Softhearted (Deep in the Heart Book 2)

by Kim Law

  She shrugged instead of voicing her last two words, leaving Waylon to fill in the space as he saw fit. Then she asked herself if that’s what she’d been mad at all this time. That her parents had left her.

  She let out a dry chuckle at the thought, ignoring Waylon’s puzzled expression. Wouldn’t her past counselors love to hear that? And it had only taken her sixteen years to figure it out.

  Waylon opened his mouth, but she shook her head before he could speak.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded. She was emotionally spent. “That’s enough about my parents. You were right before. I rarely discuss them or their deaths, yet here I’ve sat and said more than I have in years. So, we’re dropping that subject. In fact”—she shifted on her bucket, intending to sit, same as him, but there wasn’t enough space for both of them—“given that I shared so much when you only asked about a song, I’m declaring your one question equal to two.” She smiled, intentionally flashing her dimples. “So, it’s now my turn.”

  He smiled in return—wowing her with his dimples as well. “Sounds fair to me.”

  Then in one smooth move, he had her turned, his legs widening to accommodate the two of them in the same space, and she ended up with her thighs tucked snugly between his.

  Chapter Nine

  “Listen to your soul. It’ll tell you everything you ever need to know.”

  —Blu Johnson, life lesson #91

  Heather stared down at their legs.

  “What’s your next question?” Waylon asked.

  Her next question?

  She forced herself not to drool. How about, how does one get their inner thigh muscles as hard as their outer ones? She couldn’t begin to do enough exercises to pull that off.

  Struggling to ignore the feel of the man’s body, to think of anything other than that his thighs were pressed solidly around hers, she ended up focusing on nothing but breathing for the next several seconds. She didn’t want Waylon to guess how disruptive his touch was to her thought processes, and she also didn’t wish to stop this two-question thing they had going on. Though the last few minutes had delved way deeper than she’d have thought she’d be willing to venture, she found that she enjoyed the game. It seemed to be their thing.

  She got herself back under control, and contemplated her next questions. Given the subjects they’d just explored, keeping the conversation light would be ideal. At the same time, there were still too many unknowns she needed answers to. So she crossed her fingers and jumped, and hoped Waylon wouldn’t balk.

  “How did you lose Rose?” she asked, and he immediately nodded toward his right leg.

  “Months of physical therapy, plus an initial hospital stay.” The skin over his cheekbones tightened. “So her grandparents took her.”

  “They took her?”

  Before he could answer, she held up a hand. “Wait,” she said. “That wasn’t my next question.”

  He clasped her hands in his. “I’ll give you that one.” He glanced at their hands before continuing. “Yes, they took her. I was unconscious in the hospital for several days, and by the time I woke, they’d been called to take care of her. PT lasted for four months, most of it in-house, and I couldn’t”—shame colored his eyes—“care for my own daughter.”

  Heather wanted to ask how he’d gotten hurt that badly in the first place, but she’d sensed a wall arriving with his shame. Now wasn’t the time to ask for more there.

  “You’ll get her back,” she said instead. No way they could keep her.

  Waylon nodded. “I hope so.”

  She realized his thumbs were now drawing circles on both her palms, and she decided she liked the feel of his hands on hers.

  “Next question,” Waylon said, and Heather nodded.

  “You told me Tuesday night that not all the rumors are true. What’s one that isn’t?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “How I spend my weekends.”

  “Meaning there’s no gambling? No women?”

  “There’s only Rose.”

  She slid her thumbs along the backs of his pointer fingers. It made her happy to know she’d been right. “I suspected as much. It fits you much better.”

  His smile was slight, but Heather thought it was also genuine. As if he appreciated knowing she didn’t see him as nothing more than a playboy with a gambling problem.

  “I have visitation every weekend,” he offered. “And until I had my house, it was easier to go to her. I wanted to show—to prove—that I’d do anything for my daughter.”

  “But why let everyone think you’re something else?”

  His smile turned teasing. “I’m pretty sure that makes about four questions for your one turn, but okay, I’ll allow this one more. I let them think whatever they wanted because I couldn’t stop them even if I’d tried.”

  Heather opened her mouth to ask why he felt that way, but he touched a finger to her lips.

  “What was it like growing up without a mother?” he asked, and his softly spoken question pushed the air out of Heather. She had to take a couple of deep breaths before replying, because for once, she wasn’t thinking about her heartache at growing up without a mother.

  She was thinking about Rose’s.

  “It wasn’t easy,” she told him the truth. “A girl needs a woman around to learn girl things. To share broken hearts. A girl needs a mother because there are just some things no one can understand but another female. But I was lucky in that I did have my mom through a lot of my childhood. And even afterward, there was Blu. And Jill, and Trenton. It could have been a lot worse.”

  It hurt her to think about Rose growing up without a mothering influence, and she wondered what Rose’s grandmother was like.

  “What did you do after you moved out of Bluebonnet Farms?” Waylon asked.

  Heather locked her gaze on his and once again answered honestly. “I made a lot of mistakes.”

