by Bree Baker
“I do,” he said. “I’m tracking and studying the island’s wild mustangs, but the rodeo’s not something a man just quits. Rodeo’s in my blood.”
I rolled my eyes until it hurt, then straightened my expression before sliding behind the service counter and beginning my morning prep routine.
“How long have you been riding?” Denise asked.
“All my life,” he answered. “I don’t know any other way to live. Injuries are just part of the package.”
“It’s a nice package,” Denise muttered.
I was almost certain Wyatt’s head became visibly larger.
“You can call me Denise,” she continued. “Miss Cheveraux is a little much, don’t you think?”
I thought whatever was going on between those two was a little much.
“Did you need something, Wyatt?” I asked. “You don’t normally hang out on my porch.”
Wyatt dragged his attention back to me as I busied myself checking tea levels and the brew times on each dispenser. I maintained a strict twenty-four hour rule from brew to disposal. Any longer than that and my teas lost their pizazz. “I was just checking on you, like I said. Yesterday was rough, and I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“I am,” I said. “I don’t have a single bruise.”
Half his mouth kicked into a lopsided grin. “You’ve always worried too much about me. I’m tougher than I look, and I’m a quick healer, you know that.”
“You are until you aren’t,” I said, my voice unintentionally sharp and cold. The torrent of fear ripping through me brought a stunning realization with it. I still worried about Wyatt. I still cared about his safety and well-being. And why wouldn’t I? We’d been together for years, and before things had gotten rocky, he’d been my rodeo, my life’s goal, and my light at the end of each day.
Wyatt reached for me as I went to check on available ingredients in the fridge. He caught my hand in his and squeezed. “Truth is, I’m here because I’m thinking of giving it up, and I wanted to know what you thought.”
I stopped to examine him. “You’re thinking of giving up the rodeo?” I asked, not for a second believing that was what he’d meant. Then I saw the storm clouds of regret gathered in his dark blue gaze. “Wyatt. Why? You just said it’s in your blood.”
“I’m thirty-two,” he said. “I’ve never hit it big. Not once. Not everything that’s in our blood is good for us.”
I felt his grief in my bones. “Thirty-two isn’t old. This is all you’ve ever wanted.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t have been,” he said. “I fooled around and made a life for myself here and I like it. When the Wild Bunch came looking to ride, I went back, no questions, but when I got thrown…” He glanced away, shame coloring his cheeks.
“What happened?” I gripped his hand tighter in encouragement, praying a fresh injury hadn’t resulted in the discovery of something awful or life threatening.
“It hurt,” he said flatly. His jaw worked side to side as if he’d admitted to something horrid instead of something rational. “For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to get back in the saddle. I wanted to come here, get some iced tea, and take a walk on the beach. Or maybe a nap. The thing I’d enjoyed more than anything else was suddenly…scary.”
“Being thrown from a bull is scary,” I said. “You’ve nearly died that way. More than once.”
I knew. I’d been there each terrifying time. I’d been with him in the sawdust waiting for medics, begging him to open his eyes. I’d been in the ambulance praying we’d reach the hospital in time. I’d been in the waiting rooms, my heart in my throat. Through surgeries and comas, broken bones, and everything in between. “Of course you were scared.”
“But I never was before,” he said, releasing my hand. “Something changed.”
Denise moseyed in our direction, and I sucked in a breath. The moment had been so intense and so intimate, I’d forgotten she was there. “You were afraid this time because now you have things to lose,” she said, not hesitating to insert herself into our conversation. “Something did change, Wyatt. You.”
That hurt, and I grimaced at the thought. Wyatt hadn’t had anything to lose before, because I hadn’t counted.
Denise braced her palms against the counter and cocked her pretty head. “Before, all you cared about was winning. You were focused on the prize. The money. The buckle. The glory. You probably would have paid any cost for it. Maybe even your life.”
Wyatt went pale. The words had struck a nerve. Could they have been true? Would he have died for the glory? For one perfect ride?
“Good news is,” Denise said, “horses will always need to be ridden, loved, and cared for. People will always need to be taught about those things, and you are more than qualified to do all of it. You’re needed here. Now. You’re happy, and getting hurt could ruin that for you. That’s why you’re scared. You’re not a coward. You’re growing up.”
“Ugh.” He made a sour face at her, then dragged his defeated gaze back to me. “Did you hear that?”
I smiled. “Yes, I did.”
I picked up a piece of chalk and an eraser and went to work adjusting the daily menu while Denise and Wyatt talked. She poured him some tea and made him a sandwich. I was relieved by the thought of him never riding another angry bull, and I wondered what that meant.
“I read all about you when you showed up last year,” Denise told Wyatt.
I paused my chalk mid-stroke to listen.
“That couldn’t have been good,” he said. “Was it?”
“It was interesting,” she said. “You had a long streak of severe injuries, then suddenly you didn’t. I found that odd.”
Wyatt glanced my way, and I turned back to the menu board. He’d accused my family’s curse of causing his injuries while we were together because after the breakup, he’d seemed to thrive. “My ego was too big in the early years,” he told Denise. “I liked to get the crowd going, so I took chances I shouldn’t have. I quit getting hurt when I started concentrating on the ride instead of the show, if that makes any sense.”
