I’M PRETTY SURE my surly pen pal, Golddigger, has become one of my only friends. We’ve been talking daily for a few months, and I’ve grown accustomed to it. I’d even go so far as to say I look forward to it. Some days I wake up and fire off a message to him saying good morning or something equally chipper. And other mornings he messages me first. Like today.
Golddigger85: Hi.
My lips tip up at the one word note. He’s not a big talker—this much I’ve learned—and yet he’s always there. He always writes me back. If I were annoying him, you’d think he’d stop responding. I think he needs this as much as I do.
The quiet, grumpy vibe is just part of his charm. And I take it to mean he likes me enough to keep me around. So, I always write him back too. Otherwise, all I do is work at Gold Rush Ranch from sunup to sundown. New girl on the farm means no clout, no seniority—grunt worker. And I like it. No one treats me like I need coddling. They throw me in the deep end and expect me to swim.
Pretty_in_Purple: Good morning, Butterface. How was your sleep?
Golddigger85: The usual.
I know what that means. It means he didn’t sleep well. He’s told me he wakes up a lot. He’s also told me he’s a veteran, so I assume those two things connect. I haven’t asked because he hasn’t seemed like he wants me to, and I’ve come to know that Golddigger is an intensely private man. That he likes my . . . Do you call what we have company? I don’t know. He likes my reliability but isn’t about to tell me his deepest, darkest secrets. Which is fine. I don’t expect him to.
But it doesn’t stop me from sharing about myself. I think he likes that too.
Pretty_in_Purple: I had a great sleep. Like a baby. I work outside all day, so by the time I get back to my apartment I’m beat.
Golddigger85: I don’t remember what it feels like to sleep through the night.
I wince. Sounds like my brother when he came back from Afghanistan.
Pretty_in_Purple: I have a brother who had a hard time sleeping for a spell.
Golddigger85: How did he fix it?
I roll my lips together at his question because I don’t know the answer to that.
Pretty_in_Purple: I’m not sure he ever did.
Golddigger85: Reassuring, thanks.
Oh, jeez. I need to flip this script.
Pretty_in_Purple: Have you tried masturbating before bed? That always helps me.
The dots roll and stop.
Golddigger85: You offering to lend me a hand?
“Ha!” I bark out a laugh into the quiet room.
Pretty_in_Purple: A for effort. Never gonna happen.
This is our running joke. But the more I get to know him, and feel comfortable around him, the more I wonder . . . Would it really be so bad?
I DON’T KNOW where Cole went, and I don’t care. The only thing I can focus on is the little bay filly eating her hay quietly outside my front door. She’s small, yes, but the way she’s built is all correct. Ideal, really. Billie has such a good eye for horses, no doubt she picked up on that too.
I hobble over to the front door and sit on the wooden bench in the front entry to slide my good leg into my rubber boot I’d kicked off as Cole carried me in through the front door.
Again. Except this time, I remember it clearly. The way his hands gripped me, strong but gentle. The lines of his abs as they rippled along my ribcage while he held me close. The sheer power of him as he carried me through the rain effortlessly.
Every point of contact like a tease.
I’d wanted him before I ever knew he looked or felt like that. I’d wanted him even when I knew he’d never want me back. When he was just an avatar on my screen. Stupid. And that is something I’ve come to terms with. Something I’ve moved on from the day that I vowed to never look at our chat again. And I haven’t. I never logged in again. I deleted the app. Were there messages there waiting for me? Did he wonder where I went? Or did he just assume my silence was a dismissal? I’ll never know because I’ll never check.
Having a soul-consuming crush on a stranger on the internet was a phase. And I closed the door on that phase of my life. I pushed my boundaries. I tried something new. And it’s done.
I’m in a whole new chapter. Older, wiser, more independent.
I chuckle at myself as I head out the front door toward the paddock. Living with the man and falling asleep thinking about the hard lines of his body doesn’t exactly scream wise or independent. Great work, Violet.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I coo as I approach the fence.
Pipsqueak’s head snaps up, but she doesn’t startle. She just flicks her ears toward me with a joyful look on her dainty face, not the least bit perturbed by my arrival. In fact, when I get close enough, she forgets about her hay completely and comes to the gate, eager for attention. Not unusual for a horse that has probably been handled extensively for her entire life because of health complications.
