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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DEACON

She sleeps, curled up with her cheek pressed to the back of her hand. Before I leave for chores the next morning, I kneel beside the bed. Her hair, which she usually braids down her back, is loose. The voluminous curls are a tangle around her head. I brush them back, and she stirs but doesn’t wake.

I’m so aware of how fragile her presence is.

She’s afraid of me sometimes. Maybe I would be too if I were her size.

And yet, she didn’t run.

Out of nowhere, I flashback hard. One second, all I see is her angelic face. Then, I’m drenched in hot blood, dragging my body down the hill toward the farmhouse with a metal stake sticky in my fist.

A monster.

I stand so fast, I see stars. I’ve worked hard to erase everything that happened here all those years ago. I burned the house to the ground, tore out the foundation. I made a ghost of what I did.

The home I built in its place is the complete opposite of Phil and Amie’s farmhouse. The people who work here are happy, well paid. We have a strong sense of camaraderie. No man or woman works without proper compensation. Not the way I did, breaking my back with those horses so Phil could cash out.

I thought I could mask who I am, but after last night, I’m done with that. She doesn’t know what I’m doing to get her. But she saw me clearly last night, and she didn’t leave. Maybe once she’s finally mine for good, I can admit everything I’ve done.

The truck door slams in the yard. It takes me a second to come down to Earth and remember I was expecting company. Silently, I put my work boots on, fasten my belt, and grab my jacket and hat. She’s still asleep as I shut the door and head down the stairs, through the front hallway, and out onto the porch.

It’s colder than I expected today. Everything smells like wet leaves.

In the driveway is a silver truck with double tires in the back and a horse trailer hitched to it. I put my hat on and pull my coat over my shoulders, making a circle around it to find Jack Russell digging through the back seat.

“You forgot I was coming,” he says, stepping out and slamming it shut.

“I didn’t.” I shrug. “Took your sweet time, though.”

His dark green eyes narrow as he fits his hat on. “I’ve been busy over the summer. There’s shit going on all the damn time.”

“Ain’t one thing, it’s another.”

“Let’s get the horses out,” Jack says, heading toward the barn. “I can’t stay longer than a few hours.”

We go into the barn. Luckily, I already had Apocalypse in Exile pulled from the barn where we keep the studs the other day for a checkup. He’s at the far end, pale head hanging over the stall door. Jack makes a beeline for him, standing while the stallion sniffs his shoulder.

“You want to take them out?” I ask.

He nods, unlatching the door. I take Bones out and saddle him up. Jack takes his sweet time getting the saddle on Exile, but I don’t mind. He’s letting him sniff over his shoulders and every piece of tack before he puts it on. Exile seems to like him, not shying away .

“Is he usually this calm?” Jack swings astride him, adjusting in the stirrups.

I shift my weight, and Bones heads out the door, Exile at his heels.

“Exile’s one of my calmest stallions,” I say. “Never scares, doesn’t stir up shit.”

We head east to the flat area by a group of trees. Here, there’s a paddock and a course set up for barrel racing. I do most of the training in this space, and it’s small enough to keep the horses from getting distracted. We ride past it, and I shift to a posting trot, Jack following my lead. Exile’s got the smoothest trot I’ve ever seen, next to Bones.

“You got problems,” Jack says.

I don’t bother to ask how he knows, I just nod. We ride through the valley and crest the hill on the other end. From here, the upper east side of Ryder Ranch is fully visible. Jack slows to a walk and Bones falls into step beside him.

“Gonna ask you something,” I say.

“Shoot,” says Jack.

“You know I want to settle down,” I say, squinting over the horizon. “Why do you think that hasn’t happened for me yet?”

He stares at me for a long second. Then, he shrugs.

“Possibly because you live in the middle of fucking nowhere,” he says.

“That’s a legitimate point,” I agree. “That’ll do it.”

Jack’s eyes sweep over me. “If you’re worried about all the ink and broken nose, don’t be. Women don’t pick men for surface-level shit, not when it gets down to it. They like it when you notice things they like and make them orgasm consistently. That’s about it.”

That’s good news for me, because I can do both things.

“What about all the…you know.”

Jack glances over, shaking his head. “No, I don’t.”

“The murder.”

Jack knows how I got Ryder Ranch, knows the rest of the shady things I’ve done for myself and others, including him. It’s part of the reason we’re such close friends. We both know far too much about each other.

“If you’re worried about the Hatfield girl not liking you, I wouldn’t,” he says. “I looked into that family, and every man in it has a mugshot or twelve.”

We turn back, starting at a slow walk toward the ranch house.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say.

Jack’s jaw works. “I can’t help you there. That’s a whole other conversation.”

We don’t speak. My mind is fixated on the idea of Freya just living in my house. Rising in the morning and humming in the kitchen while she makes her coffee. Falling asleep on the couch in the afternoon, surrounded by books about insects and butterflies. Having dinner with me after the sun is down and the chores are done.

