“The twenty acres that went with it.”
She glanced over at him, a question in her eyes.
“I don’t need much when it comes to a house.” He shrugged. “This one’s big enough. A bedroom for me and
one to spare should I ever have a guest. It’s in decent shape for a house built in the forties. The last owner put on a new roof about eight years ago. There’s a good stable for my horses and a couple of other outbuildings. There’s even a small insulated workshop that I plan to use in the off-season.”
“Use for what?” She returned her attention to the breakfast preparations.
Buck liked the sway of her hair against the back of her pink T-shirt. He’d always been a sucker for blondes with long, straight hair. Had she worn her hair that way in high school? He didn’t think so.
She glanced at him again.
Oh. Yeah. Her question.
“I make custom saddles. It’s not my main source of income, but I enjoy it. I guess you could call it a hobby.”
“Custom saddles aren’t cheap.”
“No.” He shrugged again. “Guess you’re right. It’s more than a hobby. Helped get me the down payment on this place.”
Charity stopped asking questions at that point. Soon the sounds, followed by the delicious odors, of food cooking in a hot skillet filled the kitchen. Again, Buck was content to watch her as she worked. It was easy to see she enjoyed what she was doing. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her humming, the way her mother did when the Andersons had him over for dinner.
It wasn’t long before she set a plate of the promised omelet on the table before him. “Orange juice? Or coffee?” she asked.
“OJ. Thanks.”
He half expected her to start washing dishes right away,
but instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat opposite him at the table. It pleased him—perhaps more than it should—that today she didn’t seem to want to get away from him as quickly as possible.
He took his first bite of the omelet. Closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure. “Wow. Lots better than cereal.”
She smiled, then sipped her coffee as he polished off the eggs in short order.
“Guess I proved how hungry I was.” He set down the fork and leaned back in his chair before draining the glass of orange juice. “Bet you learned to cook like that from your mom.”
She nodded in silence.
“Your folks’ve had me over for supper a few times since I moved in. Taking pity on the bachelor next door, I think. Anyway, your mom’s a magician in the kitchen.”
Charity laughed. It was a pretty sound. One he wouldn’t mind hearing more of.
“Have you told Mom that?” she asked. “Nothing would make her happier than to hear those words. Preparing delicious food is one of her love languages, and Dad’s expanding waistline is a consequence of all that devotion from the kitchen.”
“I think she probably guessed what I thought by the way I cleaned my plate. If she keeps having me over, I’ll be like your dad.” He patted his stomach for emphasis, then eyed her thoughtfully. “So tell me something, Charity,” he drawled.
Her eyebrows arched in question. “What’s that?”
“From what I can tell, you almost never make it home to see your parents, and you only live in Boise. An hour away is all, more or less. And now, when they’re gone, you come for the summer. What gives?”
He knew he’d made a mistake before the question left his lips. An instantaneous chill emanated from the other end of the table. Cold enough to form icicles on his day-old whiskers. Or just about. Without answering, Charity rose from her chair and cleared the dirty plate and juice glass from in front of him. Her gaze avoided his.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Charity. It’s none of my business. It’s just, I like your parents and I know they—”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.” She ran hot water into the sink and began washing the dishes.
Annoyed with her response, Buck remained at the table for a few minutes. She might be the prickliest female he’d ever come in contact with. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have asked about her parents, but she didn’t have to act like the question was a criminal offense either.
Don’t think you’ve scared me off yet, Miss Anderson. I’ll figure out what makes you tick. You’ll see
.
When she didn’t turn or even look over her shoulder, he knew he was being ignored. Must be time to make himself scarce and let her calm down. He managed to rise and get his knee on the scooter without tipping over chair or table.
C
HARITY LISTENED AS THE WHEELS ROLLED ACROSS
the hardwood floor. Once she knew Buck was out of the kitchen, she released a slow breath.
Who does he
think
he
is?