  She knew he was waiting for additional details, but she wasn’t ready to give them. She’d been engaged and had had her heart completely shattered twice. She’d gotten a college degree before discovering she didn’t want to use it. And she’d eventually come home with her tail tucked between her legs, and then she’d almost fallen for the wrong guy yet again.

  She wasn’t exactly winning at life. She didn’t want to go there today.

  “My turn,” she said instead of sharing details. When he nodded, as if understanding her need not to go there yet, she asked, “Who called you when we were here in the barn two weeks ago?”

  Bemusement lined Waylon’s brow, and Heather added, “When I was in here taking inventory.”

  Of course, they both knew she’d not actually been in the barn taking inventory. Her stubbornness refused to cave at the smirk now growing on his face, though.

  “Inventory,” he muttered around the smirk. “Right.” He pointed back toward the stall that now held only half the supplies that had been stored there two weeks prior. “Where you were taking it . . . right over there.”

  “Exactly.” Maybe she should start playing poker, because the poker face she currently had going on would fool anybody. “You got a call just before I left, and you turned and went up to the apartment.”

  The humor faded from his eyes. “Ah. Yes. That was my lawyer.”

  His abruptness surprised her, and she leaned in closer. “You don’t like your lawyer?”

  “I don’t like the Jameses’ lawyers,” he corrected. “And I have to have my lawyer because they have theirs.”

  “Because they took your daughter.”

  “And because they’re trying to keep her.” His jaw hardened. “While pushing me completely out of the picture.”

  Heather sucked in a quick breath. That was so unfair. He’d lost his daughter because he’d been incapacitated by an injury. And granted, she didn’t yet know the details of how he’d obtained that injury, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Anyone who spent a few minutes with him could see that. And no one should try to take a man’s daughter from him unless he
was a seriously bad guy.

  In a blink, she hated the Jameses.

  “Does Rose remember her mother?”

  The anguish on Waylon’s face threatened to crumple her. “I don’t think so. And I can’t decide if that makes me happy or sad. Sad because she’ll never know her mother.”

  “And happy because she’ll never know the pain of that kind of loss,” Heather filled in. She understood that confusion completely.

  Waylon squeezed her hands again, and she looked down to where their fingers lay entwined. One of his hands and one of hers rested on each of her knees, and nothing at all felt wrong about the intimacy of it.

  “Do you really think coming to my house last Saturday night was a mistake?” Waylon’s question brought her gaze back up. His voice had lowered, and as she sat there peering at him, he added, “Because I don’t think it was. It might not have ended the way you’d intended—”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “—but I was glad to see you at my door. Glad you met Rose.”

  This surprised her. “You’re glad I met Rose?”

  He’d previously stated that he didn’t introduce Rose to anyone until he decided it was time to make it their business. Yet he was glad she’d met her?

  He nodded, and Heather nodded with him. “I’m glad I met her, too.” She bit her bottom lip. “She seems like a really terrific kid.”

  “She’s the best.”

  She wanted to ask how Rose had lost her mother and if Rose’s mother had been a good person. But it wasn’t her turn yet.

  Also . . . she wasn’t sure she was ready to know the how of it all. It was hard enough to lose a parent. Was she really ready to hear how a small child had come to be without one of hers? Life could sometimes be so cruel.

  “So then”—a twinkle began in Waylon’s eyes—“you’re saying it wasn’t a mistake to come over?” The attempt to lighten the mood seemed a bit forced, but Heather went with it.

  “I’m saying that I’m glad I met Rose. And since I had to come over to your house in order to meet her . . .” She let her sentence trail off, but found herself smiling along with Waylon. “What’s your next question?” she prodded. She liked this game. “I’m giving you that last one as a freebie.”

  She mentally braced herself, expecting him to shift back to something tougher, but when he asked, “What’s your favorite kind of flower?” her laughter filled the air.

  Ollie blew out a breath as she chuckled, and she reached over and patted the animal, who remained close. She’d almost forgotten they were sitting in a stall with a horse. And she’d totally forgotten that she’d originally been in there eating lunch. She glanced at her watch. Whether she was enjoying the game or not, she had to get back to work soon.

  “My favorite flower?” She repeated the question as she thought through her options. “I will say, that’s not something I’ve thought too much about over the years. I love all kinds of flowers.”

  “You’ve got to have a favorite.”

  “Sure,” she drew the word out as she continued to sort through the possibilities. She’d been given roses several times. Usually yellow because that was her favorite color. Bluebonnets, of course. She loved coneflowers, and she was definitely partial to sunflowers. She had a bed of sunflowers planted at her house. And she enjoyed all of them. But she wasn’t sure any could be considered a fav—

  She stopped thinking and abruptly sat up.

  “I do have a favorite,” she announced. “The partridge pea. They grow wild all summer and late into the fall. They were my mother’s favorite,” she added as she relaxed her spine and dropped her hands back to her thighs. She’d inadvertently pulled loose of Waylon when she’d jerked upright. “You see them all over the place, but Mom had the hardest time getting them to grow in our yard.” She laughed softly at the forgotten memory. “I haven’t thought about that in years.”

  “They’re yellow,” he said. “There was a patch of them on the ranch where my dad worked when I was born.”

