by Becky Wade
“All my face needs is some ice. I swear.”
“In that case, the sooner the better, right?”
“Probably so.”
“Then let’s go.”
They climbed into his truck, the two of them sitting side by side on the bench seat in the dark. He drove from the bumpy parking lot onto the smooth drone of the paved road. The radio played a country melody much more mellow than the din they’d left behind. The cab smelled like him, like clean sea wind.
“Does your face hurt?” she asked.
“No.” But one side of his mouth curved up unevenly.
“Liar,” she whispered.
He turned the truck, and she watched his hands grip the steering wheel. His knuckles had gotten scraped. “Are you, uh . . . accustomed to getting in fights?”
“I haven’t been in one for a long time.”
They coasted through the main intersection in Holley, the one Meg passed through twice every day coming and going to work. Hundreds of birds gathered there at dusk, squawking and chattering, standing in long rows on the power lines. When startled, they rushed into the air, a chaotic swarming mass. And then, within moments, they settled again on their electrical lines, having gone effectively nowhere.
As Bo drove toward Whispering Creek, Meg managed to keep up her end of a subdued conversation. The commotion inside her head, though, reminded her of those birds. Her thoughts kept flying around in a wild mass, then resettling.
“She’s hot, isn’t she, Bo? I mean, hot enough, considering all that money.” Those were the words that had sent Bo over the edge. Hot enough, considering all that money was exactly how most men her age had always viewed her, Meg knew. Sean’s opinion of her didn’t upset her all that much.
That Bo had been injured over Sean’s comment? That upset her. As did the fact that Bo had heard Sean accuse Meg of “slumming” because she’d been with him.
She winced, remembering. She feared that Sean’s words, like an arrow zinging through the air, had connected with Bo’s chest and sunk deep. She wished she could have kept him from having to hear them, almost felt like she should apologize to him. He’d gotten hit with that simply for agreeing to accompany the girl who usually read biographies with her cat on her lap on Saturday nights.
She chewed the inside of her cheek and watched the line of electrical poles zoom by. They passed the water tower that had Holley, Texas, USA painted on it in bold red letters.
She couldn’t believe that Bo had actually put up his fists and fought those guys for her.
For. Her.
She’d had an important and wealthy father once. But she’d never had a champion. In all her life, there’d never been anyone willing to stand in front of her and get bruised and bloody to protect her feelings.
She glanced at Bo, her emotions welling with affection, tears filling her eyes. Before he could notice, she turned to stare determinedly out the passenger window until she had control of herself.
They pulled up at Whispering Creek’s gate and the security guard walked out to greet them. Upon recognizing Meg, he quickly ushered them through.
Bo parked as close as possible to the guesthouse, then escorted her along the walkway in silence. When they reached the guesthouse, Meg continued up the two steps to the front door. Bo stayed below on the path, his hands in his pockets. Light from the porch fixture eased over him, making his eyes shine.
Meg dug her keys out of her purse. Would he say yes if she asked him inside? She ached to fuss over him. Wet washcloth, bag of ice, Advil, his feet up on her sofa pillows. The whole bit.
“I’d best be going,” he said. “Good night—”
“Wait.” She wanted to ask him in and across the respectful line between them. Except she knew her own weaknesses too well. She’d been lonely all her life. She’d been yearning, so long and so desperately, for someone to lean on. And on top of that, tonight’s events had rendered her perilously weak toward him. In this moment, her impartiality? Intelligence? Absent from class.
If she followed her heart tonight, she might misstep and ruin whatever it was that they had . . . the friendship, the trust, the respectful boss-employee relationship. “I just wanted to say thank you. For defending me the way that you did. It meant a lot to me.”
“I’d do any—” He stopped. His gaze met hers with such a troubled look of burning emotion that her skin pebbled with goose bumps.
“And again,” she managed to whisper, “I’m very sorry about your eye and your lip.”
“Not your fault.”
She sighed inwardly because it was, of course, all her fault. “See you soon.”
She waited for him to walk away. He didn’t.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, “until I know you’re safe, so go ahead on in and lock the door behind you.”
She nodded, slipped inside, and locked the door. For long moments, she stared at the dimly lit interior of the guesthouse. Cashew slid around and between her ankles.
A very high wall circled Whispering Creek’s property. Cutting edge technology kept watch over its buildings. And an armed guard manned the gate. Most people would have considered her safe enough without insisting she lock the guesthouse door behind her.
But Bo Porter wasn’t most people.
She didn’t know . . . Her heart squeezed with longing. She didn’t know what he was to her yet.
Chapter Eleven
Bo had set his phone to “Silent” even before he’d met Meg at Deep in the Heart. After the fight, his phone had started vibrating, alerting him to incoming calls and text messages.
It vibrated a few more times as he navigated the dark streets between Whispering Creek and his house. He knew exactly why people were trying to get in touch with him, but in his current mood he didn’t feel like answering, talking, or even thinking.
Near the outskirts of town Bo turned onto his quiet, rolling street. He and all his neighbors had big plots of land surrounding their houses. Like his father, he couldn’t breathe unless he had at least ten acres around him.
