Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 3

  I nod to the half-empty truck bed. “Are you sure you don’t need help unloading the rest of that? I’m stronger than I look, you know.” I flex my biceps, hoping the lack of them will induce a smile. I don’t want to argue with him again about my flailing relationship with his aunt.

  With a pitiful smile, Nick squeezes my arm. “Those guns are nearly bigger than mine,” he lies. “But don’t worry, I got it.” He winks at me and begins whistling as he heads back toward the truck.

  “I’ll let you know when supper’s ready,” I call, and with a resigned sigh, I head up the porch steps.

  “Don’t you still need to ride Target?” he calls back.

  I shrug. “You have a baseball game to watch, remember?” I wave his concern away. “I’ll do it after dinner.” Besides, controlling the rowdy bay gelding will be a much-needed escape later, when everything else is quiet and Alison and I are alone.

  Two

  Sam

  Nick, Alison, and I sit at the breakfast bar, half a dozen balled-up napkins littering the green-flecked countertop between us.

  “I’m not sure what it is about tacos,” Nick says through a mouthful of food. He swallows his last bite and licks the hot sauce dripping down his fingers. “But having them on a warm summer’s night with a cold beer . . .” He groans. “That always hits the spot.” With a fresh napkin, he wipes around his mouth one final time, tosses his napkin on his plate, and pushes it away with a contented sigh. He pats his belly. “Perfection,” he says and lets out a long, deep breath. “Freaking delicious.”

  All manners and primness, Alison takes a sip from the chardonnay that fills her glass. Her second refill of many to come. “You should eat with us more often, Nicholas,” she says, and I can almost detect a slur at the end. Though she’s fierce and a seasoned drinker, she’s on the smaller side, like me. “Sam and I love tacos. We have them all the time.”

  I smirk and stack my empty plate on top of his, then Alison’s when she scoots it toward me. “Be careful, Alison,” I joke with a quick glance at Nick. I head over to the sink to wash. “It starts with dinner every night. Then, before you know it, he’ll take over the TV, watching his baseball and UFC, all sprawled out on your favorite part of the couch. You won’t even recognize the living room once he’s settled in. You should see his apartment.” I collect the dirty napkins and toss them in the trash beneath the sink.

  Nick’s lips curve into a quirky smile, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

  Like she hadn’t even heard us, Alison’s expression lights with obvious joy at the thought of her nephew being an even more permanent fixture in our home. “That would be wonderful! You can watch my FBI shows with me and—”

  Instantly waving the possibility away, Nick glances at me and says, “That’s okay, Aunt Alison. I’ll leave the depressing reality TV for you to watch. Besides, Marilyn and Monroe would miss me too much if I were gone any more than I already am.”

  “Oh?” Alison’s eyebrows lift, and she turns her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. “And who, may I ask, are Marilyn and Monroe?”

  Nick flashes her a shit-eating grin. “My guppies.”

  In spite of Alison’s laugh and light smack on Nick’s arm, I know she’s disappointed. She likes having him around, having someone else in the house as a buffer between her and me. I appreciate his presence, too.

  Nick yawns, a reminder that he’s been here since six this morning and it’s time for him to leave. He runs both hands through his brown, longish hair, clearly exhausted.

  I study him for a second and smile. His hair curls slightly around his ears, like it used to in the seventh grade. “You need a haircut,” I say. “Mac would love to get her fingers in that.”

  Mac, the third of our trio, is known not only for her glamour and “smokin’ body,” so say all the guys in Saratoga Falls, but also for her hair-cutting skills. It’s one of the many random skills she’s acquired, coming from a family of all boys: her two brothers and her single father.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she would. I also need to shave,” he adds, making a funny face as he scratches the side of his jaw. He stands up and pushes his stool back under the counter.

  My smile widens as I picture his seventh-grade self with facial hair, and it hits me how much he’s grown up. The fact that we’re both adults now seems strange. I shrug. “I kinda like the scruffy look.”

