But the whole drive to the Abbott compound, I feel the invisible chains around me. Isn’t the joke supposed to be that the husband wears the ball and chain? Because I’m finding that to be completely ass backwards in my case.Dante has made me his prisoner. I hate it.
I was already tense about visiting my homestead today. Seeing Livvie is my purpose, but I’m still uncertain about how I’ll feel if I run into our father. I haven’t forgiven him by a long shot for forcing me into this marriage. So far, nothing good has come out of it for me except a couple unexpectedly hot orgasms and a shopping spree—both of which I certainly didn’t need a marriage certificate to obtain.
The grounds are quiet as we arrive. The lawn appears recently mown and the flowerbeds lining the house are neatly planted and weeded. Curious about the landscape refresh, I enter the house to find Livvie and immediately notice that a few of Charlie’s paintings have been professionally framed and hung in the entry hall. The living room sports new, expensive-looking furniture and the hardwood floors are polished and gleaming. The house looks remarkably clean.
“Hey, Frankie.”
My father walks down the hall toward me, a beer in his hand. He’s actually smiling. I return the smile hesitantly because I’m very confused about all the sudden changes around here.
“Looking good in here, Dad. New furniture?”
He takes a swig from his bottle. I wince, wishing I could tear it from his hand.
“You should take a look around the vineyard. The winery is doing better than ever under your new husband. Things have really started to turn around for us.”
My jaw clenches. It’s been, like, a few days since the wedding. There’s no way in hell the winery could have turned around so fast—Dad’s clearly lying. A little window dressing can’t change the fact that the vines will need years to fully bounce back, that the tasting room needs to be completely overhauled, that the Abbott name and reputation have been sullied all over Napa.
But no matter. I’m not here for him.
“That’s great, Dad. I guess my arranged marriage is really working out for you. Congratulations. Now where’s Livvie?” I demand, less than politely.
His eyes grow a little cold. “Your sister’s in the barn. She could probably use your help with her chores.”
Just like that, I’m reduced from the adult woman who apparently saved his ass to the teenager trapped under his thumb. He walks away, the sound of his boots loud on the floor. A minute later, the door to his office shuts and I’m certain I hear a faint click of the lock. I wonder what he’s hiding behind that closed door.
I go to the mudroom, hang up my purse, and slip out of my shoes. My old riding boots are neatly lined up on the rubber tray, just like old times. Nostalgia pangs through me as I sit down to put them on. The shafts are a bit stiff, but my feet easily slide into them. They’re familiar and comfortable and remind me of when my sisters and I used to race each other to see who could get their boots on first before heading out to do chores—last one done had to muck out the stalls.I’d really missed the camaraderie while I was in Italy.
Walking the cobbled path to the barn, I hear Livvie’s voice from the run-down round pen out back. I find her there working with a large black horse on a lead, circling her in a high-stepped trot. Our family has bred Friesian horses for as long as I can remember. They’re gorgeous and agile, wonderful for both riding and light farmwork. At one point, our herd was yet another asset to the Abbott name—one that slowly began dwindling long before I’d gone to Italy. I’m almost afraid to look in the barn and see what’s left.
Livvie doesn’t notice me and I don’t want to disturb her, so I lean my arms on the fence and just enjoy the sun and the sight of my sister doing something she loves. She’s always had an easy, natural way with horses, and they respond to her much differently than they do to me or Charlie or our dad. While we all loved to ride growing up, Charlie and I never had the ingrained passion for all things horse that Livvie does. She’s so at ease right now, so focused. I envy the peacefulness on her face, her stance, and as I watch I’m reminded once again how glad I am to have taken a bullet for her by marrying Dante.
Even if it is fucking miserable.
She redirects the horse into a slow canter, a gait that isn’t easy for this particular breed. But the gelding glides into it with a graceful rebound step that makes him look like a rocking horse. Finally, she orders him to a walk, and when he stops he turns to face her. She notices me then and waves eagerly. The horse tosses his head, his impressively long black mane billowing with the movement.
“Did you come to ride with me? That’s where I’m headed next!”
Smiling, I say, “I didn’t, but I will—even though I’m rusty. It should be lots of fun seeing me on a horse again.”
“You’ll be fine,” Livvie says. “It’s like riding a bicycle.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” I tell her with a laugh. “This is going to be a challenge.”
Not to mention painful. I haven’t ridden in three years, and going that long without means that my legs, ass, and thighs will be aching tomorrow. You don’t realize how many muscles you use to ride a horse until you don’t do it for a while.
I open the gate for her and she brings the horse through. I pet his nose.
“Who is this?” I ask. “I don’t recognize his face. Is he new?”
“He’s sort of new. He’s a four-year-old. Dad bought him right after you left for Italy. He needs to go through some more dressage training, but he’s had enough that I can start showing him. Well, maybe.”
Her voice trails off sadly. There’s clearly more to that story, but I don’t prod. We reach the side barn doors and Livvie puts her hand over mine on the door handle.
“Wait. It’s, um, not the same as when you left. I’ve been trying to keep up, but I’m not really handy when things break and there’s only so much maintenance I know how to do. Plus, almost all of the horses are gone.” My stomach drops. Livvie smiles, looking suddenly perky though the shadow of sadness is clear in her eyes. “But don’t worry, Ytse is still here. I tied him in the woods out back when the buyer was here. Dad forgot about him, and never said a word when he mysteriously reappeared in his stall.”
“Oh, Livvie.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry. Thank you.”
I imagine her leading my gelding Ytse into the woods in the dark of morning and waiting it out as the horse buyer made a sweep of our barns, then skirting him back in when the coast was clear. Our father was probably too drunk to notice. I grew up riding Ytse. He’s old now, and I can’t explain how it feels to know my sister preserved him for me.