She stopped, bowed her head, and closed her eyes. Nobody had to remind her that her parents were hurt by the distance she kept between them. And since she’d steadfastly refused
to tell them why she stayed away from Kings Meadow, they weren’t ever going to understand.
I should have rented an apartment in Boise for the summer. I shouldn’t have come up here. I thought I could handle it. Maybe I can’t
.
Drawing one more steadying breath, she finished the last of the cleanup, dried her hands on a dish towel, and then headed for the living room. Eyes averted, she said, “I need to get back to work.”
She felt Buck studying her. “Hey, Charity. I really am sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you or interfere. Forgive me?”
“Yes. It’s all right.” She reached for the doorknob. “I’ll check in on you later, but call if you need anything before that.”
“Sure.”
She opened the door and escaped into the fresh morning air.
“
Y
OU ALMOST NEVER MAKE IT HOME TO SEE
Y
OUR PARENTS
.”
The words echoed in Charity’s memory for the next few hours.
“What gives?”
When she couldn’t turn off Buck’s voice in her head—or the ache in her heart that it caused—she decided to take a drive, hoping to outrun the feelings churning inside of her. She made her way to the two-lane highway and drove east. Cocoa rode shotgun, her head out the window and tongue flapping in the wind.
“You almost never make it home to see your parents.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
She loved her mom and dad. It wasn’t their fault she’d stayed away all of these years. She was lucky they chose to come visit her as frequently as they did. Of course, they wondered why it had to be that way, but she’d never been able to tell them. Would never be able to tell them. She knew she couldn’t. She’d tried many times.
He’s gone from Kings Meadow now. You don’t have to be afraid of seeing him. It’s over. The past is done with
.
“Only it isn’t done,” she said aloud.
The tears came, swift and blinding. She applied the brakes and pulled off to the side of the road before cutting the engine.
How could it still hurt this much after a decade? Ten years. She wasn’t that stupid, naïve girl any longer. Why couldn’t she pull herself up by her bootstraps, as her grandpa used to say, and get on with it? She’d tried. Heaven knew she’d tried. Again and again and again.
Tried plenty
of
the wrong things too
.
She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.
“Maybe if I went there . . .”
Her heart began to hammer, her breath coming in shallow pants. Should she do it? Could she? She glanced over at Cocoa. The dog watched her with what seemed a compassionate, understanding gaze.
“If only you could understand,” Charity whispered as she reached out to stroke Cocoa’s head.
Odd, the way the action of petting her dog gave her the courage to start the car and pull back onto the highway. After two miles she turned left onto a connecting road. A few more miles and she turned right again.
The old Riverton place was located on a hillside, surrounded by forest, with tall wrought-iron fences and brick posts encircling the mansion and entire twenty-five-acre estate. It had belonged to Sinclair Riverton, a powerful and wealthy businessman who had moved with his wife to Kings Meadow in the late seventies. Two years after giving birth to their son, Jon, his wife had died. Sinclair—as well as the nanny,
maids, butler, and cook—had raised his son to be a Riverton through and through. Which meant ruthless, heartless, and ambitious. That was exactly what Jon Riverton had become.
The front gates of the estate came into view. She drove up to them and stopped. It didn’t matter if she parked there. The place was deserted these days. A large sign—at least six feet wide—hung on the fence to the right, red letters proclaiming the property for sale. Charity got out of the car, Cocoa on her heels. When she reached the gatehouse, she looked up the drive and caught a glimpse of the house.
Old Mr. Riverton must be rolling over in his grave
.
Shifting, she put a hand against the walk-through gate and, unexpectedly, it swung open. A memory of that same gate, open on a moonless night, assailed her. She fell back against the side of the gatehouse, sweat beading on her forehead. Fear lay like lead in her stomach.
“Shh, Charity. You gotta be quiet.”
Jon’s hot, alcohol-laced breath seemed to brush against her cheek again, as it had done that night.
“Shh, Charity,” Jon whispered. “You gotta be quiet. We don’t want to wake up the help. The old man doesn’t like me to have friends over when he’s away.”
