“Yeah. I just don’t know what to make of this whole business. Who in the hell would Veronica have hooked up with?” Liz said. “I mean, she and Brett, everyone always said they were close, had a happy marriage. But what people see and what really happens . . .”
“I have some ideas,” Trevor cut in offhandedly, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Oh, you do, do you?” Liz replied, equally amused.This ought to be good, she thought.
“Well, Veronica loved her horses. She’d spend all day out here, from what folks have told me, before she got sick. We all figured Brady got his horse sense from her. But—”
“Oh, spit it out. I need to get finished here,” Liz interrupted, shoving him playfully. Trevor could gab on, which was why he was good with the boarders.
“Well, Keith had auburn hair, too, could fix pretty much anything that broke around here, and wasn’t he always so frickin’ happy you could kill him for it?”
“No. Couldn’t have been,” she said.
“Ah, just a guess. We might never know, really.” With that, Trevor winked at her, a grin as wide as the world on his face, and stepped across the aisle to talk to his seven o’clock lesson, who was now saddled and ready to go, helmet firmly fastened in the right place.
Keith had talked about Veronica all the time after she’d died, remembering stories with surprising clarity. Liz had always found it sweet and humored him, because he was her boss and she had to. Thankfully, he never did that around her mom. But, in the same vein that he was so good with everyone, he and Brett had never seen eye to eye. Brett kept him around for some reason, despite the heated arguments they’d have. They were barn clearers, sometimes.
Had Brett known?
She pondered that as she put her tack away and gave the horse a quick brush. A memory hit her as she closed the stall door, of Keith, the day he retired, telling Liz toLook after my boys, will you?while patting Baron, Brady’s horse.
She’d assumed he meant Brady and Tanner, but nothing more than the fact that they were close. Brady had looked up to Keith more so than Tanner, and Brady and Keith had both worked hard to bring Baron along.
Baron, Brady’s horse. He’d had to be put down not long after Keith left, and Liz had taken over the stable management when Brady needed time away, his grief overwhelming. Brett put him to work elsewhere immediately, his brain proving too useful to “waste it on horses,” as Brett had muttered at dinner many nights.
“Holy freaking shit,” she muttered. “How the hell am I gonna bring that up later?”
* * *
Liz’s ancient laptop sounded like a jet engine sitting on the kitchen table, and she clicked back and forth between an email about the upcoming Brightside Rodeo and the article she was reading about new equine vaccinations aimlessly, not really reading either. Her mind was not where it should be, the mixed-up day sending it places she hadn’t gone in a long, long time.
The little girl and her father across the aisle from earlier kept replaying in her mind, the warmth and devotion the dad had for his daughter, the connection they shared. She’d never had what that dad and daughter shared. A dad who would tease and play but who would show up for her and protect her.
Her father had never taken her to anything other than the liquor store, and left her in the car when he went to the racetrack to gamble. It was a relief when they’d left him and never looked back.
She rarely thought about her father or played the what-if game anymore. He hadn’t been the kind of man to give her memories to hold on to. Brett hadn’t been much more of a father to her, either, but then again, she’d never expected him to be. Too many bad memories meant she’d been hesitant to open herself up to another man as a father figure by the time they’d landed at West Line.
Maybe Jake talking about his own childhood and the thoughts of Brady having to navigate this horrifying news had dredged up the understanding of how much it could hurt, and now she was wallowing in self-pity and memories she’d rather keep buried.
But why was it affecting her so much? She’d long ago made peace with her father being who he was, and how she’d never gotten close to Brett. It was annoying having it whirling around in her head, analyzing everything, and she wiped at her eyes as an overwhelming need to lay her head down on the table and cry or get up and rage around the house swearing battled inside her.
“Get your shit together,” she hissed at herself, closing the lid of her laptop, the frustration winning. She blinked back the tears forming behind her eyes and decided an early bedtime was the best course of action to ward off more of her navel-gazing. Or maybe something to eat.
As if he’d read her mind, the hinges on her screen door squeaked and Jake stepped through, a foil-covered plate in his hand. As much as she wanted time to herself, the sight of him was a rush of comfort, and she smiled as he spied her through the door.
“I got your text that you were working late. So, room service!” he announced, and she snorted a laugh as he stepped in and flourished the plate in front of her, looking very much like a high-dining waiter as he bent at the waist, the plate perfectly balanced on his fingertips.
“Oh my god, thank you,” she said as he sat on the chair opposite her.
She lifted the foil and breathed in the aromas of Caesar salad, roasted pork loin, and a perfectly square piece of cornbread. Her stomach rumbled. Dinner, up until this moment, had been a handful of jelly beans and a glass of milk, with the idea of cooking anything too much of an effort, despite how hungry she’d been.
“How did you have time to cook all this?” she asked as she jumped up and fished in the mess of her cutlery drawer for a fork. Realizing she lived like a pig, she slammed it shut, the tangle of silverware jangling angrily at her as she did.
Jake hadn’t said anything more, was just sitting, watching her, his eyes following her as she moved around the kitchen. His gaze was possessive, and she must have blushed because the corner of his mouth quirked and he raised an eyebrow at her. She grabbed a mason jar and filled it with water, and gestured to him with it.
“You want a drink?” she asked.
“I’m good, thanks,” he replied, and leaned back, hooking his elbows on the back of the chair. “I’m just the delivery boy. But I was hoping for a tip.”
