He leans in, his breath a feather brushing my ear. “Would you like to dance?” he asks.
I close my eyes and sigh. He just had to go and ruin it. “I don’t really know—”
Owen ignores my protest, laces his fingers with mine, and pulls me toward the floor. We weave in through two-stepping couples until he finally stops right in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.
“I don’t know how this works.” I stand there feeling like Cinderella, one minute after midnight— a little hopeful, a little shamed.
“Didn’t you go to dances as a teenager?”
He pulls me closer with a light grip on my hip. If only dancing were no more than this—bodies pressed together and hands in all the right places.
“Of course I went to dances,” I say. “And I used that time to artfully arrange the cookies and add shots of vanilla to the punch.” Vanilla that I kept in a vial in my purse. “The boys kind of looked over me.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Can we just not do this?” Everyone around us seems to know what to do. They’re scooting, spinning, swaying. It’s like the Ice Capades. In a barn. “Let’s go back to the lodge.” I stare deeply into his eyes and bat my eye lashes. “I’ll let you get to second base.”
He lifts a brow. “Someone really does have bad dance memories.”
“Yep. So I think I hear the crab pot stickers calling me and—”
My words die on my lips as Owen slowly slides his fingers down the length of my bare arm, his touch sending a fever right through me.
“This hand goes on my shoulder.” His voice is a light whisper against my ear. “Then this hand, I get to hold.” With a palm at my back, he draws me closer.
I revel in the feel of being in his arms—the safety, the comfort, the heat. I want to close my eyes, lean my head on his chest, and forget we’re surrounded by people. This force that is Owen—it’s too much and not enough. I find myself thinking of him relentlessly, wondering what he’s doing, wondering if I cross his mind half as much as he crosses mine.
“Are you paying attention?” Owen’s lips tease as they hover temptingly close to mine.
I realize he’s been talking. My cheeks flush pink, and I meet his knowing eyes. “Yes. I’m listening.”
He proceeds to show me the basics of the two-step. While he’s surprisingly fluid and graceful as he moves, I’m stiff and choppy. Owen continues with the lesson, even coaxing me into trying a spin. I crash right into his abs—a wonderful consolation prize, if I do say so.
“I’m terrible at this,” I huff a few songs later as I step on the foot of a lady beside us.
“You’re overthinking it.”
Owen runs his hand up and down my back, sending shockwaves of electricity jolting through my limbs.
“There are so many people here.” And I’ve bumped into most of them.
“Forget them.” Owen stops. His eyes search mine as he gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s just you and me here.”
I want to write his words down and forever save them like a keepsake flower.
“There’s nothing fancy about this,” he says. “Put that perfectionist brain of yours on pause and just have fun.”
The band begins another song, this one about finding love in unexpected places. And Owen, keeping his gaze locked on mine, draws me to him and begins again, quietly counting for us.
“You’re doing good.”
We have two more stops and starts, but I tune out everyone around us and focus on the beat of the music, the light pressure of Owen’s hands as he leads us, and the luxurious feel of being in his arms. Because Owen’s unlike any guy I’ve ever known before. He’s protective, loyal, and totally alpha.
And I like him entirely too much.
“I’m going to twirl you,” he says, pulling me from my wayward thoughts.
He gives a quick explanation, then counts it out, spinning me under his strong arm.
I’m a beat too late.
And crash into the wall of his chest.
Owen’s arms hold me to him, steadying me from a fall. His laughing smile fades as I lift my eyes to his face, my hands on his beating heart. The music mutes in my ears, as my thundering pulse intrudes. My skin tingles, and I know—I know—he’s going to kiss me.
I’m afraid one kiss will open a Pandora’s Box of hurt.
But I’m even more terrified of what I’ll miss if he doesn’t seal his lips to mine.
He dips his head, and his nose rubs against my cheek. “Avery?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to make you forget about that jerk in New York.”
Yes, please.