  Alison steps in front of him, wanting to be the center of his attention. “I like you clean-shaven,” she says. “And since you’ve been such a good boy,” she teases, “you can have this back.” She passes Nick his cowboy hat that she’d confiscated before we sat down to dinner.

  With one of those crooked, cowboy grins, Nick accepts it, settling it back on his head. He tucks his thumbs in his pockets as he winks at her. “Now that feels better.”

  “Says the cowboy who doesn’t even ride horses,” I grumble, causing Nick to laugh.

  “You try getting thrown off a horse when you’re seven. I had two broken bones and lost half my teeth.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing where this played-out story is going. “I’ve been thrown off a horse too, Nick. You’re not that special, and you were going to lose those teeth anyway. You’re such a baby sometimes.”

  Nick chuckles, and Alison actually smiles at me. I allow myself to smile back before she glances away.

  Reaching for his beer, Nick gulps down what’s left and hands me his bottle.

  “Well,” Alison breathes, “it’s time for my show.” Her voice is detached, which means she’s accepted that Nick is leaving and she’ll drink herself to sleep in the living room now.

  With a smile, she tugs Nick’s arm, making him lean down a bit so she can kiss his cheek. I’ve gotten used to the fact that she’s only fourteen years older than us by now, but when she’s interacting with Nick, it reminds me of how strange and skewed my relationship with her is. “Love you, Nicholas,” she says.

  A fleeting pang of envy makes my skin flush, and I turn back to the dishes in the sink. I turn the faucet on, letting water run over my fingers as I wait for it to warm.

  “Thank you for your help today, darling.” Alison’s voice is all praise and affection.

  “You’re welcome, Aunt Alison. You know I love you. Mom wants you to stop by to see her soon. Said she hasn’t heard from you in a while.”

  “I was just in town today, too—oh, I forgot to tell you, Samantha . . .”

  I don’t like the pitch of her tone. I brace myself and pause from scrubbing a plate to look over at her.

  Alison’s wine sloshes around in her glass as she takes a step toward me, her pale blue eyes fixed on mine. I know there’s kindness in them. I’ve even seen her eyes smile when she’s talking to Nick, but now they’re gleaming—from the wine, from the malicious thoughts she’ll never share, I’m not sure. “I saw Shirley at the post office this morning.”

  My breath hitches—falters and stumbles—and I nearly drop the sudsy plate in my hand.

  “She said Mike’s back in town on business for a month or so.”

  I stare down at my hands as they begin moving automatically under the searing hot water. Mike doesn’t bother me so much, it’s what he represents—my ignorance, the accident, what happened between me and Reilly—that makes me uneasy. Knowing Mike slept with a dozen other women in town, and right under my nose, makes me feel sick to my stomach all over again. The fact that I knew deep down he was an asshole, one that showered me with gifts and attention, but an asshole nonetheless, and that I stayed with him anyway makes it hard to push the memories I’ve gotten so good at ignoring away.

  “You might see him around town,” she adds.

  “Aunt Alison, don’t—”

  “What? I just thought she should know, so she’s prepared.” I hear the sound of her slippers dragging along the tile floor as she walks out of the kitchen, but I don’t bother to look.

  Nick sidles up next to me.

  Unwilling to look at him eithe
r, to see the sympathy and anger I know shadows his expression, I rinse the plate in my hand and set it in the drying rack before I pick up the next one.

  “I can’t take the way your face falls around her all the time, Sam. She’s just—”

  “Angry. Hurt. She just hates me. Trust me, I get it.” I drop the plate in my hand into the sink basin, lucky it doesn’t break, and turn to him.

  I hate the way Nick’s eyebrows draw together and his mouth quirks up in the corner. “She doesn’t hate you, Sam. She kept this place for you, didn’t she?”

  Because I begged her, but I don’t say that. Alison and I have never been close, but since the accident, the fissure between us has turned into a gaping ravine, one that grows wider every day. And even despite that, I still want to make things work between us. I owe her—I promised Papa.

