As much as I needed to talk to him at this point, that could wait until the morning.
Tomorrow, then. I’d make things right tomorrow.
Chapter twenty
Hell On The Heart
Hux
Well, one thing wasfor sure… I was fucked.
For the past two days, every thought—whether asleep or waking—was of Quinn. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked to drown her out with music or work, all I could think of was her.
You’re the one who called it off, remember?
I still couldn’t believe I’d done that. The action was so unlike me. So against my nature. Even before I’d gone blind, I’d lived life one step, one minute, one day at a time. Nothing mattered unless it was in the here and now. After losing my vision, that mentality only intensified.
No use worrying about the future. You had to live in the present—one step, one minute, one day at a time. Anything else wasn’t worth worrying about.
I realized now, I’d just never had something I would regret losing.
Quinn—she was the kind of girl you thought of the future for. A woman who had the power to tame a man’s wild heart. Bring him to his knees. Breathe life back into him. And I knew if I kept seeing her, I’d fall for her completely—if I hadn’t already. And let’s face it, first off, she deserved someone better than me. And second, I had no intentions of being the thing that kept her from reaching her dreams in California. She was so close. I wouldn’t have her give it up for a broken, washed up cowboy.
Better to sever the cord before I caught any more feelings—it was already hell on my heart.
Good thing I was a resilient sonova bitch with a mean stubborn streak. I’d get over Quinn. It might take a minute, but I would… Once I forgot the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her warm, light laughter, and her intoxicating scent.
Fuck me.
Rusty and I walked into the bunkhouse, cool air replacing the blazing heat from outside, the sound of the guys’ chatter filling the main room. I followed the voices, brushing my hand over the back of the leather couch to my right as I moved straight ahead. Ten more steps past that and to the left was a hallway that led to my room. I kept going straight, though, the rest of the twenty steps toward the kitchen, where the voices were loudest. Travis’ being the loudest of all—as usual.
“Old man Hux!” Dylan shouted. He was the youngest and newest hire of the group—barely even nineteen, I guess.
Most of them left me alone. Not that I blamed them. I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here because I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to face my dad’s pity and my mama’s fussing. I wanted to feel normal—as normal as I could now.
Wyatt's nasally twang and Brook's deep drawl greeted me as they let out a string of hellos.
“Hi," I grumbled back.
“You comin’ out with us to Julio’s?” Travis asked, a second before something smacked into my shoulder.
I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. He did it so often it should be expected, but it still startled me.
The thought of not having to make myself something for dinner was enticing, but I had little to no desire to leave the ranch. I’d peopled enough the past couple days. Besides, I wanted to paint. Correction—Ineededto. My fingers all but itched for the scratchy surface of the canvas and the cool, sticky feel of paint.
I wouldn’t consider myself an artist—I mean, my mama would, but that’s just the way with mamas, right? But I’d always found myself drawing or sketching when I was younger. Of all the heaps of therapies I’d been thrust into since my accident, finger painting had been the most calming for my soul. I didn’t know if I was good at it or not, but I didn’t do it for that. I did it for…well, I did it for the same reason I rode—it was a part of me.
“Nah, I’m gonna stay here.”
I skirted my way around the kitchen island and felt my way over to the refrigerator, pulling out a tupperware of leftovers from the top shelf to take with me. Travis always made sure to put some up there for me so it was easy to find. I wasn’t hungry at the moment, but this way I could take it to the guest house and use the microwave there to warm it up when I was ready.
After getting the things I needed, Rusty and I began the trek to the western guest house. I could have just as easily chosen the one closer, but that would have meant more potential foot traffic, more opportunities for people to see my work, which was a terrifying notion, and, I don’t know, I just liked this place better. I don’t know what it was. There wasn’t anything really special about this one, it was a twin to the other, I guess, but the fact it was so secluded, and just the general feel of it called to me.
The picture in my mind of it was prettier too. I envisioned a little white wooden-sided house with river rock accents and blue or green shuttered windows and trim.Not that it was probably accurate at all.
The third step squeaked as usual as I mounted the stairs and walked the four and a half paces across the porch. I reached for the key beneath the mat and unlocked the door before getting to work.
Idon’t know howmuch time passed since I started painting. I think I’d worked on three different canvases tonight, getting lost in the music playing from my phone and the calm that crept through me with each brush of my paint-covered fingers. Rusty had left my side a while ago, traipsing off toward the bedroom to probably curl up on the bed. He seemed to like it back there.