Owen sweeps his lips against mine, a tentative taste, an exploration. Then his hands cradle my face, and he kisses me like I’m a long-lost love, someone he’s been waiting for, longing for.
Like someone he cherishes
His kiss is slow and sweet, with just enough pressure to make me want more. I curl my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair, fire rocketing through my veins. While I cling to him with a reckless urgency, Owen seems in no hurry, taking his precious time.
My mind empties of all thought but Owen. This moment fills my heart with a warmth that hasn’t been there in years. I lean deeper into him, suddenly tired of carrying it all, and for this time, I know he’s got me. No concerns about keeping grades afloat for scholarships, grocery money, or missing my mom. No anger, no resentment over Mitchell.
It’s just me, just Owen.
And a kiss that is a spring thaw to my wintered heart.
On a night I never want to end.
Chapter Twelve
The next few weeks floated by light and fragile as dandelion petals in the wind. I wanted to hold on to each day, to beg it to last longer, but time marched on with a rude indifference. My days were spent on kitchen duty, but as soon as the dinner dishes were finished, I’d hang up my Shadow Ranch apron, liberate my hair from its ponytail, and find Owen. He made the most of our limited hours, from a candlelit dinner in his cabin to a dip in the creek beneath an Ozark moon. Some nights we were both just too tired to do anything besides curl up on his couch and watch a movie.
Or pretend to.
It was hard to focus on a plot when Owen’s lips found that sensitive spot on my neck. Or when my hands traced the muscled geography of that body and all thoughts of movies and conversation disappeared.
I told myself I’d be able to walk away from this in two and a half weeks.
Lots of people had summer flings. It was very progressive and Grease of me.
But the longer I stayed at the ranch, the harder I was falling.
I lift my phone and check the text as I walk down a sidewalk on the Bentonville square. I smile at Owen’s face on my screen.
Lunch at the Station? Grab us a table. I’m almost there.
With a rare day off, I came into Bentonville for another supply run at the farmer’s market, and Owen promised he’d try to get away to meet me.
I pay a friendly vendor for my spinach and tomatoes and walk toward the Station, a cafe with a long history of good cheese burgers and conversation. A teenager pedaling a small ice cream cart smiles as we both pass a group of food trailers. The sun shines hot overhead, and a group of tourists takes a photo in front of the Wal-Mart museum. The town is a larger version of Sugar Creek, and like everything within this part of Arkansas, I’m unexpectedly charmed.
I open the Station door and am immediately greeted by the scent of deep fried temptations and the swell of lunchtime chatter. I stop a moment and catalog the scene. This is a restaurant that thrives and nurtures, holds a history and a place within the community. It draws young and old, the corporate executives and the blue-collar heroes.
And Mitchell Crawford.
He sits at a table on the far left wall and throws up his hand in a wave. He gestures to the empty side of his booth in invitation.
The Station might be a hot spot, but I know it
’s more than a coincidence that Mitchell’s here when I’m supposed to meet Owen.
I quickly order for Owen and myself at the front, then make my way to Mitchell’s booth.
“Mitchell.” I slide into the other side and set down my lemonade. “Funny running into you.”
“Owen invited me.” Mitchell empties a packet of sugar into his tea and stirs. “He thinks we need to talk. . .and I agree.”
It’s like I’ve stepped on a land mine of awkwardness, and I know there will be casualties. “About what?”
“Your mother.”
I press my back into the padded seat. “Why?”
Mitchell takes off his glasses and slips them into his pocket. “Because I owe you an apology.”
“I don’t really want to talk about this.”
“Well, we’re going to.”
“Mitchell—”
“You’ve got to stop calling me that. It kills me. I’m your grandfather.”
“No, you’re not. You’re my mother’s biological father, but you and I have no ties other than—”
“I loved your mother. She was my only child. The apple of my eye.”
“Yes, when she was a successful jockey for you.”
