Or maybe he doesn’t want me to be cold?
Nope.
I push the thought away because I do not need any more reasons to fall for Ford Conners.
The way I’m head over heels for the man is probably too much. The sparks I felt when we touched at the movies just proves it.
Or maybe we had a static charge and I’m looking way too far into it. Damn science.
Either way, when Ford asked me out on another friend date because he wanted to show me Sagebrush, I jumped at the chance. I’ve never been on his land, but I’ve closed my eyes and imagined it from the glimpses I’ve gotten.
I’m tempted to put my hand out of the window and ride the wind. But it would undo this whole heater thing he has going.
“You’re not going to slink down in the seat as we pass Watts, are you?” Ford’s voice is teasing and I shoot him a look that’s probably not nearly as withering as I want it to be.
“No,” I shoot back at him and shake my head like he’s being unreasonable. “I only considered it for a moment,” I admit.
I sit up straighter as we pass the turn for where Eliza and Kendrick live and Ford barks out a laugh. The sound fills the cab of his truck and part of me, a small part of the past whispering not to trust, melts.
We’re pulling into Sagebrush before I can think too deeply on what it all means. What this all could mean.
This isn’t feeling as friendly as I’m comfortable with. It feels intimate and it scares the daylights out of me.
My jaw drops when we finally come to a stop in front of a huge house. I thought the Watts house was big in comparison to the one I live in with Mom. This? Wow.
The longer I stare at it, the more it feels like it doesn’t really belong. Sure, the style is right and there are pretty features which are impressive, but it feels cold.
Even from the outside.
But there is so much beauty to take in as well. I can see the barn to the left and some of the land stretching out back behind the house. The sun is just starting to go down.
Something zips through me; a knowing. The show is going to be a good one when the sun sets.
Ford takes my hand in his and while it startles me, I don’t immediately want to pull away. The squeeze he gives my fingers makes me wonder if this man sees far more than I want him to.
He pulls me into the house and it’s a whirlwind of glass, views, and spaces which don’t seem to fit the man tugging me along. It’s like if he keeps moving then he thinks I won’t notice.
But I do.
Then there are nooks that are all Ford.
The way the boots at the back door are orderly, but dirty. And well worn. The jackets hanging there, some needing a wash or a good shake out outside. The neatly stacked files on his desk eventhough it feels far too large for the space. Or maybe it’s too fussy, too grand, for Ford.
Then there are the photos on the wall of Ford and Crystal, who I remember from before she took off for richer pastures. But the pictures stop. As if the last ones suspend the two kids in time. It’s eerie and it isn’t hard to figure out why the pictures seem to represent life frozen in time.
Or frozen by death.
The last stop on the tour is the kitchen, where an almost breathless Ford looks at me with amber eyes begging for something. Acceptance? Not to dig too deep? To be embraced, shown something more?
Sometimes there are such flickers of pain in his eyes. He hides them and no one seems to notice.
But I do.
And I’ve been writing him letters.
I swallow hard, my mind scrambling for something, anything, to say. “Your home is beautiful,” I blurt.
He grins, it’s boyish and reminds me of when I first started noticing him and looking for him. It’s the same grin from then, before it became something rarely witnessed. This time it’s directed at me.