As soon as I reach the gate, she drops her head over the top post and nuzzles into me like she’s demanding a hug. Her warm, damp breath flows over the light hairs on my forearms as she snuggles her face into my embrace.
A genuine laugh bubbles up out of me. It’s like she thinks she’s a puppy. Her eyes flutter open and closed happily as I stroke my hand over her broad forehead, right over the bright white star in the middle of it.
I love this horse already. I don’t even care if she runs well or not. This kind of contact is therapeutic, and once I can be sure the gesture won’t bring me to tears, I have every intention of thanking Billie from the bottom of my heart for knowing this is what I needed. Horse therapy.
She was always rambling on about DD being her therapist. Maybe Pipsqueak can be mine?
“What do you think about that, Pip?” I ask, rubbing my cheek against the firm round plate of hers. Basically, bunting her like a cat. But I don’t even care. Once a horse girl, always a horse girl.
The smell, the dust, the rasp of her ungroomed coat—it doesn’t bother me at all. It comforts me. My very own little Paper Bag Princess.
Excitement at the prospect of her makeover courses through me, and when I look down near the gate, my eyes catch the pink grooming box that Billie left out. It’s loaded with every brush and spray I could need. Hoof oil even. Did Billie pack up the trailer to get her here? Or walk over? I decide I don’t care about that either. “You ready to hit the spa, girl?”
Pipsqueak snorts and gives her unruly black mane a shake. As close to a nod as I’m going to get. I grab the handle of the box and let myself in through the gate. I don’t bother putting the halter on her. If she wants to walk away, she can. For now, we’re just getting to know each other. No pressure.
I start with a big rubber currycomb at the top of her neck, brushing in tight circles and watching all the dust and loose hair come up to the surface as I work my way down to her shoulder. When I get to her withers, she sighs and lets her eyes fall shut. Like she’s getting the best massage. I continue, getting lost in the rhythm of the circular motion and working my way around her body.
By the time I get to the other side of her, she’s so relaxed she has one hoof tipped and resting on the ground casually. She is loving this. And so am I. I’m completely blissed-out. Zoned out.
Which is why I jump when I hear a car pull up. I turn to see the old blue truck, the one Hank got from Dermot and has kept running. It always warms my heart the way this place has stayed in the family. The way Dermot and Ada’s legacy has tied everyone together—even when things got turbulent.
“Hey, Vi!” he hollers as he steps out, looking a little stiff. “How do you like your present?” His grin is infectious, all the lines on his face deepening around twinkling green eyes. Hank is wise, and kind, and comforting, and I’ve come to love him over the last couple years we’ve spent working together. He’s been a surrogate father to Billie since she was a teenager, but I feel as though he’s taken that role over with the rest of us at the farm as well.
“Like? I don’t like my present. I love her!” I beam back so wide that it almost hurts my cheeks.
He reaches back into the truck and pulls out a bouquet of pink tulips before marching over and holding them out to me over the fence. “Sorry I haven’t checked in on you since your accident. I’ve been getting regular updates from everyone else but didn’t want to crowd you.”
Taking the flowers from him, I hold them up to my nose and inhale that fresh grassy smell, the hint of honey. “Thank you for the flowers. And don’t worry about it. I haven’t been the best company.”
Pippy does the same, running her nose over the soft petals curiously.
Hank doesn’t push the subject; instead, he just chuckles and reaches a firm hand out to pat the filly. “She’s a funny little thing, isn’t she? So curious about the world. I’m quite fond of her myself.”
I sigh contentedly before looking back up at the man. “Me too. I think we’re going to get along well.”
Hank nods as he presses his elbows into the fence. He looks over at the blue farmhouse, a flash of sadness streaking across his features. “How are you getting along with Cole?”
How am I getting along with Cole? We communicate mostly in grunts and glares. We ignore the awkward vibe between us. I try not to stare at his body as if it’s a cold drink on a hot day. It’s basically torture. So, I just settle on, “He’s no Pippy.”
Hank barks out a laugh. His head tips back, and his chest rumbles. “That he’s not. He reminds me of Dermot. The kind of man who would do almost anything for the people he loves. But hard to get to know. Strong. Silent. Sensitive.”
Sensitive? I almost laugh. If we’re going with s-words, I pick surly. But my dad always told me that if I have nothing nice to say, it’s best not to say anything at all. So that’s what I do. I say nothing and just give Hank a small smile.
