Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Read online

  “Sounds good,” I say and jog toward the house. “I need to grab us some waters. Be right back.” I turn around. “Bring some extra fuel for the chainsaw, would you?” Nick nods, and I run inside. I can hear Alison upstairs on the phone in the office as I fumble around, grabbing some water bottles and a few granola bars.

  “Sam! It’s only getting hotter out here!” Nick’s voice echoes from outside.

  I stuff the granola bars in my back pocket and tuck the water bottles under each arm before I run out the door. “Coming!”

  When I get back to the truck, I toss the granola bars and waters into the cab.

  “Here,” Reilly says, and he hands me a pair of gloves.

  “Thanks.” I shove them in my pocket, climb into the back of the truck, and sit on the wheel well, anxious to get started.

  The truck teeters as Nick climbs in the driver’s seat. When I realize Reilly’s still standing at the tailgate, I glance up at him.

  “That’s what you’re wearing to cut wood?” He’s scrutinizing my outfit, his gaze traveling past my boots, up my bare legs and to my tank top.

  Though my attire is nothing new, it suddenly feels like I shouldn’t be wearing it. “It’s what I’m comfortable in,” I say defensively. “And it’s hot.” I look away from him. It’s not like I can just strip off my clothes when it gets too warm and cozy, like they can. An image of Reilly, shirtless in his bed a long time ago, comes to mind. Though he isn’t quite so grown up in my memories as he is now. I feel myself blush and have to fan myself, trying to play it off. “It’s already hot as hell out here.”

  “You two need another minute or what?” Nick says from the cab.

  Reilly’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, then he gets into the cab of the truck. Soon we’re rumbling through the ranch and up toward the back forty.

  Even though this is the third year cutting firewood without Papa, it still feels like it was only last season that I was driving out here, Papa in the front with Nick and me sitting in the back. Nick would laugh at me after driving over a big bump, warning Papa I’d end up being a bull rider one day so he’d better look out.

  Being out here, perhaps where Papa seemed most comfortable, reminds me of him more than I ever realized. It’s the most painful, actually. Sure, the house feels empty now, completely different. Alison removed all signs of Papa long ago: his favorite recliner and clothes were donated, his favorite blanket is in a box in the attic. There are still photos of him around the house, but mostly in the living room, a space I’m rarely in. But even with all of that, it’s out here, where I have the fondest memories, that brings me happiness and sadness.

  My thoughts drift as they usually do, and after climbing and descending a few hills, the F-250 finally squeaks to a jarring halt, and the truck doors creak open as the guys climb out. They’re laughing in a way that makes me feel a little lighter, and I try to leave the past behind me today. But then Reilly pulls on Papa’s gloves, too snug for his hands, and even though I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, the fact that Reilly’s wearing them feels significant.

  “You’re scowling, Sam,” Nick says, stirring my thoughts.

  I blink and find Reilly standing in front of me, a curious expression fixed on me.

  “Sorry,” I say, but I can’t look away. Reilly’s eyes search mine, their color and depth familiar, but his thoughts and emotions are unreadable.

  I’ve been staring at him far too long. I clear my throat and jump over the side of the truck bed. I step around and open the tailgate, ready to let the burn of hard labor keep me distracted. I slide on my gloves then grab the hatchet and mallet.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Reilly asks. “How many trees are we cutting down?”

  Nick hands Reilly an axe and pulls the chainsaw out for himself. “I have three marked, but if we could even get one finished today, I’d say that deserves beers all around.” Nick points to the tall, straggly tree in front of him.

  “So last time this didn’t go so well?” Reilly asks, and he and Nick come to stand beside me, the three of us peering up at the sickly oak.

  Nick shakes his head and I detect the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t say it was great, no.” The last time Nick tried to do this, he didn’t want to wait for me and cut almost an entire tree on his own. It almost fell on him in the process, scaring the crap out of him for days. He told everyone he had a near-death experience, which was probably true, and we agreed he shouldn’t be doing this alone anymore.

  “You’ve been chasing too many women, your muscles are getting soft,” Reilly jokes. Nick has some comeback I don’t pay attention to as I turn to them.