“It does,” she said.
I put the chalk down and tried not to wonder if I’d been his bad luck charm.
Denise pulled her phone from her pocket and gave the screen a quick look. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
Wyatt smiled at me as Denise moved away. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’re wondering if a three-hundred-year-old rumor is true. You think it was somehow your fault that I stunk at being a decent boyfriend and cowboy.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lucky guess.”
“It wasn’t,” he said. “Not a guess and not your fault. You’re always ready to take the blame, and you assume responsibility for everything. It’s nuts. Do you want to know how I know the Swan curse is nonsense and loving you doesn’t stop a man’s heart from beating?”
A cascade of tingles shimmied over my skin. I wanted that proof more than I wanted to get skinny by eating lemon cake and truffles. “Yes.”
“Because here I am,” he said.
The air thickened and electrified around us. Was he saying he loved me now? That he’d loved me then? Did it matter? Did I care?
Denise cleared her throat and I nearly jumped over the counter. “That was Grady, checking in on you,” she said. “He spends a lot of energy on that front.”
I turned to her, thankful for the reminder. I had an important question to ask. “Is Grady the reason you came here looking for something to do while Denver was in school? Did he send you?”
Shock raced over her face, then vanished in the span of a heartbeat. “Yes.”
“Yes?” I parroted. I hadn’t expected her to confirm my suspicion. I’d assumed I was wrong—or that she’d lie if I wasn’t.
Her ruby lips curved into a soft smile
. “The minute I expressed an interest in part-time work, Grady suggested your shop. He thought you were overworked and could use the help. Plus, he thought I could use a friend, and he said you would make a good one.”
I slumped back against the counter. Denise hadn’t been sent to spy on me. She’d been sent to help.
Wyatt rose fluidly from the barstool, his tea jar and plate empty. He repositioned his hat on his head, gave a silent, two-finger salute and sauntered out.
I wondered when my life had gotten so complicated.
* * *
By eight o’clock, I’d changed into my most comfy cotton shorts and an old T-shirt. I pulled my legs onto the gazebo bench beneath me and faced the distant ocean, a sea of flowers blooming between us.
The setting sun at my back cast an amber glow over the world before me, giving the flight of fireflies in my garden a magical feel. The breeze was warm, the ocean magnificent. It was the most peaceful moment I’d had all day, and it seemed fitting I should finally get to open the Canary’s file and satiate my curiosity in solitude.
I lifted the thick manila folder onto my legs and worked the rubber band away, then thumbed through the papers inside. Some of the pages read like a scientific review. “Subject remained inside today with the exception of a morning swim.” Other pages read like voyeuristic diary entries. “It’s Christmas Eve and the driveway is packed with cars and lined in twinkle lights. Laughter and music spill out each time the home’s door opens, but I’ve yet to spot Mitzi amidst the merriment. I hope she’s enjoying the party. It’s been so long since she’s had one.”
There were a number of printed articles on the topic of Mitzi’s association with the Bee Loved project. Some called the upcoming voice-over work “beneath her” and claimed her involvement was “an obvious cry for attention at her advanced age.” Others commended her for using her influence to save the planet, one honeybee at a time. I got dizzy just reading the constant back-and-forth of opinions on her life.
I paused to review a stack of pages detailing company statistics on both Bee Loved and Bio-Bee, then stared open-mouthed at snapshots of my great-aunts, the island, and me.
A rustling of leaves caught my attention, and gooseflesh rose on my arms. A moment later, Maggie strutted away from the bushes, her white coat shining in the moonlight.
I shut the folder, stomach tumbling over the photos of my aunts and me. I struggled to recall when I’d worn the outfits in the photos. How long ago were they taken? Where had the Canary gotten them? I rubbed sweat-slicked palms over my thighs and tried to re-center myself in the moment.
Maggie walked past my bench, tail high.
I patted the space at my side.
She sniffed the air, then leapt gracefully onto the gazebo’s edge across from my seat. She walked the handrail, green eyes luminous as she examined the night.
The gentle snap of a twig caught my ear, and Maggie’s tail bushed out. She exhaled a long venomous hiss, and my limbs went rigid.
We weren’t alone in the garden.
I set the folder aside, freeing my hands to defend myself if necessary. I was prepared to run, but before I could turn or stand, something hard and blunt pressed against the nape of my neck. I prayed it wasn’t the barrel of a gun.
“Don’t move,” someone growled in my ear. The low and menacing sound sent ice splinters down my spine. “Hands up.”
I obeyed slowly. Making no sudden moves. Giving the attacker no reason to get violent. Begging my brain to come up with a plan.
My world went black as a bag was pulled over my head. My senses screamed for orientation and fear rang in my ears. Would I be abducted now? Killed where I sat? Thrown off the jagged hill at the edge of my garden and into the raging surf below?
A wild shriek rent the night, and Maggie’s bushy fur dusted my arms as she flew past me. Her sharp predator nails scraped loudly against the wood of my gazebo.
Retreating footfalls sounded behind me, growing quieter and more distant as I ripped the bag away from my head and scanned the world for signs of danger.
