Page 46 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

I sighed and suppressed a smile, he was so infuriatingly himself. The same stubborn streak, the same refusal to acknowledge any obstacle as real. I was already halfway to the mudroom before I realized I’d agreed. When I did, I tried to say something clever, but the words wouldn’t stick. Instead, I found myself lingering for a second, to see if he’d fill the silence. He didn’t. He just watched me, face open and unguarded in a way that made my stomachache.

“I have to change,” I said at last, more abrupt than I meant to be.

He just nodded. “Ten minutes. I’ll tack up.”

I fled—there’s no better word for it—back to my cabin, the entire walk vibrating with the nervous energy of a first date, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. It was a fence inspection and nothing more.

The cabin was chilly, the tang of woodsmoke still lingering from last night’s fire. I dug through my duffel, hands shaking as I tried to assemble something remotely ride-appropriate. I’d only packed for a three-day conference, luckily, I was a chronic over packer. Still, it’s not as if I’d known I was going to be coming back to my hometown for an open-ended stay. Jeans, a tank top, and bootlets, which were the closest thing to boots I owned. I splashed water on my face and stared down at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror.

You know this is a bad idea, I told her.

She stared back, unimpressed.

After I pulled my hair into a ponytail and stood in the middle of the room, letting the quiet build until I could hear my own pulse. Memories pressed in from all sides—me at fourteen Dawson’s sweatshirt slung over my shoulders, eating Pop-Tarts and watching the sunrise. Me, at sixteen, trying to memorize the shape of his hands. Me, at eighteen, trying to forget them.

I checked my Apple Watch. It was 6:34 a.m. Early for me, but not for ranch standards. Visiting hours for Buddy didn’t start until nine. My entire reason for being here had been reduced to a three-hour window each morning before the staff started bustling around with clipboards and “enrichment” exercises and tests and PT. It was my quality time with Buddy.

On the way back to the stables, I told myself that this would be platonic. A way to prove to myself I could be around him without wanting him. My internal voice kept screaming that last night clearly hadn’t meant anything to him since he’d left this morning without so much as a goodbye. Just because he was single now and claimed that the gorgeous doctor he was seeing wasn’t in the same universe as me, didn’t mean anything. Just like him telling me that he didn’t remember anything from the night he cheated on me didn’t change things…

Or maybe it changed everything.

17

THE PENMANSHIP OF A SERIAL KILLER

Dawson

Ilet Sadie set the pace, Penny, an American Quarter horse, nosed ahead of Rooster, an Appaloosa, as we followed the old fire road north, through a thicket of madrona and manzanita. She sat the saddle like she was born to it, back straight, hair in a ponytail that made me want to reach over and tug it. She’d always had a way with horses, from the very first time she got on the back of one. When her mom was in the hospital, that last time, she’d come over and go straight to the stables. I’d find her in the tack room, brushing out tangles and feeding sugar cubes to Penny.

Now, years later, it was like nothing had changed and everything had changed. I kept sneaking glances at her as we rode, but she caught me every time.

“You’re staring again,” she observed, without even turning around.

“Checking your form.”

“My form is perfect.”

It was. That was the problem. And I wasn’t talking about her riding.

We fell into a natural rhythm to the ride, the clop of hooves, the salt tang of the ocean drifting in on the wind, and the comfortable silence that fell between us. When we reached the branch that had fallen on the fence line, causing it to sag, I swung down, dug the wire nippers from my saddlebag, and got to work on the tangled mess. Sadie followed, dropping easily from Penny’s back, and together we dragged the deadfall free.

She held the post steady while I pulled the new wire taut. Our gloved hands brushed, and something primitive inside me kicked at my ribcage, same as it used to when we were teenagers and every accidental touch felt like an electrical charge. Sadie looked up at me from across the broken wire, cheeks flushed, and smiled like I was the only joke she’d ever needed to finish.

I was in serious trouble.

“Do you get to ride much in the city?” I asked, because I needed to keep my mouth busy or I was going to say something I couldn’t take back.

“No.” She shook her head, eyes sharp and soft at once. “I miss it. I miss this.”

My throat got tight, and I turned back to the fence, twisting the wire, trying to focus on the job. The truth was, I’d never stopped missing her, not for a single second. But I’d screwed up too badly to say it out loud.

We finished the repair in silence. My hands shook, just a little, as I put the tools away.

When we climbed back in the saddle, she fell in line behind me, and we let the horses walk slowly beneath the mottled shade. I wanted to reach back for her hand, to see if it would still fit in mine like it used to. Instead, I kept riding straight, trying not to look back.

Halfway down the trail, I reined Rooster to a stop. “You remember this spot?” I asked.

Sadie blinked, then looked around, taking in the twisted old oak on the bluff. She smiled, slow and sly. “The tree?”