A Risk Worth Taking

by Heather Hildenbrand

  I swallowed a gulp of tea. “How?”

  “You’re pursuing happiness. You have passion. You’re experiencing and living even though you know this part of it is temporary. That takes courage.”

  “So you think it’s worth the risk of getting hurt?”

  “I think the only thing that makes it true love IS the risk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ford

  "Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own." —Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

  I was leaving in four weeks. I needed to pack. To close up shop. To finalize plans to Dakota and close out things with Dean. I’d spoken to him already. He knew my departure date. It’s not like he thought I was staying. But the general feeling I got from everyone—Dean included—was that not a single one expected me to actually go through with it.

  Hell, there were moments I wasn’t sure I expected myself to go through with it. Like anytime I looked at Summer or sensed her eyes on me. Or when I kissed her or especially when we made love. Those moments were so amazing and full of everything we had to offer each other I couldn’t imagine actually walking away from that girl.

  I’d considered asking her to come with me, but had tossed the idea away almost immediately. Asking her to leave her home, her family, it would’ve been too much like asking her to sacrifice her dreams. She was happy here. She had a life, friends, a mom she’d only recently reconciled with. She’d said more than once how happy she was in choosing to move back here. And if I wasn’t willing to do give up what was important to me, how could I ask it of her? The answer was, I wouldn’t. I loved her too much for that.

  Monday, my dad called. I’d just parked the tractor for the night. My phone’s ring echoed in the almost-darkness as I walked the path to my greenhouse.

  “Hey, old man,” I greeted.

  “Who you callin’ old?” he said. “I could still whip you.”

  “If I was blindfolded with both arms tied.”

  “Shit,” he said. We both chuckled.

  “How are you, Dad?”

  “Not too bad. Your mom’s throwing a fit you haven’t called lately. She asked me to check on you, man to man. I think she wants us to have a heart to heart about that farmer’s daughter of yours.”

  I sighed. Since that first phone call, I hadn’t gone into much detail about the extent of my feelings for Summer, but I guess my mom assumed. She always had a way of seeing more than I let her. “No heart to heart necessary, Dad. Things are great with Summer and me.”

  “Well, that’s probably going to change when you leave. You are still going to Dakota, right?”

  “Yes.” Something in my chest twisted on the word but I ignored it, just like I’d been doing for months. “I have to.”

  My dad’s voice gentled as he said, “You don’t have to do anything except what makes you happy, son.”

  I didn’t answer as I moved tools around inside my greenhouse. I didn’t need to be here but I couldn’t concentrate on properly locking up and still dodge the real meat of the conversation he was trying to have here.

  “Does she make you happy?” my dad asked.

  I stared at the spade in my hand like it was a foreign object while I tried to figure out how to answer. “I’m not ready to be this kind of happy,” I said finally.

  The sound of laughter filled the line. I waited while he repeated my words to my mother and she laughed too. I scowled. The situation was a lot of things. Funny wasn’t one of them. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

  “Haven’t we taught you anything?” he asked. “The universe doesn’t give you a choice. It decides when you’re ready. Not you.”

  “Well, it’s being a bitch about it,” I said.

  My dad chuckled again. I threw the spade down and stalked out of the greenhouse, twisting the lock behind me. I didn’t want to look at my plants right now. Or anything else that represented staying or going.

  I wanted easy. Simple. I’d already found that love was neither.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Summer

  “If you don’t make the time to work on creating the life you want, you’re eventually going to be forced to spend a LOT of time dealing with a life you DON’T want.”

  —Kevin Ngo

  The sound of a tractor turning over and then sputtering out drew me to the garage. It was dusk and despite the late working hour, the farm hummed with activity. The corn was ready. Wheat was finished. Corn harvesting began tomorrow. The tractors were tuned, the machinery polished and inspected. No one wanted a surprise technical issue at five AM.

  My dad and Casey bent over Goose’s innards, both wearing grease-stained jeans and T-shirts that’d started off white but were now a haze of gray and black. I waited while they finished talking strategy and discussed parts to order and quick fixes to try.

  “Whatever gets us through the season,” Dad said. “After that, I can shop around. Prices’ll be cheaper. If I have to buy now …” He shuddered and Casey nodded emphatically.

  “It would be highway robbery. I’ll do what I can,” Casey said.

  “Thanks,” Dad said before heading for the open bay door where I stood.

  “Hi,” I said. “Got a minute?”

  “Just one,” he said. “Can we walk?”

  “Sure.” I fell into step beside him.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s been so busy, we haven’t had a moment,” I said, already breathless at the pace Dad set. “I just … I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Dad stopped and faced me, his expression registering surprise. “Did I miss something? Are we in a fight?”

  “No, no. It’s just … I’ve been thinking about everything Mom told me, about how you two got together.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled his hat off and hit it against his thigh, loosening a cloud of dust. “She told me about your conversation. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. She asked me not to and—”

  “It’s fine, Dad. I understand.”

  “You do?” he asked, the skepticism clear.