  “If you two ladies are ready . . .” I gesture to the trees and smile. “The sun’s not getting any kinder. We should probably get to work.”

  Nick grins and adjusts his cowboy hat before the chainsaw roars to life. “Ask and you shall receive!” he shouts. He steps toward the tree trunk and Reilly leans closer to me.

  “How’re we doing this?”

  “We take turns chopping and hauling,” I nearly shout. “I’ll chop first.”

  Reilly offers me a single, quick nod, and I stand off to the side, watching as he helps push the trunk toward the decline in the hill, away from us.

  Once the tree topples to the ground, I back the truck up closer, and Nick uses the chainsaw to cut the trunk into smaller rounds, quartering each chunk as he goes so that Reilly and I can chop and load the smaller pieces into the back of the Ford.

  I’m splitting the wood, using each swing to loosen the seemingly constant state of tension in my muscles. I don’t like that Reilly’s working so close to me, or maybe I like it too much. Every time I look up, his body gleams even more, and his grey t-shirt grows wetter and wetter with sweat. How he can smell so fresh and clean in the middle of a heat wave is amazing, and I wish I could say the same about my own stench.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but after splitting roughly a quarter cord of wood, my arms are like rubber bands. I switch jobs with Reilly and hand the axe over to him.

  When Nick’s finished cutting the first trunk, the chainsaw shuts off. My ears ring in the quiet until the sound of Reilly grunting and breathing with each swing is all I can concentrate on. I continue splitting the smaller pieces with the hatchet and mallet and collect the rest of the kindling.

  “Sam, we got another axe?” Nick asks, and he wipes the sweat from his brow with his biceps. He trudges over to the truck and sets the chainsaw on the tailgate.

  “Yeah, it should be in there,” I say, and I carry an armful of wood over to the truck, tossing each piece into the back, one by one.

  Once my arms are empty, I straighten and use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “We might be able to get two done today,” I say, praying. The heat is horrible, but with three of us it goes so much faster. I’d hate not to take advantage of having Reilly here.

  But then he walks by me, removes his shirt, opens the cab door, and wipes his forehead off with his t-shirt before he tosses it inside. Of course he does. Nick follows suit.

  “Rub it in why don’t you,” I grumble under my breath. My sweat-drenched tank top is as close to cool as I’m going to get.

  I shake my head when Reilly asks me if I want some water.

  “You should take a break,” he urges. “You’ll get heatstroke.”

  “I’m fine,” I say again without looking at him. “I want to get as much of this done as we can.”

  “Sam,” Nick says, drawing out my name with a hint of warning in his voice. “If I have to come over there—”

  “I said I’m fine!” I straighten with a handful of oak bits in hand.

  Nick frowns.

  “Sorry, I just want to get this finished, okay? I’m not sure when we’ll get another chance.” Reilly leans against the truck, watching me, and I almost lose it again. “And would you put your damn shirts back on. What do you think this is? A lady’s club? Jesus. Everyone’s just walking around with
their chests bare and glistening.” I look pointedly at Reilly.

  Both of them chuckle.

  “Does it bother you?” Reilly asks, too much amusement in his voice.

  I glare at him and dump a handful of tinder-sized pieces into a bucket. I brush the clinging slivers off my gloves, and all the while I can feel the burn of Reilly’s attention on me.

  “You’re staring,” I say, in case he’s not aware of it. I can’t help a smirk as I walk past him, back to the pieces of wood that litter the dry grass.

  “Take a break, Sam,” Nick says. “Come on, Reilly.” And without another word to me, they continue chopping and stacking wood while I take my break in a small patch of shade beneath one of the trees on the other side of the truck.

  After chugging some water, I use the hem of my tank top to wipe the sweat from my face and the water from my mouth, ignoring the dirt that comes off with it. Why don’t any trees by the lake need to be chopped? I groan and start salivating as I think about my shady oasis.

  I’m about to open a granola bar when the sound of a horse snorting and hoofbeats coming up the hill startle me. I jump to my feet.

