“No,” Charity answered immediately. She took a breath and tried to act casual. “No, I’d better not. He’s so little.” Sara’s eyes were filled with questions. To Charity’s relief, she didn’t ask them. “I’m afraid I’ll drop him,” she added quickly as she moved to stand behind the rocking chair. There, she could look down at the baby and be hidden from his mother’s inquiring gaze. “He’s beautiful, Sara.”
“Isn’t he? Our little miracle from God.”
Tears welled in Charity’s eyes. She wanted a miracle, too, she realized. She wanted a chance to do things right. Would God give it to her after all her sinful choices? She’d asked for forgiveness. She’d been forgiven. But did that change the consequences for what she’d done?
And could she ever forgive herself?
How does a woman know she’s in love?
Charity wrote in her plot journal four days later.
Is it just an emotion? Or is it something more, something deeper, than that? How can anyone be sure they have met the one? Is there just one? What does my heroine believe about it? Moon. June. Swoon.
She stopped writing and stared off into space. Was she even working on her characters or plot now? Or was she writing about herself?
What do I believe about love?
Charity hadn’t ever been in love. Not really.
In high school, there’d been a secret crush on Buck. Not love. Hormones.
In college, after the experience with Jon, after she lost the baby, she’d returned to the party scene, this time as a place to forget. Although alcohol was always around, she’d never allowed herself to become drunk. She’d feared that loss of control ever happening again. She’d gone out with different boys, hoping for love but fearing any intimacies. Even holding hands had made her want to flee. And above all else, she’d never let any of them see the real Charity.
Many years later, after many men, many dates, many close calls, there had been Nathan. Fun-loving, successful, live-life-to-the-fullest Nathan. She’d wanted to love him, tried to love him.
Again she wrote, not caring that it was no longer about her novel.
Maybe something’s wrong with me. Am I incapable of loving someone in that deep way? The way Mom and Dad love each other. The way Terri and Rick or Sara and Ken love each other. And am I unlovable too?
She stopped again and closed her eyes. She rolled the questions around, looking at them with what she hoped was an unbiased perspective. “I’m not unlovable,” she determined after a lengthy stillness. “And I’m not incapable. I can love someone. Really love someone. But it must be someone who loves me too.”
She thought about the romance novels she’d been reading in order to understand the genre better. Then she thought about the story she was writing, about the roadblocks to love she’d thrown up in the paths of her hero and
heroine. And then she realized how very much she wanted the characters to fall in love and find their future together. Not simply to satisfy readers. She wanted it to happen to satisfy herself. She
needed
to see it happen in the pages of her story. She wanted to believe in it. Believe in it way down deep inside.
Through the kitchen window—open to a lovely morning breeze—she heard Cocoa bark a greeting, followed a moment later by the deeper rumble of a man’s voice. Not close enough to hear the precise words but close enough to know it was Buck who spoke to the dog. Unable to stop herself—not even wanting to stop—she left the leather-bound journal and gel pen on the table, got up from the chair, and walked to the back door, stopping on the stoop.
Buck was leaning over the fence to stroke and scratch Cocoa, who sat in the grass before him. The dog responded with a few happy slaps of her tail against the ground. Buck straightened, and his gaze went straight to where Charity stood. “Hey. Good morning.” He bumped the brim of his hat with his knuckles, pushing it higher on his forehead.
“Morning, Buck.”
He opened the gate and strode toward her, Cocoa at his side. He looked good. Real good. Cowboy-hero material for sure.
You’d look rather yummy on a book cover
. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and a delicious sensation tumbled in her stomach.
Maybe I’ve been reading too many romances
.
“How are you?” he asked, either not seeing or ignoring her blush.
“Good. Busy.” There was something different about him.
What was it? “You’ve got both your boots on!” she blurted when she figured out what it was.
“Yep.” He grinned. “Today’s the first time. Took some hard pulling, but I got it on. Just hope I won’t have to cut it off when the day’s over.”
“I hope so too.”