When the street dipped low and curved right, he turned left onto his land. His beige brick house sat a good distance back from the road. He could just make out the glow from the kitchen light he always left on. As he drew near the house, his headlights illuminated his brother’s truck parked out front. He could see Jake sitting behind the wheel in the dark, waiting for him.
“Great.” Just what he needed.
He parked in his carport, then made his way back toward Jake’s truck. The motion sensor light mounted on the front corner of his house clicked on as he crossed under it. Jake met him halfway, the brothers standing on the lawn facing each other, hunched against the cool night wind.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” Jake said.
“No offense, but I haven’t felt like talking.”
“I heard about the fight.”
Bo nodded.
Jake’s gaze was hard to read beneath the shadow of his Stetson. But Bo knew, at the very least, that his brother would be sizing up the injuries on his face.
“Did you go to Deep in the Heart with Megan Cole tonight?” Jake asked.
“With her and a few other people.”
“Were you two on a date?”
“Look, Jake, I’m tired. I don’t really want to get into this with you right now.” Bo turned and started toward the house.
“I heard,” Jake said, “that you started the fight because of her. That true?”
Bo stopped. He wasn’t surprised that Jake had already heard everything or that his brother might be worried or angry over what had happened. He’d have sought out Jake, too, if Jake had been the one choking guys at Deep in the Heart. Wearily, Bo faced Jake and measured his brother’s resolve.
Jake held his body in an aggressive posture. The familiar scar across his face highlighted grim features. All the resolve in the world, apparently.
Bo’s mind raced back over the many times that the shoe had been on the other foot, the times he
’d worried himself sick over Jake, the times he’d been the one trying to pry information out of his brother. “What was your question?” Bo asked.
“Did you get in that fight tonight over Megan Cole?”
“Sean Sutter had a few too many. He wouldn’t quit grabbing her, so I pushed him off. Then he insulted her.”
“So you had a knock-down-drag-out with him and his buddies.”
“Yeah. I did.” Bo scrubbed his hands over his throbbing face, his skull. He looked up at the blanket of stars above him. A milky cloud sailed past, moving fast, covering a band of stars and then revealing them again. He glanced back at his brother.
Jake watched him, expression tight. Jake knew, of course, about Bo’s history with women. He knew that Bo didn’t ordinarily care that much one way or another about his girlfriends, that Bo had never before lost his head over one of them by going crazy protective in a bar.
“Good grief, Bo. What are you doing? You told me that nothing was going to happen between you two.”
“Nothing has. Listen, you’re not going to be able to tell me any reason to stay away from her that I haven’t already told myself a hundred times.”
“I’m going to give it a try.”
Bo waited in silence, his gut churning, his sense of pride howling like a gale force wind. He knew he wasn’t the one for Meg. He sure as anything didn’t need to hear his brother list all the reasons why.
“Our farm has only a slim chance of surviving as it is. You strike up a romance with Meg Cole and then it ends badly? I’m afraid Whispering Creek Horses would be done for.” Jake lifted and resettled his hat. “There’s a lot at stake.”
“I know that.”
“When the employees hear about what happened tonight, they’re going to think one of two things. Some are going to think you’re seducing her in order to convince her to keep the farm open.”
Jake’s words landed like an insult. “I hope they know me better than that.”
“The others are going to think you’ve rolled over. That you’re so blinded by her that you don’t care about them anymore.”
Bo glared. “Of course I care about them. I hired them. That makes me responsible for their livelihoods. You think I take that lightly?”
“I’m just telling you that once they hear about this, some of them are going to worry that you’re not going to stick up for them.”
“Is that what the employees are worried about or is that what you’re worried about, Jake?”
Jake burrowed his hands deep into his pockets. Silence arched between them. “Yeah, I’m worried. I’d like to keep my job.”
“I’ve worked harder,” Bo said harshly, “than anyone for the sake of the farm. Day in and day out for four years. That’s how much I care about it. If you and the rest of them doubt that now, ’cause of this . . .” He shook his head and strode toward his front door.
He could hear Jake’s footfalls close behind, keeping up with him. “Look, man,” Jake said. “I’m sorry.”
Bo reached his door, unlocked it.
“I want you to be happy,” Jake said. “I do. I just don’t see what good can come from you getting mixed up with a woman like that.”
Bo looked across his shoulder at his brother. “A woman like what? She’s the sweetest person in the world.”
“You know what I mean. She’s William Cole’s daughter. It’s not just the farm that’s the problem. She’s different from us, Bo. All that money. The way she was raised.”
“Look at me, Jake.” He lifted his palms, anger at the situation growing within him. “Anyone who sees me knows I’m not good enough for her. I know it most of all.” He wished down to the core of him that he could do something to earn the right to be worthy of her.
“Maybe Meg Cole isn’t good enough for you. She’s divorced, for one thing. I don’t want that for you.”
Meg’s past was a part of her, like her hair or eye color. Something she couldn’t change. Did he like to think about her ex-husband? No. Did he like to think about her married to someone else? No. But he accepted it for what it was: an experience that had shaped her into the person she’d become. “Like I said. Nothing’s happened yet.”
