rug. But sliding scoops of melty ice cream and rich chocolate up the curve of the bowl while sitting next to Calla? Didn’t bother me at all.
“Mmm. I love the cold ice cream and how the sauce stayed warm. It’s surprisingly decadent.”
Decadent. That was the word for her. Everything she did felt like an indulgence just to be around. I grunted a short agreement, then shoveled another spoonful into my mouth, not sure what I could say in response.
“Can I try something?”
Her voice had dropped lower than the last time she spoke, and something about it sent my pulse racing.
“Sure.”
She took another bite and set her bowl on the coffee table. Then she took my bowl and set it on the coffee table.
My heart sprinted now, and I hoped my breathing didn’t sound as loud in the room as it did in my head.
She pushed up onto her knees, then straddled me faster than I could’ve anticipated. My breath rushed out and my hands rose to her sides just as she lowered her mouth to mine. She tasted like dessert, cold and hot swirled together, vanilla and chocolate. Opposites.
