The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

The urge to run crippled me.

But my love for Della broke me.

She wouldn’t like it.

I would hate it.

But this was about more than what we wanted. This was about what she needed, and any sacrifice was worth that.

Inhaling with steely resolve, I asked, “Do you need a farmhand for summer?”

A half-smile tilted his lips. “A kid with your skills and work ethic? I could use for multiple summers.”

I looked once more out the window, toward the waving boughs of forests and promises of vacant untouched land, and then turned my back on it.

The rivers and forest would still be there.

For now, my role was to give Della everything I had to give.

Holding out my hand, I said, “You have a deal. Help me give Della things I can’t on my own, and I’ll stay for however long you need me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

REN

* * * * * *

2006

“YOU DIDN’T COME to the house last night.”

My head shot up from where I was checking the blades on the hay cutter.

Cassie leaned over the tractor’s front wheel, uncaring that dried mud and horse manure wedged in its big tread. “Where were you?”

I frowned. “Where was I?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, licking her lower lip, dragging my attention to places it shouldn’t go.

Clearing my throat, I grabbed the rag in my waistband and wiped away the grease on my hands. “In bed. Where I normally am once I’ve finished for the day.”

“You do realise it was New Year’s Eve, right? Dad said he invited you and Della to the house to watch the ball dropping in Times Square on TV.”

“He did invite us.”

“So why didn’t you come?”

I glanced at the door leading toward the room I shared with Della. She’d been helping me all day—sweeping out the tack room, sorting out old bags of feed, and generally doing a tidy up. Poor thing was knackered. I’d found her having a nap face down on the bed when I went for a glass of water, and she hadn’t emerged since.

Moving my attention back to Cassie, I brushed past her to grab another tube of piston grease resting on the tool chest. “Tired, I guess.”

“You guess?” She followed me, crossing her arms and cocking her head in that annoying but somehow attractive way. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

What did she want me to say? That I’d declined their invitation because, although Christmas had been amazing, it had drained me of all my reserves? That I’d reached my people quota and so had Della?

We’d spent the evening chatting about old campsites and wondering what the New Year would bring—both of us nostalgic for open air and cool streams.

When I didn’t respond to her question, she tried another one. “Do you have any New Year resolutions?”

I shook my head, once again moving past her to return to the tractor and its hay cutter. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“It’s a thing.”

“To make resolutions?”

“To have goals you want to do differently this year than last.” She moved back to where she’d leaned against the huge wheel, watching my every move. “What did you guys do last year? Was my dad right when he said you’d been living rough for a while?”

I pursed my lips, pretending to be absorbed with using the squirting gun to apply grease.

“Silent treatment again, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “One of these days, I’ll learn more about you, Ren Wild.”

I flashed her half a smile. “Nothing to know.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.” Pushing off from the wheel, she pointed at the floor in front of her. “If you won’t answer my questions, you better do something for me instead.”

It was my turn to cock my eyebrow. “Do what exactly?”

“Come and stand here.” She waggled her finger. “It will only take a second.”

Doing my best to see a trap and unwilling to participate in whatever she wanted, I took my time to place the grease gun on the hood of the tractor and reluctantly moved to where she pointed. “What do you want?”

“I want what all girls want on New Year’s Eve.”

“And what’s that?”

She waited until I stopped a few steps away from her. She licked her lips nervously, her cheeks pinking and feet fidgeting. “You honestly don’t know?”

I jammed my hands into my jeans pockets, rocking backward on my heels. “Know what?”

“What happens at midnight on New Year’s?”

“The clock switches to a new year. That’s why it’s called New Year.” I frowned, wondering if I’d assessed her wrong, and her intelligence level was lacking instead of above par.

She sighed heavily as if I tried her patience. “No.” She raked both hands through her hair, the brown strands cascading over her shoulders. “God, you’re not making this easy.” She laughed suddenly. “Normally, it’s the boy making these moves.”

My heart quickened. “What moves?”

A long pause, then an explosion of speed as she closed the distance between us, stood on her tiptoes, and breathed, “This.”