The night was as black as ink, but up the hillside, lights from the house beckoned to them.
“Not a sound until I tell you it’s okay,” he said, his mouth right next to her ear.
She swayed unsteadily.
He caught her with hands on her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. It’s getting cold out here.”
Charity wasn’t cold. Not even a little bit. The margaritas—she couldn’t remember how many—had made certain of that. All the same, she was glad when he put his arm around her shoulders and held her close as they walked up the curved driveway. As the Riverton mansion came fully into view, golden light spilling from windows here and there, she released a soft gasp. Her only glimpses of this house had been from the road. Never in her life had she imagined she would be here with Jon Riverton himself.
She wasn’t even sure how it had happened. He’d never noticed her back in high school. Not very many kids had, boys or girls. She’d been a nobody. An introvert in the extreme. Invisible.
But Charity had changed during her first two years at Boise State. She’d grown up, lost weight, learned to pretend to be confident even when she didn’t feel it. She liked to party because it forced her to get outside, to be with others, to meet guys. She liked to drink a little more than she should, but not as much as many of her fellow students.
Tonight, at one of those college parties where the liquor never seemed to run out, Jon Riverton had come over to introduce himself to her. Not that he’d known who she was at first. Not until she told him who her parents were and where they lived. After about an hour—and a couple more drinks—Jon had suggested they leave the party, and she’d agreed to go with him. In the car, when he’d asked if she would like to see his home, she’d said yes. What
girl wouldn’t? Anyone in Kings Meadow would have answered the same. Any girl at BSU would have too. This was Sinclair Riverton’s son who’d invited her. Of course she wanted to go.
Jon put an index finger to his lips as he opened a side entrance. And he didn’t turn on the lights after closing the door. Instead, holding her hand and keeping her close behind him, he led the way through the dark room, down a long hallway, up a staircase, and into another room. Finally, a light came on. Charity blinked. Although not bright, the bulb in the bedside lamp almost blinded her. She held up a hand to shield her eyes.
“Welcome to my home.” Jon tugged her farther into the room . . . and closer to the bed.
A tingle of fear ran down her spine.
His hands cupped her face. “Can’t believe we never met before tonight.”
I wasn’t the kind of girl you noticed.
“You’re so beautiful.” He kissed her.
She’d been kissed before. Not in high school, but she’d had a few boyfriends since moving to Boise to attend the university. Nobody serious, but serious enough that kissing had been involved.
This was different somehow.
She drew back as far as he would allow. “Aren’t you . . . aren’t you going to show me the rest of the house?”
“Not right now, baby. Right now there’s something else I want to show you.”
B
UCK LOOKED OUT THE BEDROOM WINDOW, WATCHING
as Chet Leonard doled out feed to the six horses in the pasture.
As if he
doesn’t have enough to do at his own place. He shouldn’t
have to do for me too
.
Buck had looked out for himself—and his family, much of the time—since he was eighteen. That was the summer his dad had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. In the months and years to come, Buck had learned how to be the dependable one, the capable one, the fearless one. He’d been the strong back to help his dad from the bedroom to the bathroom, from the car to the doctor’s office. He’d been the shoulder for his mom to cry on when she lost hope. He’d been the one who made tough decisions when neither of his parents had been able to make any for themselves. Treatment. Hospice care. Burial or cremation. Mounting medical bills. Ken’s college tuition. Selling the home he’d grown up in. Helping his widowed mom move to Arizona. Giving up for good on the dreams he’d had for his future.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the bad memories. He’d survived. He’d made a new and different life for himself. One he was content with. Dwelling in the past was a pointless exercise. He’d learned that a long time ago.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Chet striding toward the house. He turned the scooter around and rolled it toward the kitchen. He was getting better at steering it with only his left hand. He wouldn’t win any races, but he wasn’t running into the walls either. Well, he’d only done it once today.
Chet stopped at the back door and looked in through the screen. “You sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?”