  I meet Nick’s pitying gaze, wishing Alison’s effect on me wasn’t so obvious. I don’t want my burden to be his. I don’t want my burden to be anyone else’s. I wish there was a way to make him feel better, to fix what’s broken between Alison and me. But save for removing myself from her life and Papa’s ranch, I know there’s nothing else I can do. And I’m not ready to give up on this place yet. It’s all I have left.

  Plastering a smile on my face, I turn the water off and reach over to wipe my hands on the towel hanging from the handle before I squeeze his arm reassuringly. “At least I have you.” I move in for an impromptu hug.

  “It’s not enough. You need each other. This”—he steps away and gestures between me and the living room, where Alison’s talking to the TV—“isn’t healthy.”

  “Papa’s birthday is Friday,” I say, hoping it will shed light on Alison’s darker-than-usual mood. I want him to drop the conversation I’m so sick and tired of having.

  Nick nods. “I know.” He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me to promise him something I’m not ready to.

  So I nod toward the clock. “Doesn’t your game start in like, ten minutes?”

  Nick groans, which means he’s giving in and letting the conversation go, finally. “Yeah, I should head out.”

  I turn the water back on, staring down at the stainless steel basin. “Oh, hey,” I say, happy to change the subject as I remember his date with the new bartender down at Lick’s. “How are things going with the hot redhead you told me about?” I elbow him. “Are you still pining for her?”

  Nick glowers. “I was never pining for her. Men don’t pine.” He straightens. “But yes, I’m still pursuing Savannah, if you must know. The date was casual, a couple drinks after work, nothing crazy.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” I say, and whip him with my towel. “Move it. You’re in my way again.” I collect the dirty pans from the stovetop and set them in the sink to soak. “Does she like being pursued? I mean, you guys work together, so you probably already spend a lot of time with one another.”

  Removing his hat, Nick runs his fingers through his hair again and makes a disgruntled, anxious sound. “Yeah, working. It’s not like we get a lot of time to chat.” He plops his hat back down on his head. “I don’t know, dating’s hard,” he grumbles.

  Nick’s never had a lot of luck in the dating department. Although he is the handsome, boy-next-door type, with hazel eyes and a knowing, devious smile etched on his face most of the time, he’s also the kindest, most hardworking person I’ve ever met. He’s a combination of playful charm and no-nonsense work ethic, two traits women don’t seem to admire or appreciate about him the way they should. At least, not the one he really wants—but thankfully, we don’t talk about Bethany much anymore.

  “Alright. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, lifting off the counter to head for the back door. “I’ll make sure to mark the dying oak trees first thing.”

  I shake my head. “You heard Alison, she wants to wait. I don’t want you doing it alone. It can wait until next week when things go back to normal, okay?” I hope and peer out the bay window, at the ocher glow of the setting sun. “We still have time,” I say, trying not to let Alison’s constant undermining of my decisions rile me up again.

  “Actually . . .”

  Sparing a look over my shoulder, I wait.

  “This is probably a good time to tell you that Reilly’s coming home for a while to work on his dad’s place.” My heckles rise as Nick tells me this cautiously and I hate that he’s watching me for a reaction, because it takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself from losing it. Mike and Reilly. Reilly and Mike. Both of them back. Now? I pretend to refocus on the dishes, but my stomach gnarls into an aching knot and it’s a struggle to take a deep breath.

  “I know that’s probably weird for you, but we could really use his help around here, especially on some of the bigger projects we’ve been putting off—like the trees. He’s strong and able, and we’d have his truck if we needed it, too.”

  Each word slices me open.

  “And maybe he’ll take his dad’s dog back. And if he doesn’t, I promise I’ll find him a home.”

  “Yeah, just like you found a home for the unnamed ranch cat that’s been roaming around here for two years.”

  “Mouser? She’s essential. And don’t pretend you don’t love her. I’ve seen you petting her when you don’t think I’m looking.”

