I was ready to carry it to the truck, but Dad was on the porch, trying to make his way to the barn to fetch the horses.
I’d helped him over there and then got in the truck.
Stupid.
If I’d known then how weak Dad was, that leaving here was totally impossible…
Sighing, I push my face into my palm, trying to rub away the fierce throb in my temples.
Even if a miracle happens today—several Hail Marys fulfilled—we’re still years late and so many dollars short it makes me sick.
So what if Dad gets better? What then?
What if Ridge manages to scare Grendal and his crew off our trail without getting hurt?
What do you do when your life isn’t just going off the rails, but takes every dream you had with it?
I’m still mulling painful questions the next day after checking on Dad.
He’s already awake by ten a.m. and feeling somewhat better, thank God.
Good enough to tell me to go away because he sure as hell doesn’t need two women hovering over him. That’s Dad, all right, and he’s already figured out that Jackie won’t take any crap from him, and getting rid of her is next to impossible.
She also mentions how much she likes the picture collages I’d made for Ridge’s house out of the old barn wood I’d found in the shed, so I decide to throw together another one for her as a thank you for looking after my grump of a father.
It doesn’t take long to find another board in the storage shed, wash it down with saddle soap to bring out the grain, and also nip off a few spindly twigs to attach to the board.
I bring it into the sunroom off the laundry room for several reasons.
One side of it faces the cabin. It has a large table for me to work on, and Tobin swears Ridge has barely spent an hour in this room ever since they moved here.
His loss. It’s so freaking beautiful. Especially today, when the sun shines down so bright, banishing the blanket of winter one inch of melt at a time.
The wicker furniture with pink floral cushions must’ve been Tobin’s idea, too. They might have something to do with why Ridge wants no part of trying to stuff his tall Herculean frame into a granny chair.
And honestly, after last night?
I desperately need space to hash things out in my head.
It’s hard for me to look at him when every glance stirs up swarms of butterflies. And these particular butterflies are dicks, swooping in with a hundred wicked thoughts about this man I shouldn’t be having.
For the next twenty minutes, I work on painting Owens delicately on the wood, wondering if there’s a subtle way I can sneak a dozen or so family pictures from her without blowing the surprise.
Then I hear it, a sound that just seems out of place in this house.
My spine stiffens and I sit up straighter, listening.
It’s a woman’s voice, and it’s not Jackie’s.
But it’s Ridge’s voice, too.
I hurry out of the sunroom, walk down the hall to the kitchen, and then stop just outside the living room. The voices are coming from the front foyer, I think.
“What the hell did you expect me to do, you ego freak?” the woman says, her voice high-pitched and strained. “You didn’t answer any of my calls. You must’ve told Tobin not to, either, because he only answered one. How else was I supposed to track you down?”
“There’s your mistake, hunting me down in the first place. None of this is any of your goddamn business, Bebe.” Ridge’s voice is pure thunder.
“None of my business, huh? How about the creep with a voice like a bad Tom Waits impression? He left me a message saying you’d better quit boasting about being engaged to some pumpkin bumpkin from Wisconsin or I’d be real sorry! And I’m not supposed to be upset? I’m not supposed to wonder what the hell is going on with you ever since you ran off to go cow tipping?”
My stomach sinks.
Another message.
Just like the one they left for Noelle.
If there was ever any doubt Clay isn’t behind all this, it’s gone up in smoke.
“Jesus, look…you don’t need this, Ridge,” the woman continues. “A bunch of rotten PR claiming you’re some kind of weirdo going after farmers’ daughters fresh out of high school is the last thing you need. I’ll never be able to shop your name again.”
“One, she’s in her twenties and those shit-eating jackals made up the rest like they always do, hand to God. Two, it’s complicated, but let me reiterate it’s none of your business. Three, fuck you for still trying to shop me around,” he growls. “How many times do I need to tell you, Bebe? I left L.A. I’m done with Hollywood and every last cup of its shit.”