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Themorningsuncutlow across the windshield as we rolled through Bakersfield. I was driving this first leg of our trip home, fueled by a full mug of drip coffee and some kind of egg biscuit from the gas station.
Cody was in the passenger’s seat, scrolling through his phone feed, and Emily was crashed in the back seat. My eyes slipped to the rearview mirror to look at her—head smashed against the window, arms crossed over her chest, and her feet up on the seat beside her—dead to the world. I think it was the first time the kid had sat down for the whole trip.
She had a lot of potential, Cody said. He liked how dedicated she was. Level-headed, teachable, cheerful attitude, and never quit trying. With a little opportunity, a little luck, she’d make it as a top trainer someday, and Cody was proud that he could be a part of someone else’s success. He saw greatness in her, just waiting for its time.
I saw almost a carbon copy of Jess.
She had the same shimmering golden hair, the same sky-lit blue eyes, the same warm smile and casual grace. In a few years, when she matured a little more, her beauty would be a match for Jess’s. She had the same cool innocence, too—taking life too seriously and not always understanding when someone was ribbing her. And she was quiet, thoughtful like Jess. Emily and I worked well together because we operated on the same wavelength.
But not once had my heart even fluttered when I was around her.
It never even occurred to me that it could, until just now. But when I considered it, I started to wonder. Why had no other woman, not even the one in front of me who was so much like Jess, ever made me look twice? Who held on to his first teenage crush for his whole life without glancing around a time or two? Apparently, me.
I flexed my fingers on the wheel and frowned in thought. Shouldn’t I have noticed anyone else? Take Emily, for one example. On the surface, she was everything I seemed to like. But she was only nineteen—too young for me. Maybe in a few years, that would be fine, but not now. And she worked for us, which meant hands-off, no matter what. Dad had set that rule in stone back when we were teenagers, and not once had any of us come close to violating it.
But those weren’t the reasons Emily didn’t light some flame in my breast. I flicked another glance at the mirror, then chewed on that for a while. What made a man give his heart to one woman for the rest of his life, even when others came along who were exactly his type? How was it so easy to hold his love’s hand and never look back?
Because it was more than attraction. More than fitting a type, or a few good conversations. And maybe it was even more than her reciprocating the feeling because I’d been carrying this stupid torch all alone.
I couldn’t define it. It was just a gut feeling I’d had the very first time I set eyes on Jess Thompkins, that we were meant to be something. It was like a seed planted deep in my being that I couldn’t stop or control once it took root. And just like the words that had bottled up inside me until they finally found a weak seam to gush out of, my feelings for Jess only grew stronger, the more I tried to repress them. I was my own worst enemy, it seemed.
What was I supposed to do with all this feeling, now that she’d chosen someone else? The only thing I did know was that my love for Jess wouldn’t just go away when she slid another man’s ring onto her finger. No, just like the urges to write that I’d tried so long to deny, it would get worse. Eventually, it was going to overpower me.
Would I even survive the aftermath?
Jess
This was killing me.
I thought I’d pieced together the parts, fitted all the bits of the story into place, but the more I discovered, the more bewildered I was. The poem in my pocket, the letter at work—thosehadto have come from Dusty, not Austen. The handwriting was the same, the voice of the writer could only be his.
But what about that same poem, published inStockman’sunder someone else’s name? And even worse, after I found that one, I’d started digging through more magazines, and I’d found another—the one Austen had inscribed on that stupid card he gave me on Valentine’s Day. Again, it was written by Wyatt Chandler.
I knew Dusty couldn’t have had anything to do with that one. He wouldn’t have helped Austen propose to me. Had they both just copied them from the magazine? What kind of a ridiculous series of coincidences could that be? Something had to be fake, a lie. And if that was true, whatwasreal?
I knew who Dusty was when I was with him, and I loved that man. His was the kind of gentleness that is so often mistaken for weakness because he would rather harm himself than someone else. He would give to others while he did without. That was the sort of man I could love, honor, and cherish for the rest of my life. The rest didn’t really even matter. I didn’t need a man who could make me melt like caramel with his words. I just wanted Dusty, the faithful, strong one who’d been waiting for me all along.
But I also wanted—needed—the truth.
Luke was a dead end. I couldn’t figure out why because he could be ornery when he felt like it, but he also liked to talk. And he wasn’t talking to me. I must have offended him, but how? I was tempted to call Cody and beg him to put Dusty on, but the next morning, I had a better idea. I took off work, with my “boss’s” blessing, and drove up to White Pines.
I found Morgan in the middle of a session for two of their clients; a married couple with mobility problems who liked to have their sessions together. Amber, the lead therapist, was working with the husband on Badger, and Morgan—quite predictably—was across the arena with Biz. They each had a volunteer handling the horses, too, as well as a couple of observers. It was a busy arena.
I lurked in the corner, not wanting to interrupt, but on one of the passes, the volunteer leading Biz looked my way. “Oh, hello, Jess!”
I hadn’t even noticed that it was Meryl Justice at the horse’s head. Like Morgan, I’d been in her 4-H club for most of my childhood. She held a special place of honor in my heart for all the long, cold practice nights and hot, sweaty Fairs she’d led us through. I uncrossed my arms and stepped over to the fence. “Hi, Meryl.”
She waved and smiled, but she couldn’t stop and talk in the middle of a session. I just leaned on the rail to watch. It was getting close to the top of the hour, so that should mean this session was almost over. I couldn’t count on that, though, because Morgan was known for being a little too flexible with her schedule if she didn’t have another appointment right behind this one.
Not this time, though. By just a few minutes after ten, the arena was empty, Morgan and Amber were escorting their clients to the reception area, and the horses were being led back to their stalls. I trailed behind, hoping to make myself useful.
I didn’t have long to wait because Meryl passed me a brush. I got to work on the gelding’s tawny coat while she bent down to pick his feet. “I thought you weren’t on the schedule until this afternoon,” she said.
“I’m not. I just wanted to talk to Morgan about something. So, does this mean you’re officially retired from the bank now?”
Meryl grinned and reached into the grooming tote for another body brush. “It sure does. I can’t twiddle my thumbs at home, so Morgan said she could put me to work whenever I wasn’t busy. Originally, I was thinking I’d be up here every day, but plans change.”
I tried to smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Are you talking about Blake?”
