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"Did something happen?" I'm instantly on alert. Lennon wouldn't be bringing it up otherwise.
He nods. "Buggy broke out of his stall. Attacked her and then bolted. He's halfway to Canada by now."
My heart misses a beat, my muscles clench.Fuck. I've fucked up bad.
"Yeah," he says, seeing the unspoken words in my eyes.
"Oh God. Is she hurt? How bad is it? Is she okay? Where is she?" My breath fights for release, panic clawing at me.
The frozen fear in my chest might hint at something deeper, but I shove that thought aside. It's professional concern. Health and safety. That's all. I'm feeling guilty because I put her in danger.
"She's fine," he says, and a flood of relief washes through me. "Kicked in the leg. Just bruised from the fall. I took her to the hospital—Doc said rest for three days and gave her painkillers."
"Oh. That's good then." I take a deep breath as he swigs from his beer. He doesn't seem happy. Still tense. Still morose.
"I don't think she should stay here," he says. "She lives close by. No reason she can't climb the fence and come in every day."
I think about the tiny distance to her cabin. It's not far. But I doubt the place is even habitable yet—it's been empty for twenty years. She can't stay there, not until it's checked out.
"And you're not saying that because you're attracted to her?"
He flinches, then glares at me. I hold his gaze.
"There's nothing wrong with being attracted to her. She's a fine-looking woman. Georgia wouldn't expect you to be a monk for the rest of your life."
"You don't know what the fuck Georgia would've wanted," he snarls.
I eye him steadily. He's right in as much as I hadn't been all that close to his wife, even when they lived on the farm. They had lived in their own separate cabin back then—the one we use as a guest house now, in fact. He hasn't set foot in it since she died.
I may not have been her closest friend, but I remember Georgia fondly as a strong, athletic woman—the last person you'd expect to die early—and a kind woman who loved to laugh and sing. She loved him too, and I know damn well she wouldn't want him stuck in misery and loneliness.
Lennon doesn't look ready to move on, though.
Mostly, we avoid mentioning Georgia around him. For the first year after her death, nobody said her name—even alluding to her would send him into a fit of rage or despair.
The only person he can bear to talk about her with is their daughter—and even then, it costs him. He swallows his grief and answers her questions as patiently as he can, but I can see the toll it takes.
Everyone else gets their heads bitten off.
I'm no psychologist, but it isn't healthy to wallow in grief like that. I refuse to let his love for her turn into something cursed and bitter.
So, after the first year, I made it a point to slowly start talking about Georgia again. Back then, he looked like he was getting better—not drinking, not spiraling—and I figured I could risk it. Avoiding her memory wasn't helping him. It made the barrier grow stronger.
He's gotten better at it. Sometimes now he even brings her up himself, tells us things Georgia would've said or done.
Today, though, it feels like he's slipped back into the angry, bitter man he was a couple of years ago. He's testier than usual—and I think I know why.
"Hey, if you want to talk to her, she'll understand. You don't have to beat yourself up because you're attracted to her."
"Weren't you the same person telling Reed he needed to stay away from her?"
"Reed is Reed. You're you."
He grins humorlessly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not interested in her, or anyone else."
I don't buy it. Neither does he.
I catch the sound of footsteps behind me and his expression changes—a flicker of desire, followed by something tortured. His face shutters closed, and he gets up and walks away.