  “We can talk about it later,” I say quietly, trying to hold myself together long enough for him to leave.

  Nick steps closer. “Sam, we really do need his help. I need his help. There’s a lot to do before the end of the summer. I really want to . . .”

  I can’t hear Nick over my galloping thoughts. It’s harder and harder to push away the gnawing, ravaging feeling I desperately want to ignore. Spending time with Reilly after everything that happened fills me with dread, and I feel the heat of humiliation spread up my neck and over my cheeks. All this time I thought Josh Reilly was gone for good, that he’d gone career in the Army and wasn’t planning on coming back, ever. Especially now that Mr. Reilly has passed away.

  I swallow the bile rising up my throat, though it doesn’t alleviate the tightness and discomfort, it only makes it burn. “Whatever you think,” I barely squeak. I’m too busy trying to keep a flurry of images from my mind: Reilly standing at Mike’s front door and that gut-wrenching moment I wrote Reilly that letter. I’m not sure I can face him.

  “. . . his dad’s place fixed up so he can sell it,” Nick continues.

  Pretending to look at the clock on the wall, I say, “We should probably talk later.” My voice is low but light, trying to stir the mood and get Nick out of the house. “You’re already late.”

  Nick’s quiet, and I flick water at him. “Get out of here, would you?” Petey starts barking outside. “And take that damn dog with you, too.”

  Nick flashes me an apologetic smile. “Can’t. Sorry. I’m going to Lick’s, remember?”

  I scowl and throw the dish towel at him. “Fantastic. What are you, the bearer of bad news today? Get!”

  “Aye!” Nick yelps and scoots out the door, but he stops outside the porch, hesitating. “Love you, Sam,” he says. “Thanks for supper. See you in the A.M.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave him away, grab one of Alison’s dirty wineglasses, and turn back to the sink.

  As I stand there, alone with the burden of a dozen swelling emotions and the reality of what the next few months will be like with Reilly in town, I can’t help the unease that settles inside me.

  He’s coming home.

  Reilly’s face is all I can see in my mind. I thought I didn’t care about him anymore, but the flooding of heat under my skin, the tension twinging my muscles, and the heavy thud of my heart belies all I’ve been trying to convince myself of for years. I don’t hate Reilly for stepping in where he didn’t belong—for leaving me behind in the first place—not like I want to. But even after all this time, the mere thought of him being home makes me want to crumple at the onslaught of mistakes he embodies. I don’t need another reminder of a
ll my regrets.

  I can’t bring myself to move, and I breathe only when my body makes me—it hurts too much otherwise. Blinking, I try to see beyond the darkness that clouds my thoughts and vision, beyond the burning, yearning sensation that takes over me. But like a bad memory unearthed, I see Papa’s body, battered and broken and lifeless. I see the blood. And once again, I’m awake in the hospital, barely able to move when the doctor tells me Papa didn’t make it. That my name was the last word he uttered.

  Once again, I’m alone. Hollow. Lost. Ashamed.

  Alison’s screams still haunt me . . . I can barely feel the warmth of Papa’s fingers in mine anymore, but my begging him to wake up as I float in and out of consciousness is seared in my mind. I begged him to look at me and say, “It’s okay, Smurf. Everything’s okay.” Even if he didn’t mean it.

  “Samantha!” Alison calls my name from the living room, startling me. When I look down, I notice the wineglass broken and gripped in my hand. My fingertips and knuckles are white and my hand is shaking. I stare at one of the shards, at the warm water rushing over my hands.

  The dismal ache inside me overshadows the disappointment I know I should feel as I contemplate the shard’s sharp edges. Standing motionless and muted, I take deep, grounding breaths.

  In . . . out . . .

  In . . . out . . .

  In . . . out . . .

  It does nothing to stave off the unbearable tightness in my chest. I should put the shard down. The months of fighting against the pain, of trying to ignore it and accept it, to control the growing weakness that nearly cripples me, moves so far beyond me I want to give in.