He tilted his head back, removing the shade from his eyes. “I’m going for a ride up in the hills and wondered if you’d like to go with me.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“Come on, Charity. You’d enjoy yourself, and the fresh air would do you good. You’ve been cooped up working for days. I’ve hardly seen you go outside. You haven’t even come over to ride.”
A frisson of pleasure whirled in her stomach at the discovery that he’d been watching for her. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to keep riding, now that you’re able.”
“Sure, I want you to. I’ve still got six horses that aren’t doing the work they’re used to. And you still like to ride. Right?”
She nodded.
“Then come with me. This’ll be my first time up in the mountains since getting my casts off. Probably better I have someone with me. You know, in case my ankle gives out or something.”
Buck’s ankle wouldn’t give out on him. She would bet good money on that.
“Please come.” He gave her one of those slow grins of his.
When had she become helpless against that smile? And she couldn’t refuse him. She wanted to go. She wanted to ride
in the mountains like she used to, and if she was honest, she wanted the ride to be with Buck.
“All right,” she answered at last. “I’ll need a few minutes to change my clothes.”
“No rush. I’ve still got to load the horses in the trailer. Come on over when you’re ready.” He reached down to pat the dog’s head again. “Bring Cocoa. She’ll have a good time too.”
Mom would say I need my head examined
. She turned and reentered the house, hurrying up the stairs to the bedroom.
I should
be
writing, not riding
. She removed her shorts and pulled on jeans, socks, and boots.
But maybe I’ll learn something I need to know while we’re out there. Something my story needs. That would be a good thing. A productive thing
.
Hair in a ponytail, she placed a baseball cap on her head and pulled her hair through the opening in the back.
A
citified
cowgirl, if ever there was one
, she thought as she looked at her reflection. But it was the only hat she owned. And besides, she’d never been a real cowgirl. No one would expect her to own a proper cowboy hat.
Before leaving her room, she sprayed sunscreen on her exposed skin, adding an extra dose to her fingertips that she then spread across her nose.
By the time she exited the house, Buck was loading the second horse into the trailer attached to his truck. Cocoa lay in the shade, observing the activity as if bemused by it all, but she didn’t remain there for long. She was up on all fours the instant Charity opened the passenger door of the truck.
“Is it okay for Cocoa to ride in the cab?” she asked. “She’s never ridden in the bed of a truck before.”
“Sure,” came the reply from behind the trailer.
Charity stepped to one side. “Come on, girl.”
The dog flew into the cab as if she’d been riding in this truck her whole life. Feeling light in spirit, Charity followed. The trailer door creaked closed, and she heard the bolt slide into place, locking it. Moments later, Buck got in behind the wheel.
“I’ve needed to do this, Charity. Never has been a summer when I’ve been out of the saddle this long. Not as far back as I can remember. Even in the winter I spend time with my horses and ride whenever weather permits.” He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. “I thought we’d ride up to McHenry’s Sluice. That ought to make it about the right length of ride.” He steered the truck out to the road and turned left. “When was the last time you were up that way?”
“Hmm. Probably when I was twelve. The Girl Scouts had a campout up near the cabin.” The memory—a happy one—made her smile. The girls and their leaders had been sound asleep when one of the horses got loose and started walking away, stepping over sleeping bags and skirting the campfire. It had caused quite a commotion.
Buck drove to a public parking area in the outermost curve of the valley. Years ago, the county had cleared and leveled the ground, then covered it with dirt and gravel. Ever since, vehicles could be found in this lot during all seasons of the year. Hunters. Snowmobilers. Cross-country skiers. Trail riders. Hikers. Mountain bikers. But for some reason the area was empty of trucks and trailers when Buck and Charity arrived.
Buck parked his pickup near a tall pine tree that would offer the cab some shade later in the afternoon. He and Charity got out, Cocoa following Buck out the driver’s side door. They unloaded the horses as if they’d been doing it together for years and were both silent as they began to saddle up their respective mounts. Charity found it a comfortable silence. Did Buck feel the same?