But I’m not fooling him. I can tell by the look on his face.
He tips his head back toward the house. “You know his dad grew up in that house?”
I look at it too. I know his dad died in a tragic racing accident, but not much else. “I didn’t know that, no.”
Hank nods. “I think it might be hard for him to be out here, even though he’d never admit it. I’m sad about your leg, but I’m glad he’s not alone. It’s hard not to worry about all you kids.” He chuckles good-naturedly. “May not have had any of my own, but I feel like you’re all mine anyway.”
My chest pinches at the thought of the ghosts Cole might live with, and my eyes sting thinking he could be as sensitive as Hank is saying. Maybe I’ve been misinterpreting him this entire time? I blink and change the subject, trying to keep my mind from focusing on the puzzle that is Cole Harding. “Didn’t want any kids?”
He smiles sadly. “I’d have loved to have kids. Guess it just wasn’t in the cards.”
“Good thing we’re all here to fill in for you then,” I say with a wink, trying to lighten the mood.
Hank gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m lucky to have you all. But I won’t bother ya. Just wanted to drop the flowers off and see your smiling face. If you need me, you’ve got my number. Take care of the boy, will ya?”
I smile and roll my eyes. The boy can take care of himself. “Thank you for the flowers, Hank.” I limp out through the gate, wrap my free arm around his torso, and give him a quick squeeze. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Deal,” he says as he strides off with his signature wink and grin, firing up the old truck. I wave back at him as I enter the house to get the flowers in a vase of water. I set them on the counter. They really are pretty, and they bring some much-needed life to the place. And then I head back outside and get back to brushing Pippy’s fuzzy coat.
I feel more than hear Cole arrive back from his run, like a low-pressure weather system blowing in. I only peek at him before I realize it’s not a good idea. His shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to his body in an almost erotic way, and his cheeks are flushed pink, making him look younger than I now know he is. It’s probably too warm to be running in sweatpants, but that’s not my business. He has a mom. And every other thought I have about the man is distinctly un-mom-like.
I bite down on my bottom lip to distract myself. Our eyes meet briefly before I turn back to Pipsqueak, focusing on using a soft bristle brush now to sweep all that dirt and dander away. Cole and I say nothing to each other, and that’s fine by me. He’s probably still mad about my big mouth—and I can’t blame him for that. I betrayed what little trust I owed him. Something I feel bad about but have no idea how to fix.
I can only fix what’s right in front of me. So, I focus on the ratty looking little filly and promise myself I’ll clean her up as best I can. My arm aches with the elbow grease I put into her, but by the time I’m done, she looks . . . better.
Standing back to admire my handiwork, I prop my hands on my hips. Maybe she’s not shiny yet, but I thinned out her light bay winter coat, and I’m sure it will glow bronze once I get her on a better feeding regimen. Her four white socks are actually white now rather than gray, and her hooves are shining with the moisturizing oil I’ve applied. She’s going to be a work in progress—after all, she just got pulled out of a back field—but I feel accomplished. Hopeful.
And for the first time in the last week, I don’t feel quite so sorry for myself.
I’M SITTING on a hay bale facing Pipsqueak when I hear the door slam behind me. I’ve spent all day outside, and it’s not even that nice out. Heavy clouds and the smell of impending rain permeate the thick air, making my skin feel almost damp. I don’t care. It feels like one of the best days in the world to me.
Pipsqueak’s head pops up at the noise, and I turn around to see Cole in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. The image of him all sweaty flashes into my mind unbidden and almost instantly makes me blush. Am I ever going to outgrow this reaction?
“Where are you going?” I call out, trying to be conversational. I’m not an idiot. I know he was on the verge of telling me we weren’t keeping a horse at the house. I don’t know what changed his mind, but I thank my lucky stars he did.
His gait looks stiff as he hops down the stairs and at my question, his body goes still, his head rotating toward me as his mouth twists into . . . I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be a smile.
“For a run.”
“Again?” I know running is good for you. To a point. It’s never been my cup of tea, but two runs a day seems excessive.
“Yes. Is that a problem for you?”
Okay. We’re grumpy again. This man needs one of those happy pills I bugged him about. “No . . .” I venture carefully. “I’m just . . . Well, I’m in a great mood. Wanna grab a drink instead?”
His entire body turns toward me now, and his hand gestures between the two of us as he says, “You and me?” Like it’s the most horrifying prospect in the world.