  “I do,” I assured him. “Well, I understand why you didn’t tell me. Maybe not so much the thought process that led you to it. I mean, an arranged marriage?”

  “Pretty unheard of anymore,” he agreed.

  “Why did you agree to it?”

  His mouth curved into a one-sided smile. “Because she made me laugh.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” he agreed.

  I shook my head.

  “When we were first introduced, her mother said something stuffy. I can’t even remember what it was. Something about proper dress code and being a lady and behind their back, she rolled her eyes. I cracked up, refusing to give up the joke to the rest of them. From that day, I knew I would be happy with her.”

  “And that was enough for you?”

  “To be happy? Yes. Back then, that was enough.”

  “And now?”

  “Now … I’m having a ball trying to figure it out.”

  “It’s the journey,” I said, repeating something Ford had said once.

  “And a pretty crazy one at that,” he agreed.

  We stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the corn sway in the breeze. Above us, the sky was streaked with clouds outlined in purple and pink from the sunset.

  “It’s good you aren’t angry anymore,” he said finally, still staring out over the horizon.

  “I’m done being mad. It was sort of exhausting.” We shared a wry smile.

  “I’m glad you two worked things out,” he said. “I hate seeing you unhappy.”

  “I should’ve given you the space to handle it however you needed. Instead, I thought you were weak for just accepting her behavior. I was angry at you for not being angry. Wow, that sounds really dumb saying it out loud now.”

  “Not dumb. Protective. But, Summer, you don’t need to protect me. That’s my job.”

  “I know. Which is
why I’m sorry. It wasn’t about me, not really. It was about you and her, and instead I made it my issue. I shouldn’t have. Can you forgive me?”

  “I will always forgive you, even before you’ve uttered the apology. We’re still a family. Always will be. I’m just glad we can act like it again.”

  I smiled and threw my arms around him. “Me too.”

  He held me tight and then patted my shoulder as I pulled away. “As for the rest of the conversation, I think a medicine man is a fine choice.”

  “A medicine … ? Dad, he’s not a choice,” I began, my cheeks reddening. This was a conversation I’d managed to avoid with him until this point. And not only because I didn’t want to talk about Ford leaving. How was I supposed to explain what Ford and I were without making it sound like sex? And what girl wanted to talk to her dad about sex?

  “You could’ve walked away to minimalize the hurt. And you didn’t.” He shrugged. “Seems like a choice to me.”

  “Right, but he’s not choosing the same.”

  He turned to look out over the expanse of corn fields to our left, his hat still clutched in his hands. “Seems to me he might be.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s choosing to hurt as well, just to avoid confronting his fears.”

  “What fear?” I couldn’t help but scoff. Ford wasn’t afraid. He was positive what he wanted and pursued it no matter the distraction. He was sure. And he was clear. And he was content with his path. Despite the fact that it would take him away, I envied his unwavering certainty.

  Without hesitation he said, “He’s afraid of changing his dream. He’s afraid of you.”

  August flew by despite all my intentions to slow it down. Hay was harvested and shipped out. Corn came next, and both tractors managed to remain running thanks to Casey’s expertise. Work days began early and ended late.

  I saw Ford most afternoons when all hands reported for field work. We didn’t get a chance to talk much—harvest was always about work first, play second—but I appreciated the view of his arm and back muscles rippling and flexing as he worked shirtless, his skin layered with a heavy sheen of perspiration that made me want to find out if it felt as slick as it looked.

  We made up for it by spending our weekends together. We’d eaten more than a few sunset dinners out of a picnic basket, opting for privacy instead of public places. Our favorite was still that hillside overlook that spanned the edge of Heritage Plantation. There, I managed to put aside the stark reality that in a few shorts weeks, Ford would pack up and leave and this would all be a sweet memory. In that tiny spot of woods, I was able to pretend what we shared was lasting.

  My dad’s theory about Ford being afraid weighed on me but soon even that faded. I forced myself to concentrate on the present. On the moments I had left. I didn’t want to think about October or Ford leaving or any of the reasons why. Not yet. Not when I still had “now.”

  The first Saturday in September brought a temperature change that made me cringe. I dreaded the coolness that signaled the end of summer. But it was inevitable. And it was happening so much faster than I’d prepared for.

  When the sun dipped behind the horizon, taking the last of the heat, I shivered where I lay on the blanket. Beside me, Ford rolled from his back onto his side, using his elbow to prop his head. With his other hand, he pulled me closer against his chest.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “It’s getting chilly,” he agreed. “Good thing you have me to warm you up,” he added, his breath tickling my ear as he kissed my neck.

  I smiled and turned my head, offering him my lips. “In that case, my nipples are freezing,” I said between kisses. He laughed, his body shaking lightly against mine, and kissed me harder.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ford

  “Nothing lasts forever. NOTHING. Security in believing something does is only an illusion.” –Angeline Kace

  My boots felt weighted with lead bricks. The leaves of trees lining the path were vivid shades of orange and yellow. I kept my head down, refusing to acknowledge the shift in the air. Under any other circumstances, I would’ve appreciated the beauty of nature and how even in the midst of something dying, the transformation could be miraculous. Today, nothing felt miraculous. It felt final.