But there was only me, my gardens, and an otherwise empty gazebo.
The file I’d set beside me was gone.
Chapter Eight
I waited in my foyer for Grady, mostly because my shaking noodle legs refused to carry me any farther. I pressed my back to the locked door for support but slid down until my backside hit the floor. It seemed like a good enough place to wait, so I dragged my knees to my chest and rested my forehead on them while I caught my breath.
Memories of the stranger’s breath in my hair and on my cheek sent goose bumps over my chest and down my arms. I gripped uselessly at the back of my neck, trying to erase the phantom sensation of whatever had been pressed there. I didn’t want to know what that had been.
I wanted to forget.
The timbre of the whisper was scorched into my mind and playing on a loop, only occasionally sticking to the original script. More often than not, the voice told me all the ways it would hurt me. The bag pulled over my head had felt like the end—an abduction I wouldn’t return from. The scent of the stifling fabric clung in my nostrils, suffocating me even as I sat in my foyer.
What if the attacker came back?
A heavy hand landed against the door at my back, and I screamed.
“Everly!” Grady called, giving the door a series of heavy raps. “Open up. It’s me. Are you okay?”
“No!” I yelled back. “I’m freaking out!” I scrambled to my feet and yanked the door open with trembling hands.
Grady stepped inside, then pulled me into his arms before kicking the door shut behind him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, shamelessly clinging to him. “I’m just all shaken up.” I buried my face in the curve of his neck and curled my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, attempting to steal a little of his strength and resolve.
He ran one hand up and down my back, then reached behind him to flip the deadbolt on my door. “Why don’t we go upstairs?”
“If I let go of you, I might cry or melt into a puddle of panic and self-pity,” I warned.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said.
When I didn’t let him go, he lowered his mouth to my ear. “If you can’t walk, I can carry you.”
An image of my bathroom scale darted through my mind and pride loosened my grip. I knew, logically, that size didn’t matter and weight didn’t determine worth, but there was no logic in pride. I stepped back, then led the way upstairs.
“Couch,” Grady said, catching me by the elbow as I reached my private living quarters and turned for the kitchen. He pointed me in the other direction. “You sit. I’ll serve. You’re probably in shock. You need water.”
I collapsed onto my couch and pulled a decorative pillow into my arms. “You don’t have to do that,” I said, watching him fill a glass with ice, then pull a water pitcher from the fridge. Someday I would get a refrigerator from this millennium for personal use. Something stainless steel with automatic water and ice dispensers.
“I came to help. Let me help,” he said, snagging a legal pad off my island and heading in my direction.
I flopped back against the couch cushions. “Why is it that every time my life starts to chug along and resemble normal, something horrible happens and it all goes pear-shaped?”
“Here,” Grady said, taking a seat at my side and passing me the water. “Drink.” He set the notepad on the coffee table. My favorite pen was attached by its cap.
I accepted the water and gulped half its contents before stopping for air. “Wow. I was really thirsty.”
Grady flashed a penlight in my eyes.
I swatted it away. “Hey. Knock it off. I’m fine. Just a little parched.”
He caught my hand in his and pressed two steady fingers to my wrist, rudely taking my pulse without asking. I decided I’d al
low it since he’d been kind enough to come to my rescue and bring me water. Plus, the toe-curling current of electricity his touch produced was a guilty pleasure of mine. Hopefully, he’d attribute my staccato heart rate to the recent scare.
Too soon, Grady released me in favor of his ringing phone. “Hays,” he barked, brows crowded tight. “Get it to the lab. Keep me posted.” He disconnected and tossed the phone onto my coffee table.
“They found my folder?” I guessed, trading the glass for the notepad and pen. I knew the drill. Grady needed a written statement. I didn’t want to go to the station, so he’d accept whatever I wrote here. I poised the pen over the paper, then glanced at him, still waiting for an answer.
A question blazed in his eyes. “No. There was a pillowcase in your gazebo. Probably the bag you felt pulled over your head. You want to tell me about the folder?”
I balanced the notepad on my thighs and reached for my glass to finish the water. Our knees bumped as I moved.
Grady scooted back several inches, creating a distinct line between us and successfully ruffling my feathers.
The move felt a little like rejection, and it reminded me that he’d been making me feel like that a lot lately. “What’s been going on with you since Christmas?” I asked. Normally, I wouldn’t have been so direct, but what if I’d died tonight? I would never have had the answer because I’d been too timid to ask. I set the empty glass aside and crossed my arms, waiting for him to change the subject or leave—his usual response to direct questions about his life outside my view.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he said. “Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me about the file you just mentioned?”
“You kissed me,” I said suddenly, boldly, both shocked and proud of myself for the candor. Neither of us had mentioned the kiss after that night, though it had been the subject of local gossip for weeks to follow. “You kissed me at Christmas, and then you bolted.” I pressed on. “You’ve been distant and weird ever since, and I want to know why. Whatever it is, just tell me so I can stop wondering, and don’t worry about upsetting me. I have an excellent imagination. Believe me, whatever I’ve thought of is probably worse than whatever you need to say.”