She glanced over the seat of the saddle in his direction. There was something graceful about the way he moved. Graceful, yet masculine at the same time. And watching him brought that fluttering sensation back into her belly.
She lowered her gaze to the cinch and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, not the man standing a short distance away.
B
UCK HAD BEEN STRETCHING THE TRUTH, TRYING
to convince Charity that he might need help, wanting her to think something could go amiss with his wrist or ankle. Sure, neither were up to full strength or mobility, but he was strong and mobile enough for the intended ride. Still, he would have said close to anything just so she would agree to come along with him. He’d wanted her company that much. He’d wanted it even though he probably shouldn’t.
He liked her even though he probably shouldn’t.
She wanted marriage. He didn’t.
She lived in the city. He was a country boy.
She drove a Lexus. He drove an old beater truck.
She was obviously used to the finer things. He was content with the simple.
He would be foolish to let his feelings go beyond what he might experience for any neighbor. Casual friendship at most.
But when he glanced at Charity as they rode side by side along an old logging road, he knew he’d begun to want something more than friendship. It wasn’t because she was beautiful—though she was. It was more than that. She intrigued him. Sometimes she confused him. And always he found pleasure in being with her, even when neither of them said a word.
She turned her head and caught him watching her. “What?” She rubbed her upper lip. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I was enjoying the beauty of nature.”
Charity blushed a lovely shade of pink. It was clear she’d understood his meaning.
With perfectly bad timing, Cocoa began to bark in excitement. Buck tightened his grip on the reins. “Easy, boy,” he said to the horse.
Cocoa kept right on barking.
“What do you see?” Buck and Charity asked in union.
That surprised them more than the canine commotion, and—once again in unison—they laughed.
“All right, Cocoa.” Charity motioned with her hand. “Free.”
The dog crashed through the underbrush, chasing something Buck couldn’t see. He hoped it was a deer and not a bear, cougar, or skunk. All were possibilities.
Charity must have had a similar thought. Her expression grew worried. “You don’t think she’ll get into trouble, do you?”
“You never know. Maybe you should call her back. Just to be on the safe side.”
Charity pursed her lips, and the whistle that came forth caused the horses to jerk up their heads in alarm. Cocoa reappeared out of the forest a few moments later, tongue hanging out and looking as if she was extremely pleased with herself.
“Who taught you to do that?” Buck asked Charity.
“Do what?”
“You know what I mean. That whistle. You made my ears bleed.” He pressed a hand to the side of his head.
She grinned. “Nobody taught me. I’ve always been able to do it. Ever since I was a kid.” She turned her gaze back to the road. “You should hear it when I use my fingers.”
Buck laughed again. One more reason to be intrigued. Charity Anderson could look as pretty and feminine as possible one moment—complete with sky-high heels—and then whistle like a foreman in a sawmill the next.
They rode in silence for a short while, Cocoa staying a couple of yards ahead of the horses, as if she knew where they were going. Maybe she did.
When the turnoff came into view, Buck pointed to it. “We’ll take that trail there on the left. We’ll have to go single file for a while. The trail’s narrow. Why don’t you take the lead?”
“Great. That’ll let me take better pictures of what’s up ahead of us.” She held up a small camera, not much bigger than the palm of her hand.
Buck didn’t blame her for wanting to take photographs. The time of day was just right for it, sunlight slanting through
the trees at the perfect angle. Gold shades mingling with greens. Light chasing dark. Occasional glimpses of rugged mountain peaks in the distance.
But there were things about the area that couldn’t be captured in a photograph. The breeze that felt cool upon the skin. The sounds of chipmunks scolding from tree limbs and a woodpecker’s
tap-tap-tap
in a tree deep in the forest. The air that was scented with pine. Even the dust the horses’ hooves stirred up smelled good to Buck.
He silently thanked the Lord for letting him grow up in Kings Meadow, for letting him know these mountains like the back of his hand. He belonged here. It was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes and hair.
Charity twisted in the saddle and snapped a picture of him, then grinned before facing forward again. “Thanks, Buck,” she called back to him.