Mitchell’s eyes flashed with anger. “Is that what she thought?”
I wait ’til a couple passes by and lower my voice. “She gets pregnant at nineteen and goes from being your darling daughter to kicked out and disowned.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“You told her to leave and never come back.”
Mitchell doesn’t deny it. “I said it in the heat of the moment. We’d had a big argument. In the space of a few minutes, I learned she was pregnant and intended to marry her joke of a boyfriend. The very one I’d warned her about. She never listened to me.”
“She lost everything that night. Her future as a jockey was over and now she had no job, no way to pay for college, and no family support.”
“I tried to contact her multiple times—calls, letters.”
“It wasn’t enough.” I need to calm down. I also need that waitress to serve my fries so I can stuff them in my purse and go. “Mitchell, you’re my boss, and I appreciate your reaching out to me and offering me this summer internship. But that’s as far as it goes. If you lured me here to connect—” I shake my head and push through—“it’s not going to happen. I lived the effects of your decisions. You want to know what life was like growing up? It was hard. We never had any money, so Mom worked two jobs. She married two losers who promised to take care of us, but neither one could.” I dash away the tears slipping down my sun-kissed cheeks. “And after that wreck, it was me the police delivered the news to. You weren’t there. You were never there. For every meager Christmas, for every school event she couldn’t attend because of work, you weren’t there. And when we lowered her in the ground, where were you?” I stand and jerk my purse over my arm. “I’ve practically raised myself, and I’ve done a pretty good job. So, you’ll excuse me if I find your offer to be my grandfather to be at least twenty years too late.”
Propelled by fury, I scoot out of the booth and storm away.
Who does that man think he is? That he can just show up in my life now and win me over?
My hands slap against the door, and I shove it open.
And nearly take out Owen.
“Whoa—hey.” He swiftly dodges the powder keg door, then reaches for me.
I sidestep him and march down the sidewalk.
“Avery?” Owen runs behind me, his boots thunking on the warm concrete. “Wait.”
“Leave me alone.” Shoppers spill out of a boutique store, and I don’t even bother to turn down the volume on my crazy. I can’t get back to the ranch truck fast enough.
Owen’s hand latches onto my upper arm. “Stop. Please.” He moves in front of me and blocks my path. Owen’s sky blue eyes search mine. “Talk to me.”
“You set this up today, didn’t you? You had Mitchell meet us for lunch—the one you were conveniently late for.”
He takes a visible breath, like he knows he’s just a few wrong syllables away from me going off like a bottle rocket.
The words he settles on light the first match. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Help? I just made a scene in front of all those people eating their burgers.” And did I get my shake and fries? No. I did not.
“You’ve been avoiding Mitchell since day one, and it’s not fair to him.”
Like a red scarf waved in front of a bull, I’m ready to charge. “Fair to him? Are you hearing yourself?” He can’t possibly be serious.“What about me? What about my mom?”
“That’s the past. For God’s sake, how long are you going to hold onto that?”
I want to punch Owen in the nose. Why does every man in my life have to be from some planet where logic and reason don’t exist? “He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. And I don’t deserve what you did today.” My eyes mist, and I blink to hold off the tears. “You manipulated me. You didn’t even ask me. You just threw me in there unaware.”
“Okay.” Owen’s so quiet and calm, like I’m one of his ailing cows. “You’re right. I probably should have asked you.”
“Probably?”
“You wouldn’t have met with Mitchell.”
“It was my decision to make, Owen.”
“I care about you both. I want you to patch this thing up.”
“What he did can’t be undone with a Band-Aid. Do you know how hard our lives were?” How hard my life is, I want to say. But I don’t. I can’t. I will not be pitiful. “You don’t get it.”
“If you’d just talk to him—”
“Stop.” My voice quivers and that angers me even more. “I can’t discuss this with you.”
“All I’m asking is that you hear him out.”
I stare into the face of the boy I care about so much.