  It didn’t pass her notice that he’d just brought up his own past for the first time, and she thought about taking her questions there. She’d like to know about his childhood. About his parents.

  But she followed his lead. “What’s your favorite cookie?”

  A bright smile beamed back at her. “Snickerdoodles.”

  He recaptured her hands and leaned in, his grin wicked, and Heather’s laughter came out a bit strained. He was suddenly too close. And his lips were just a whisper away.

  She glanced at his mouth, then she forced herself to drag her gaze upward. She couldn’t kiss him. Even if she wanted to. This wasn’t a kissing game. It was a get-to-know-you game.

  “How did you break your leg?” The question came out throaty and needy. But it also had the effect of putting inches between them.

  “My leg?” he repeated as he settled more firmly on his bucket. She instinctively knew he was stalling.

  “The reason you walk with a limp,” she clarified.

  And then he lied to her. It was the first time since meeting him that she truly suspected he wasn’t speaking the truth.

  “Bar fight,” he said with no inflection in his voice. “Flirted with the wrong guy’s woman.” He even followed up his lie with an out-of-place wink.

  “Bullshit.”

  Waylon lifted his chin. “Bullshit?”

  She nodded. “That’s what I said. You keep calling me out when I’m ‘fudging’ the truth.” She stared at him. “Such as waiting for you in the barn two weeks ago.”

  “You did wait for me in the barn.”

  “I did,” she admitted. “Because I think I wanted to get to know you better.”

  He didn’t say anything at that, but she took note of his awareness of the shift in conversation. She’d just admitted her actions were intentional. She’d just admitted this might not be solely a game to her.

  Her friends would lock her up if she told them she’d said that.

  “So I’m calling you out now,” she continued. “Because I don’t believe you broke your leg in a fight over a woman.”

  Waylon didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he just continued looking at her. And Heather could see his internal struggle. He didn’t want to lie again, but he also didn’t want to tell the truth. Which made her want to know even more.

  “You’re right,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t get my leg broken in a fight over a woman.”

  She didn’t move. “Are you going to tell me how you did get it broken?”

  “Or maybe we could each refuse to answer one question?”

  She shook her head, and his response was a look of resignation.

  “Then how about I promise to answer that one at a later date?”

  Heather considered his request. This made the second time he’d delayed discussing what had caused his limp, but she could understand a person needing space to prepare for certain subjects. She certainly did. So, she could give him that.

  “Deal,” she concurred. “But you owe me one.” She then nodded his way. “Your turn.”

  “Which parent do you take after the most?”

  Her smile caught her off guard. “My dad,” she said softly. She opened her mouth to offer more, to tell him how the two of them not only looked alike, but they’d been so similar in personality, it had often seemed they shared a secret language. Yes, he’d loved her mother enough to run into a fire for her. But it had been he and Heather who could communicate with a look.

  She didn’t share any of that, though. Not yet. She just held the memories close. Because her dad was the touchiest subject of all for her.

  She gave him a faint smile, hoping Waylon could see a bit of what she couldn’t yet bring herself to share, and repeated, “I take after my dad.”

  His eyes softened as if he got it—and then he gave her whiplash with yet another subject change. “If one were to want to fix you an orange chiffon cake . . .”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “You’ve got
to let that go.”

  He grinned as he finished his question. “. . . would you actually eat it, or would you be too worried about your”—he lowered his gaze—“hips?”

  Heather tried her best not to wonder what went through his mind when he looked at her hips. “Like you bake,” she chided instead of answering, but the returning gleam in his eyes had her wondering if he actually could bake. Because that would be kind of hot.

  The next thing she knew, she was picturing him standing in a kitchen, mixing bowl in hand, and an apron tied around his waist. Only, he wore nothing but an apron. Then the image shifted and he was presenting her with a perfectly prepared orange chiffon cake. And now she wore nothing but an apron.

  She gulped. “Not until after Jill’s wedding.” She reached for her bottle of water. “But if you’re such the cook, why eat at The Buffalo every night?”

  “Is that your next question?”

  She finished her water. “It is.”

  “Then will you believe me if I say I go to The Buffalo for the scenery?” He followed his question with another wink, and Heather scowled as she finally clued in on something. The man had a tell. How in the world was he even a remotely decent poker player if he couldn’t lie without winking?

  Before she could call him on it, he sighed.

  “Fine. I’m just teasing.” He motioned to the stairs. “You saw how small the kitchen is up there. I hated trying to cook in that tiny space. And to be honest”—he lifted one shoulder—“I prefer not to eat alone.”

  She didn’t like eating alone, either. “It’s lonely.”

  “It is. And I like people. I like being around people.”

  “Well then, that should work out fine for you.” Her muttered words held a healthy amount of disgust. “Because people—women—apparently like you, too.”

  Waylon smiled broadly at that, and Heather suddenly thought of the women who’d been talking about him in the wedding dress shop two weeks ago. Of the others who supposedly sidled up to him at The Buffalo every night. They might have dined with him with regularity, but they apparently hadn’t spent weekends with him. No matter how many might have claimed to.