  “What the hell,” Nick mutters, and then Target comes barreling up over the hill.

  Horror grips me and it’s impossible to move for a minute. “Oh my God!” This is not happening. “What’s he doing out of his paddock?” I screech.

  I glance at Nick and Reilly, who are frozen in confusion. I look back at Target, his dark tail up and riding the breeze as he runs. What if he hurts himself? We’re going to get sued!

  We can’t afford to be sued . . .

  What if I can’t catch him? With each frantic step the retired racehorse takes toward us, I think I might hyperventilate. I can’t lose this place. I can’t! The property is only mostly fenced in.

  The bay gelding finally slows a dozen or so yards from us, neighing and snorting and panting, but eyeing us all the same. In fear? Curiosity?

  Grabbing a piece of tie-down rope from the back of the truck, I do the only thing I can think of. Tearing open the granola bar in my hand, I slowly step toward Target. He paws and snorts anxiously the closer I get, his ears moving wildly, and his eyes are full of fear as he watches us.

  Target tenses, like he’s about to run away, before he sniffs the air, eventually giving in to the temptation of what’s in my hand.

  Although he’s still agitated, he takes a step closer, his lips reaching toward the chunk of granola bar in my palm. Momentarily distracted, his breathing begins to slow, mine only increasing as I considered how much trouble I’d be in if something happened to the Naser family’s horse.

  “Hey, boy,” I croon, slowly reaching my palm out closer so he can collect his treat. He startles and sidesteps me, but as I patiently stand there, he begins to calm back down again. “Easy does it.”

  The moment his whiskers tickle my hand, I step closer beside him and inch the rope in my other hand toward his neck. His lips are quick and he greedily consumes the bar on my palm as I gently drape the rope around his neck. He cranes his neck to face me and his lips are at my back pocket where I shoved the rest of the granola.

  “Good boy,” I say and slowly reach for the rest of it. His head pops up, but his focus never leaves my hand as I dig the rest of the bar out of my pocket. “Here you go,” I say and offer it to him. While his mind and mouth are busy, I tie the rope around his neck, accepting that it will have to do, and I lead Target back toward the truck, finally able to let out a breath.

  Nick’s frowning. “I don’t know how the hell—” His musings are interrupted as that damn fucking dog comes tearing ass up the hill, barking and running right for Target. In a flash of horror, the gelding, immense in size and filled with nervous energy, starts to pull away. I wonder if he’s going to trample me. But I can’t force myself to let go of the rope, instead I grip it tighter and hold my breath, praying.

  Target starts to rear. A flurry of dark limbs comes toward me, and I give him some slack, though it burns as he pulls the rope through my grip. But Target doesn’t try to run. He sidesteps, away from the excited dog and closer to me and the truck. I imagine the weight of his body pinning me to the frame, of his hooves smashing my toes. And somehow, amid the horse’s neighing and the dog’s barking, I hear Reilly commanding the dog over to him. Target steps closer, his neck outstretched and tugging to get away from me. I take a step back, ready to let go of the rope, when the barking ceases.

  Target continues to tug on the rope, prancing in place a moment as he catches his breath, as I catch mine.

  “Shhh,” I breathe, trying to calm him, though I don’t dare reach for him yet. “Easy,” I say. But I’m concerned my heart might burst, it’s beating so violently. I’d never experienced anything like that—the fear of getting hurt only barely outweighing the dread of something happening to an animal that costs thousands of dollars and isn’t even mine.

  I slacken the rope a bit more, clench my hands, shaking with adrenaline, and brace my hands on my knees.

  “Sam? Are you okay?” Nick says as he comes toward me, but I can’t answer him right now.

  I step closer to Target, slowly reaching out for him, stroking his sleek, almost coal-colored neck. He’s slick with sweat and his girth heaves, but he finally drops his head, the dog out of sight on the other side of the truck.

  Eventually, Nick must deem it’s safe, because he makes his way over to me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I wheeze, and glare over at Reilly, who’s holding onto the dog’s collar.