I want the small business of living more than anything. I want her time, every minute of it. The boring parts, the hard parts, the difficult parts.

She was so easy to fall for, and I fell hard. Now, I just have to pinpoint what’s holding her back.

We head to the barn, and Jack pulls to a halt outside the door, stacking his hands on the saddle horn.

“I should have guessed you had company,” he says. “I can tell when you just got laid.”

“Shut up. You can’t.”

He jerks his head at my hat. “You sleep on your right side when you sleep alone. The other side is flat.”

I touch the side of my head. The corner of Jack’s mouth curls.

“She’s on the porch,” he says. “I’m just fucking with you.”

We both turn. Freya stands there, a dark figure with her arms wrapped around her body. She’s dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and a close fitted skirt that comes to the middle of her thigh, tights, and brown leather boots. Soft dark curls are piled on her head, highlighting her elegant neck .

We both look at her for a long moment. She looks like something from a book. Pretty, whimsical, and homey.

“Yeah, she’s out of your league,” says Jack.

“I’m aware. Come on, let’s get the horses fed and put away,” I say. “Then we can talk about whether you want Exile.”

He nods, and we head into the barn. The entire time I’m putting Bones away and pouring out his grain, I have the image of Freya on the porch dancing in my mind.

I got a taste of her last night and, God, was it good. I love animalistic sex, the same way I like kink. Last night proved she gets off on it too. If she hadn’t gotten tired, I could have spent all night with her thighs around my head and her pussy on my mouth.

Somebody flicks the rim of my hat. Jack swims into focus.

“Light’s on, Ryder, but nobody’s home,” he says.

I shut the stall door. “I’m just thinking.”

“She’s got you whipped.”

I don’t respond. Everybody I’ve ever talked to about Freya has said the same thing—that I’m well and truly whipped for her, even before we officially met. It seems like Freya’s the only one who doesn’t know we’re supposed to be together.

We head to the porch. Freya stands by the door, weight on one hip. Her arms are wrapped around her body. She looks from me to Jack shyly. He takes off his hat and holds out his hand.

“Jack Russell,” he says.

She steps forward and shakes it. “Freya Hatfield.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I won’t ask you if you’re related to the Hatfield family if you don’t ask if it’s Jack Russell like the dog.”

She smiles, the ice melting. “I’d be rich if I had a dime for every time it happens,” she drawls in that sweet accent.

“Oh, I’d be a millionaire,” Jack says, putting his hat back on his head.

She’s so pretty, I barely hear what he says. Then, my attention is pulled elsewhere as a smell so good, it makes my mouth water, hits my nose.

“You cooking, sweetheart?” I ask .

She nods, pulling the door open. “Y’all want breakfast?”

We both nod, climbing the porch. She slips into the house and disappears into the kitchen while we kick the mud off our boots and follow her inside. In the kitchen, Freya has a plate in her hand and she’s piling it with food.

“Go sit,” she says.

We both sink down, not a thought in our heads. She sets two plates in front of us and pours coffee.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she says.

As stereotypical as it is, I’m trying to figure out how soon is too soon to propose the minute I put the fork in my mouth. It’s no slight to Ginny. She’s good at her job, but there’s something about the meal Freya makes that turns my brain off until my plate is clean. Everything is creamy, crumbly, and perfectly fried, seasoned to perfection, and drenched in brown sausage gravy so rich, it makes my head sweat.

We sit in silence for a second. I think Jack is speechless.

Freya gets up and starts clearing plates. I take her elbow.

“Don’t worry about that,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You said I could cook, so for right now, it’s my kitchen,” she drawls softly.

My head spins. I wish Jack wasn’t here, because I’d have this girl up in my bedroom right now. As if he’s reading my mind, Jack stands and reaches for his hat.

“I should head out,” he says.

“I’ll walk you.” I get up.

We leave through the front. Jack stands by his truck and takes out a cigarette. He gives me one, and we smoke for a second. Finally, he gestures back at the house.

“You’d better put a ring on that girl,” he says.

My brain doesn’t catch up with my mouth before I answer.

“I plan on it,” I say.

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t blame you. I think I need to sleep for the next few days to recover from that.” He stubs out his cigarette and swings into the truck. “I’ll be back with the trailer and a check for Exile next week. There’d better be a meal in there somewhere.”

I shake my head, watching him back down the drive and disappear. Then, I go back inside to find her wiping everything clean. She yelps when I come up behind her and spin her around to kiss her mouth. The taste of Freya and coffee melt on my tongue. Her face is pink when I pull back.

“Stay,” I say.

Her smile fades. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Too soon?”

She nods, not speaking. I go to let her go and accept my fate, but she holds me near. Her arms come up around my neck.

“Dance with me,” she whispers.