  I didn’t want to come, but I couldn’t bring myself not to show up. Summer’s text had made it all too clear what the purpose of this visit would be. She’d asked me to meet her at “our spot” after work today. She’d been distant for days now, always brushing me off when I asked what was wrong. And she hadn’t ridden with me. She’d come alone, which told me she very well planned to leave alone.

  It was a conversation that’d been building for five months, no matter how many times we both agreed my leaving next week was for the best and pretended to believe it. No matter how many times she turned away before she thought I saw the tears brimming when someone mentioned Thanksgiving or beyond. No matter how many times we skirted the edges of this topic, I knew it was coming. I couldn’t fault her. In my weaker moments, I had to bite my tongue to keep from being the one to bring it up. To keep from offering something I had no idea how to give.

  I’d been on the verge of offering to stay more times than I would ever admit. And not once had she asked me to. Not once. Until today.

  Seven days until liftoff. The texts had started earlier this morning. I was shocked she’d held out this long. So when they’d graduated from “I heart you” and winky faces to “I think we should talk after work” and sad faces, I was pretty sure what was coming.

  And although I dreaded it, I wouldn’t blow her off. No matter the outcome, I would listen and hear her out. I respected her and what we had far too much not to. But dammit, I wished I didn’t have to look her in the eye and break her heart. Not yet.

  I still had seven days.

  I knew it was a selfish outlook. I knew I deserved to pay for thinking like that, but it was all I had. I’d barely found the strength to hand in my two-week notice to Dean. I didn’t have it in me to walk away from her sooner than that. I wanted all of my time to count. Every second.

  I paused at the edge of the tree cover, taking a moment to study her. The curve of her hip, the way she planted both feet solidly when she stood. The strands of wavy, honey-brown hair caught by the small breeze that danced at the edges, haloing her head. Her long, luscious legs, browned in a tan that remained from all the time spent outside these past months. And the rigid set of her shoulders as she stared—probably blankly—at the view of her entire world. It seemed fitting that, at the moment, I was standing outside its borders.

  I hated breaking the silence, but I forced myself to take a loud enough step that she heard me walk up. Even more, I hated the way her eyes clouded and then cleared when she turned and saw me standing there.

  “Hi,” she said, a strained smile on her lips.

  “Hi,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and pressing kisses against her hair. “You been waiting long?”

  “Just got here,” she said, her arms squeezing tight around my ribs.

  The wind was stronger here on the ledge. It picked strands of her hair up and made them dance along my arm and chin, tickling where it touched. “It’s cool up here,” I said as she finally pulled back to look up at me.

  At my words, the skin around her eyes tightened and I realized I’d just reminded us both of the season—and what was coming. Damn. Nice one, Ford.

  She slid her arms free and let them hang at her sides. The separation was subtle but it spoke volumes. “I’ve never dreaded cool weather so much before,” she admitted.

  Her eyes were already pleading with me, and I had to force myself not to look away or just leave. I hated being the villain. “Me too,” I agreed.

  “Really?” She frowned and I knew what she was thinking. Leaving was a choice. If I didn’t like it, I could choose different. She wanted me to choose her. But for me, it wasn’t like that. Leaving was some
thing I needed to do. I couldn’t explain it. Not to her and sometimes, not to myself. Mostly, I had to leave so that I didn’t stay.

  If she wondered at my silence, she didn’t press it. “I know you’re wondering why I called you up here today,” she said. I grunted an agreement. “You leave in a week,” she said as if that explained it all. And it did.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly.

  “And I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

  “Me too.”

  Her gaze sharpened, like she was searching way too deeply into my words. It made me uncomfortable and I took a step, needing to move under the weight of it all.

  She held my eyes a second longer and then dropped her head, shaking it in frustration. “This is much harder than I thought,” she said.

  It hurt my chest to see the pain in her eyes. I reached out and took her hand, pulling her close to me again. “Just say what you feel,” I whispered.

  She looked up at me through lowered lashes. “I feel like I’m losing you,” she whispered back. “And I don’t want to.”

  There it was. The pain in my chest twisted, digging deeper until it was lodged so far inside, there would be no removing it. “I don’t either,” I said.

  She bit her lip. She wanted to say it. I could see it written plainly on her face. “But … it’s your choice. This is what you want.”

  I sighed. “I don’t want to lose you any more than you want to lose me.”

  “Then stay.” The fact that she’d said it aloud seemed to surprise her. I wondered if she’d actually planned on saying it outright or just beat around the bush hoping I’d say it for her. But it was too late to take it back. She forged on, “I didn’t plan on saying that. But I’m just so angry.”

  “At me?”

  “Some,” she admitted. “Mostly, I’m angry at fate or destiny or whatever. You talk about the universe sending us what we need and all of that but why would the universe send me the very thing I’ve always needed and let me love it more fiercely than I’ve ever loved and then rip it away?”