  “I’m so sorry, Sam. I put him in the stall, but—”

  “Just—stop! Get your goddamn dog under control, Reilly, or I’ll take him into town and deliver him to the fucking pound myself.”

  “Sam,” Nick admonishes. “It was an accident. Nothing happened.”

  I scowl at him. “You, of all people, know how much this ranch has to work, Nick. I can’t have someone else’s dog terrorizing the horses.” My gaze shifts from Nick to Reilly, who looks mortified, but I don’t care. “What if Target hurt himself? What if there are other horses loose?” I’m so angry I can barely think straight, my blood is beyond boiling. “And the damage? Jesus!” I shake my head, and I can’t stand the sight of either of them.

  “I’ll walk him back,” I bite out.

  “Sam,” Nick calls as Target and I start walking in the direction of home. “We’ll call it a day. We can lead him back behind the truck.”

  “I got it,” I say without looking back. Target is still too jittery, and I can’t even look at the stupid dog or Reilly right now, afraid what I’d do or say. But aside from my resentment and subsiding adrenaline, the fact that Nick doesn’t see how badly this could’ve ended makes me want to cry. How can no one see? If we don’t have this ranch, we have nothing. I have nothing, and Papa will be gone completely.

  When I notice the lead rope pulls taut with every other step, I gaze down at Target’s gait. His footsteps are off and he’s favoring his right front hoof.

  “Perfect,” I mutter, and my chest tightens, despite my anger.

  Thirteen

  Sam

  I stand in the shower beneath ice-cold water that numbs my skin, goose bumps chasing away any remaining anger from today’s Target fiasco. I don’t want to think about the look of horror on Reilly’s face when I walked away, either. I don’t want to feel anything for him. I don’t want to feel anything at all; I’m tired of everything being so hard, tired of feeling like it’s never enough. Feeling makes everything complicated. I wish it would all go away, at least for a little while.

  Leaning forward, I brace my hands on the tiled wall, losing myself to the sensation of cold water streaming down my face and trickling down my back.

  Things weren’t supposed to happen like this . . . things were supposed to work themselves out. This ranch was supposed to work. The bomb Alison dropped on me when I walked through the door wasn’t one I needed to hear. “We need three more boarders if we’re going to
stay out of the red.” But I’m not sure I can take on three more horses.

  Without thinking, I inhale and lift my face to the showerhead. I hold my breath. I barely feel the water streaming over my chilled skin, and the thrill of the unknown grips me.

  Memories of Papa, a mess of regrets and what-ifs will be gone . . . the loneliness will cease to exist . . . the tension will be gone . . . nothing will matter anymore . . .

  My chest tightens. My body tenses, consuming what little oxygen remains in my lungs. A tiny voice tells me to breathe, another one says, just a little longer.

  I clench my fists and purse my lips. My heart pounds. My body quivers. I squeeze my eyes shut and hit my fist against the wall as fear creeps in.

  Just a little longer . . .

  But my head falls back, my mouth opens, and I gasp for air. I greedily pull oxygen into my lungs, and with another pound of my fist, I let out a choked sob of frustration and rest my cheek against the shower wall.

  What’s wrong with me?

  After a longer-than-usual shower and some much-needed physical pain and relief, I pad down the hallway toward my bedroom at the end. Although Alison’s door is shut at the other end of the hall, I spot her in the office as I pass. Her gaze darts to me.

  “You’re done with the trees early,” she says as I open the door to my bedroom.

  “Yep.” When I hear her office chair roll against the hardwood, I freeze in my bedroom doorway, my hand gripped on the knob as I hold my breath. Please stay in there, Alison.

  She steps into the office doorway. Alison’s quiet a minute, then asks, “Are you okay, Sam?”

  I realize my eyes are probably bloodshot, and Alison is the last person I want to talk about any of this with.

  I offer her a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I think the sun got to me today.”

  Alison nods, but I know she doesn’t believe me. Her hair’s braided and she’s wearing a tank top and shorts. I’m not really sure when she went from city-girl-straight-out-of-college to looking more like a mom, but she does for some reason, though she’s never felt much like one to me. It must be the judging look she always seems to have on her face.