But all I feel as I look at him is betrayal. Hurt.
“You’re asking too much,” I say. “You’re paid to be loyal to Mitchell. But I’m not.”
“That’s low.”
“Is it?” I know my words are invisible slaps. “He’s got you so under his thumb, you can’t see the truth. He used you today—and you let him. And then you used me.”
Owen’s face hardens, his expression furious as a newly bridled Mustang.
But I walk away.
Leaving part of my heart behind.
Chapter Thirteen
In every battle, a girl has the option of exercising her greatest war tactic—the silent treatment. And that’s exactly what I did.
Until now.
Exactly twenty-four hours after I stood on a city sidewalk and went off like a tea kettle, I feel the anger making an unwelcome comeback. Like the flu. Or poison ivy.
Or a boy band.
While our newest round of guests amble toward the lodge thirty minutes late for lunch, I stand on the front porch, tapping my foot, eyeing my watch, and ready to ring the proverbial chow bell one more time. Owen brings up the rear, wearing a ball cap, jeans that hug in all the right places, and just enough sweat to separate the men from the boys.
I break my vow of silence as he walks by. “You’re late.”
He stops, his face grim. This is a man who knows if I ignored his repeated attempts at communication, I’m sure not in the mood to put up with anything he’s bringing now.
“The roping lesson ran late.”
“You could’ve let me know. Their food’s getting cold.”
“Yeah, I guess I could’ve sent you another text—for you to ignore.”
I really hate it when men make sense.
“You ready to talk this out like civil human beings yet?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“You ready to admit I could be right?”
“You ready to admit you acted like the back end of a steer?"
He runs a hand over the light stubble on his chin and steps closer. Too close. “I think you’re
afraid I’m right. And you’re afraid of letting go of that old hurt because it’s been your anchor.”
Can’t breathe. Can’t pull my eyes from his.
“Mitchell loves you.”
I could topple over with the weight of his ridiculous words. “Mitchell loves himself.”
“You have no idea what he’d do for you.”
What does that mean? “I don’t want anything from him. I want to finish this job and go back to New York.”
“And us? What about us?”
My mind whirls with my choices, my answers. But I can’t verbalize a single one of them.
How did one person get under my skin so quickly?
“Owen.” Mitchell’s voice pushes us off the tightrope and brings us back to this front porch. My grandfather nods at me and regards his protégé. “Did you update her on the changes in the itinerary?”
I speak my first words to Mitchell since yesterday’s lunch. “What changes?”
“We have some weather moving in,” Mitchell says. “Forecast says we’re getting a cold front and some storms, with the biggest chances in a few days. We’re moving the Civil War battlefield camping trip to tomorrow tonight. Might get still some light rain, but it shouldn’t have an impact.”
“Okay.” I speak to a spot near Mitchell’s shoulder. Because I’m mature like that. “So I need to have the dinners and breakfasts packed tomorrow morning?”
Mitchell’s forehead wrinkles in a frown. “Didn’t you tell her, Owen?”
Owen inspects his calloused hand. “Seems like I left her a message or two last night.”
“You’re not just sending food, Avery,” Mitchell says. “You’re going on the camping trip to cook. I assumed Pearl reviewed this with you when you got here. We provide fresh, fire-cooked meals. We want the campers to rough it like it’s the 1800s.”
Owen nods. “Except with waterproof tents and portable cell phone chargers.”
“Let me make one thing straight.” Mitchell gestures toward the lodge. “These people show up every year. You got thirty Civil War enthusiasts in there who travel the South looking to trace the steps of Confederate soldiers, do a little reenactment, and have a nice time. You two will put aside your differences long enough to give them just that. They’ll get their historical hike along Sugar Creek, set up camp, and eat a few good meals. They will not hear any fighting or see anything but two Shadow Ranch employees dedicated to their jobs. Am I clear?”
Wild Heart Summer Page 7