I don’t dance. I always assumed I had two left feet. But I can’t tell her no to anything, so I reach past her to the radio in the kitchen window and turn the dial. It crackles, and the beginning of a slow song that feels like I’ve heard it somewhere starts.

“I don’t know this one,” I say.

She presses her temple to my chest. “I do. It’s from a movie.”

I hold her waist, and we sway. I think that’s all she expects from me. When I look down, her lashes are lowered. I dip my head and breathe in her sweet hair. It smells like something familiar, something I’ve ached for.

There’s nothing poetic about loneliness.

It just fucking hurts.

Now that I have her in my heart, in my bed, and my loneliness is gone, I know how much I hurt before. I’ll let her go home this time. Then, I’ll make all the right moves to get her to come back and make this house into her home. We have time. She can take all of it that she needs.

But when all is said and done, she’ll stay.

“Tell me about home,” I say.

She lets out a little sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Tell me what you miss the most.”

There’s a short silence .

“In the morning, before anybody else woke up, I’d go out and walk down the road,” she says, voice fragile like a spider’s web. “We lived on a dirt road when I was little. Then, they poured gravel. After a while, they paved it. But I’d walk down the side to where it met the state route. In the summer, it was too hot, but in the fall, I’d get up early and walk all the way to the end. There was a creek that ran alongside it with raspberry bushes all around it. I’d take the ripe ones and put them in my pocket. When everyone was gone at work, I’d crush them and use them to paint.”

“Do you still have the paintings?”

“No, they didn’t keep,” she sighs.

“How old were you then?”

“Around nine, maybe ten,” she says. “Aiden took Wayland, Ryland, and Bittern to work in the factory. They made cabinets. When they came home, they smelled sweet like cherry wood.”

“Did anybody stay with you?” My stomach has a pit in it. It sounds a lot like my childhood, trying to survive without anybody to look after me.

“No, but I knew better than to go far from the house,” she says. “What about you?”

“I was in a foster home when I was that age,” I say. “Between seven and ten was one of the better ones. I felt bad for the woman who ran it. She was trying to do right by us, but we were a bunch of fucking unruly boys with nobody to keep an eye on us. I got pulled and placed with another family at eleven.”

She turns her head. Her blue eyes pierce right to my heart.

“That’s hard,” she whispers.

“I was tough, always have been,” I say. “We were like Lord of the Flies in there sometimes, and I was the ringleader. Poor Carrie. She was a good woman, but she had a hole in her heart.”

“What kind?”

I shrug, still holding her tight. “The kind somebody else put there and not even giving out all the kindness in the world could fix.”

“What happened after?” Her voice is as fragile as her gaze .

“Stayed in one of the worst homes I ever got placed in for six months,” I say. “Protective services pulled me from that, and I ended up at a ranch. Those foster parents ended up adopting me.”

“Oh,” she says, a faint smile on her lips. “That’s some kind of happy ending.”

I lean in and kiss her forehead. Her hair smells so good, like vanilla. Like home.

“Yeah,” I say. There’s no way I’m getting any deeper into my past right now. “So, what did you do all day? All alone with yourself like that?”

“I went to school most of the time. But a lot of times, I missed the bus because I had to get breakfast ready and on the table before I could go. Then, there were a few years where the road collapsed and I couldn’t get to the bus stop,” she says. “The school was ten miles from home, so I couldn’t walk. And part of that was highway.”

“So who taught you all the stuff you know, like the bugs and shit?” I ask.

She smiles, rolling her eyes at my words. “I had a library card, and that was only three miles from the house. When I wasn’t there or at school, we had a moonshine still in the tobacco barn.”

I feel my brows lift. “You made moonshine instead of going to school?”

“What about it? I stayed legal,” she says. “Bittern grew weed, but not for very long, because he wasn’t any good at it. But I needed the moonshine so I could trade it for groceries, the things I didn’t want anybody to know about.”

“Like what?”

She blushes, a little. “Pads, bras. Sometimes, I could get those from the nurse at school, but not always.”

The song ends, and she stops swaying. I look into her eyes, clear blue like a pale morning sky. She’s so beautiful. She sees me looking, unable to keep my gaze from her face.

“I should go home,” she whispers. “I don’t think I’m comfortable staying another night. I worry about Aiden coming back early. ”

I don’t push her. I had my doubts she’d stay the weekend. Every time I reel her back down from wherever she lives in her head—up in the sky, sitting on the edge of the moon—she feels fragile in my hand.

Like if the winds change, she’ll blow away.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t apologize,” I say. “I understand.”

We don’t speak on the drive home, but when I drop her at the end of the drive, I tell her I’ll see her soon. She cocks her head at me like she’s going to say something but then shuts the door. For the third time, I watch her disappear over the hill toward her stepfather’s house.

God, I wish she’d just stay.