Jake nodded.
“Now go on.” Bo motioned with his chin. “Drive over to Deep in the Heart. Dru’s there by herself.”
Jake’s brows knit. Bo didn’t have to ask Jake to make sure Dru got home safely or to tell their parents where she’d been. That communication passed unsaid between them.
“I’m on it.” Jake turned toward his truck.
Bo let himself inside his house. Usually he turned on some music as soon as he walked through the door, but he couldn’t stomach it tonight. After filling a plastic bag with ice cubes, he made his way into his bedroom and stretched out on top of his bed. Carefully, he lowered the ice onto his bruised eye and cheekbone.
The cold hurt like the blazes.
What had happened to him?
All his life he’d known himself well. He was simple, after all. He’d only ever wanted two things: to serve his country and to work at a horse farm.
Before William Cole’s death he’d been so sure of himself, his job, his goals. Then Meg had walked into his life, and everything he thought he knew had come undone because now he wanted a third thing. He wanted Meg. Desperately wanted, yet couldn’t have.
He longed with instinctive force to protect her. So much so that it almost felt God-willed. As if the cells, muscles, and bones of his body had been made for her. As if he’d been wired from the start to feel just this way about just this woman. His whole life—the childhood scrapes and lessons, the tours of duty with the Marines, his adulthood with horses—had brought him to this. To her.
He wished it wasn’t so, that he’d fallen for some country girl as simple as he was. But that’s not the way it had gone down for him.
His idiot heart had settled on the golden, intelligent, beautiful, rich only daughter of William Cole—who deserved to marry a man equal to her.
He covered his good eye with his free hand, dug his fingers into his scalp, and prayed for strength. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep himself in check when he was around her.
He might need to force himself to give her up.
Lunch with girlfriends held a considerable capacity for joy. Especially at a girly restaurant. Especially on the patio of a girly restaurant with springtime sunshine shimmering on your arms and a pair of big sunglasses shielding your eyes.
Meg, Lynn, and Sadie Jo were seated at a linen-covered table on the porch of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s. Inside, the establishment was half antique store, half restaurant, and wholly covered in potted ivy and framed Beatrix Potter artwork. Outside, a black wrought-iron fence enclosed eight tables, separated by a cobblestone path leading to the shop’s door.
Their waitress emerged and set before them plates artfully arranged with chicken salad wedged between nutty slices of bread, fruit, chips, and frothy greens drizzled with poppy seed dressing. The girl glanced at their glasses and assured them she’d be right back with more iced tea.
She and Sadie Jo had gone to church together this morning and still wore their dresses. Lynn had on leggings, Birkenstocks, and a faded T-shirt featuring the words Cottonwood Art Festival.
As Lynn and Sadie Jo discussed the plight of a mutual friend suffering from shingles, Meg chewed her chicken salad sandwich and admired her surroundings.
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s had found a comfortable spot, like an aging woman in her favorite chair, on the old town square right in the center of Holley. The buildings on the square dated back to the days of wagons and gunslingers and county stores selling bolts of gingham.
Despite its robust history, Holley had teetered on the edge of extinction a few decades ago. Like most small towns across America, Holley had faced its make-it-or-die phase. Meg could remember walking around this area back then, her kid hand warmly clasped in Sadie Jo’s grown-up hand. At the time, these storefronts had held little but pane
s of cracked glass and tattered paint.
Meg, always the worrier, could recall fearing that Holley would waste away and that Sadie Jo would have to move out of her little house.
Looking back, she should have known better. There was no way her father would have allowed any town in his zip code to waste away. William Cole, with his towering confidence and determination, had formed a planning commission. He’d given out interest-free loans to bring businesses to the town center. He’d written massive checks toward the renovation of the Holley Hotel and the planting and maintenance of every inch of green space the city owned.
To this day, bowls of flowers hung from every streetlight in town. Meg pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose and glanced overhead. One hung just a few yards away, bright with pink, red, and white petunias.
Nowadays the visitors’ office passed out a driving tour that took guests on a route through town featuring Victorian houses, parks brimming with native Texas trees and wildflowers, and private gardens blazing with azaleas, snapdragons, and daisies. Thanks to the cheerfully painted Victorians and the abundant flowers, Holley had become known as the “Color Capital of Texas.”
At present, the town square flourished due to the occupancy of trendy restaurants, cute little shops filled with things you didn’t really need but bought anyway because they charmed you, a bank, a museum, the courthouse, and the three-story-tall historic Holley Hotel. The blocks that stretched outward from the square in every direction boasted the oldest homes in the county. The aging structures were now mostly filled with upper-middle-class people who’d moved here recently and brought with them the money and fortitude required to painstakingly renovate them. These newcomers intermingled with the small-town born-and-bred residents of Holley who lived further from the town’s center. People like Bo Porter.
Meg remembered just how he’d looked last night after the fight: his chest heaving, his eyes settling on her with fiery intensity. Rich warmth swirled through her at the image and made her wonder for the hundredth time how he was feeling today—