“Am I so bad?” The words spill out on a laugh.
Cole visibly winces, apparently not quite prepared to laugh with me just yet.
“I don’t know . . .” His hands rest on his narrow hips as he looks around himself on a sigh, like he’s searching for an escape route.
“Come on,” I pester him, because this man needs a little pestering. He reminds me of my oldest brother in that regard. Too serious for his own good. “I know you’re old, but we’ll be back before your bedtime. Before dinner even. It’s . . .” I pull out my phone to check the time. “It’s four o’clock. That’s happy hour.”
He just stares at me.
“Which means you have to be happy.” I try to hold back the smile at my own cheesy joke, but I’m failing.
“Violet.”
“Yes?” I bat my eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.
“Calling me old and grumpy is your plan to make me happy?”
Okay, jokes really fall flat around here. “Come on! I want a drink and to be around some other humans rather than locked up on the ranch. I’m feeling a bit squirrelly. If you don’t come, I’ll go on my own.”
“Yeah? You going to drive with a big walking cast on your right foot?”
“No.” I smile slyly. “I’m going to walk.”
Cole groans and looks up at the sky like he’s hoping some aliens will come whizzing by and beam him up out of this conversation. If they needed a magnificent male specimen, I could see why they’d choose him. “Give me five minutes.”
“For what?” I quirk my head.
“To change into something appropriate.”
I bark out a laugh. “Cole, have you been to Neighbor’s Pub before?”
“No,” he says with a slight wrinkle in his nose.
“Okay, well, you don’t need to change. It’s very casual.”
He grunts at me and walks back inside, only to return a few seconds later with his keys. Our drive down the country roads is quiet, but not tense like in the past couple of weeks. I almost feel like we’ve settled into a sort of companionable silence. Or at least on my end. Yes, we have an awkward history, but we’re working with it. Plus, I’m only going to be living at the house for a couple more weeks. Once I get the all clear, I’m outta there. We can go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.
“Turn here.” I point to where the old pub sits, rustic and full of character—just the way I like it.
I’m so excited that I bounce a little in my seat as I look out the window at the dark painted exterior with a big flashing sign over heavy oak doors and a parking lot patio lit by outdoor lights strung up over picnic tables.
“This?” Cole asks skeptically as he pulls up and looks at the building.
I haven’t been off the farm in what feels like forever, and he clearly doesn’t share my excitement. Which I don’t get. Isn’t he bored too? That’s what running twice a day says to me: bored.
“Are you scared?” I grab the handle and crack the door. His head flicks instantly at the sound.
“Don’t get out,” he huffs before hopping out his side and rounding the front of the truck in what looks like only a few long strides.
The man is so big and authoritative, I feel a flash of nerves as he storms over to me. He’s got that law enforcement vibe, like I might be in trouble for something. I squeeze my thighs together at the thought of being in trouble with Cole. It wouldn’t be so bad. You’re so sad, Violet.
“What’s that look for?” he asks, standing before me now, one hand holding the top of the open door, stressing the rounded lines of his bicep against the sleeve of his T-shirt. It looks like it might unravel under the strain, especially when I take too long to answer, and his fingers squeeze the door harder, making that bulge grow right before my eyes.
Eyes that go wide and then snap back to his stormy face. The harsh slashes of his cheekbones, the square jaw covered in stubble that would rasp against my . . .
“Violet.”
I startle. “Yeah? Yeah! Nothing. Let’s go.” I look toward the back of the truck, feeling my cheeks burn from the rabbit hole I just let my brain go down. Such a bad idea.
He doesn’t even ask this time. His huge hands slide across my ribs and wrap around my waist. I thank my lucky stars I’m wearing a loose cable-knit sweater that hides the little goosebumps dotting my arms. Everything about him is so . . . almost aggressive, that the gentleness of his touch never fails to startle me. I don’t think I imagined the careful way he lifted me out of the truck that night Billie brought me to his house, or the way he held me close and quietly asked if I was okay.
“You smell like a horse.” He grunts as he places me gently down on the ground and yanks his hands back to his sides. His reaction to touching me is not quite a match for the memory I just lost myself in. “Let’s go.”
I watch his broad back ripple beneath the fitted T-shirt as he walks stiffly toward the front door of the pub.
Obviously, he really needs a drink.
