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Tobin’s chicken soup tastes divine, but I can’t bring myself to eat another bite.
I dump out the remnants in the bowl and go to bed, hoping I’ll be able to sleep and come up with a plan in the morning.
Dad’s right about one thing—we can’t drag anyone else into our problems. Even if we’re broke, desperate, and for now, effectively homeless.
I also know Dad needs a doctor. His cough keeps getting worse, and he’s getting smaller and greyer by the day.
It’s times like this, back when I was little, that Mom would bring me a candle and a soft, angelic smile. She’d stroke my head and speak her catchphrase.
“If you’ve got a light, you’ve still got a wish.”
But what do you do when the only light you’ve got is borrowed from a generous stranger and you stopped believing in wishes years ago?
What do you do when there’s no fight left in a battle that was always lost?
4
No Easy Way Out (Ridge)
Tobin finishes filling a steaming cup of coffee on the table just as I walk into the kitchen.
A little white bottle of pain relievers sits next to it, waiting for me.
“I don’t need those,” I say with a snort. “Didn’t get that plastered last night.”
“Oh? Not even for your morning after headache?” He folds his arms, a smirk barely hidden on his face.
I’m still amazed he hadn’t seen through my acting last night.
I pick up the coffee and take an angry slurp, eyeballing him the entire time. He huffs out a breath and shakes his head.
Honestly, I shouldn’t be amazed.
It’s what he expected, I’m sure, considering the date.
Why I was itching to get the hell out of here yesterday, go into town to stock up before the storm hit full force, and stop off at the Purple Bobcat.
Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of Mom’s death, and I’d wanted to forget.
Still do.
“What, dude? You’re looking at me like I went on a wild bender and crashed the truck into a snowbank. I could still drive, Tobin, I wasn’t stone drunk.”
“Then how, pray tell, did we wind up with guests? Guests who came with plenty of trouble, I might add. You do remember last night, right?” He cocks his head, giving me the old accusatory principal look.
Well, at least there’s one part of Mom still living on.
Hell, I haven’t forgotten anything.
In fact, a pair of soft baby-blue eyes kept me up far past my bed time last night, and I rolled out of bed with them still glued to my mind.
Grace Sellers. Pumpkin farmer. Sugar sweet smile. Sweeter ass.
Not so sweet backstory.
Here’s what I’d really like to know: who chases a frigging pumpkin farmer across three states for a shakedown over a debt?
And why?
Those are the things that have me seeing double this morning.
“What was I supposed to do? Leave them?” I snap. “Just let ’em get marched off to fuck knows where with that bulldog latched on? With the storm, you know Sheriff Wallace and his boys would’ve been too busy to do anything timely. I swear, this town needs more cops for the amount of trouble around here.”
“And you would be wise not to volunteer to take on their excess trouble, Ridge,” Tobin says firmly, laying strips of bacon into a pan on the stove.
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
He gives me a dirty look and curls his lip. But with the usual Tobin O’Hare self-control, he keeps his genteel lips glued shut before anything rude flies out.
Perish the fucking thought.
Still grumbling to myself, I carry my coffee to the window and look out across the expanse of white snow glistening around the guesthouse. She’d been scared out of her wits last night by that Jackknife idiot, but other than her eyes, she hadn’t shown the shock I’d expected.
I’ve lived through trauma many times.
I know the way a person reacts when they’ve been mugged, or they pick up the phone and hear someone close has died out of the blue, or fate decides to drive an unlucky bullet into their spine on a hot Afghan day.
It’s different for every person and every situation, sure.
For her, it just wasn’t there.
Grace didn’t react with any of the monotone looks or shaking or panic crying I’d expected.
Almost like she’s used to run-ins with scoundrels like bald-fuck.
That bothers me, thinking that a girl like her could get used to being scared.
“A little company won’t be the end of the world. Might even do us both a solid,” I tell Tobin, still gazing out the window. “We’ve been snowed in here since November. Couldn’t even make it over to the Larkins’ place for Christmas.”
“The roads will be clear enough to the airport in Dickinson in a few days. We could take a trip, if it’s socializing you’re after. The Florida Keys. Lanai. Bali.”
“No.”
He looks up from making breakfast, that mask he wears revealing nothing.
