Page 13 of Holden: Bucked By Love (Crawford Ridge Ranch #1)

Holden

I've been chewing on Leni's words for a full week.

W hat's the point of having a husband who doesn't want a wife?

They echo around the camper all night, and torture me all day.

I can't forget the look on her face, or how she mostly avoided me at my dad's birthday party.

Everyone had been in high spirits, and Leni had looked gorgeous in that violet dress that made her eyes glow.

I'd wanted to be in that radius, but I'd kicked myself out through words and actions.

This past week I've tried to be better. I've handed off some work to Landry, who always seems to have more free time than me, and made sure to be home by seven on the nights I have the kids.

I finally ran a power cord from the camper to the cabin and that's made it possible for me to make the kids dinner twice.

I have no idea if Leni appreciates my efforts or not. She's been pretty chilly toward me.

Now I'm walking across my back lawn on the morning of July Fourth, going to pick up my family to head off to the town festivities.

It starts with a parade, and then a carnival, a family cook-out, and finally back to town for the fireworks.

It's Leni's favorite holiday. She always dresses up herself and the kids, and gets me a new Western shirt in reds and blues .

Today I'm wearing last year's shirt, which is depressing. Another reminder that I'm losing her.

I have no idea how this day is going to go.

I'm grateful she agreed to go together, even though I know it's mainly for the sake of the kids not having to split from one or the other of us today.

Regardless of the reason, I'm praying I don't mess things up, and that we can have a good time.

I haven't mentioned the pie eating contest again, but we are signed up and I hope she'll do it with me. It feels like a test, somehow.

Josi steps out onto the back porch of the cabin as I begin to step up. She's wearing a red, white, and blue striped romper with her hair in pigtails, and she looks adorable as she grins and launches herself into my arms, bringing with her the scent of sunscreen.

"Morning, Jo-Jo," I say, kissing the top of her hair. "You look festive."

"Mama got us new outfits," she says, wriggling out of my hold as Mason comes out, carrying a picnic basket that I know Leni will have filled with a delicious lunch.

I do a double-take, noticing his hair is trimmed and tidy, but I'm not about to mention it.

"Hey, Dad," he greets, and I'm dying over his red muscle-tee with an American flag across the front. Since when did my boy wear muscle tees, and how did he convince Leni to buy it? "Mama will be out in a second. She's getting the water jug filled."

I know from experience how heavy that jug is. It'll sit in the bed of my truck and be the go-to water source for the entire family all day. Without thinking about if I'm welcome or not, I make my way through the back door to help her with it.

She's standing at the sink using the retractable spray faucet to fill the five-gallon jug.

Her back is to me and I take her in for a second.

She's wearing a blue and white tie-dyed tank, jeans shorts, and has a red bandana tied around her pony tail.

She already has her full summer tan, which is helped along by her naturally bronze skin, and she looks perfect in my eyes as a million memories wash over me.

I'm not a husband who doesn't want a wife.

I step close and mutter, "Let me help with that."

She doesn't start, most likely having heard my voice outside and my cowboy boots cross the floor when I came in.

"All right, thanks. It's almost full," she responds, not bothering to look at me.

My gut hits the floor and I glance around the kitchen while I try to decide what to do or say.

It's not as tidy as usual, and the things that were used to make the lunch still sit strewn across the countertops.

I want to ask if she's doing all right. Leni likes things clean and orderly, and this isn't that.

"Happy fourth." I try something harmless.

Now she does glance my way. "My favorite."

I nod. "I know."

She takes in my outfit. "I like that shirt."

"Makes sense, you bought it last year." She nods again, and goes back to filling the jug. "What's the story with Mason's muscle tee?" I ask, forcing a light chuckle.

I watch her lips tug up and she shakes her head. "He's killing me. He said I could trim his hair if I let him get that shirt. Seemed like a good deal."

"It's a great deal. The hair was so out of control I was thinking about giving it a name. "

She laughs and the feeling of victory is strong.

She turns off the water, caps the jug, and steps aside, and I reach for it, managing to brush her shoulder as I do.

The contact sparks up my arm and I heft the jug with more strength than it needs, causing it to bump hard into my chest. Thankfully I manage not to grunt like an idiot and spin quickly to keep from seeing the face I know she'll be making.

The kids are waiting by the truck, Josi bouncing on her toes and Mason staring at his phone. His friends are taking up more and more of his social time lately, and it's a mixed bag of emotions for me about that.

I tell Mason to open the truck doors for his mama and sister, and he does so with a grumble and an eye roll. I'll be chatting with him about that privately.

We get settled in, and Mason begs me to turn on some hip hop music, but Leni cuts him off and tells him we will be listening to Neil Diamond the entire drive into town – it's tradition.

He sulks for about five minutes before he's singing along to America , and Josi is waving a little flag out the window, singing along too.

The thing in my stomach that's been twisted in a knot all morning starts to loosen as the miles pass.

The sky is blue and the stream of trucks and cars heading into town grows thicker as we get closer. It feels right, and normal, and needed.

"So, today is the pie eating contest, right?

" Mason asks as I drive the side streets of Pinehaven looking for parking.

The entire town shuts down and shows up for the fourth.

It's bigger than Christmas around here, and parking can be tough, considering everyone drives big trucks that don't park easily.

I look to Leni to answer. She knows I signed us up, but she hasn't told me if she's going through with it or not. She meets my look and must see the right thing in my expression because she nods .

"Yeah, buddy. Dad signed us up."

My heart soars, but then it drops when Mason says, "I hear it's cherry pie this year."

I hate cherry pie. I groan and Leni laughs, sure she'll win the contest because I'll be gagging the thing down while she laps it up.

"Don't laugh too hard, Leni," I state, finally finding a spot and pausing to guide my truck into the space. "Just because I don't like it doesn't mean I can't eat it."

She raises her dark, well-groomed eyebrows and smirks. "We'll see, Crawford."

"Have you read this release form?" Leni asks several hours later as we sit behind the long plastic tables, on the stage area. "It's cracking me up."

"I'm surprised you're reading it and not just signing it," I tease. Leni never cares about the fine print, which is why I've always had to care.

She slaps at my arm. "Shut up. Listen to this.

'I know that eating pie at a fast rate of speed is a potentially hazardous and an uncomfortable activity.

I should not enter and eat unless I am medically capable.

I realize that this is all in good fun, and I agree to be a good sport.

I assume all risks associated with eating in this type of event including, but not limited to, indigestion, that stuffed feeling, contact with other contestants, a general dislike for pie after I am done.

'" She's laughing by the time she finishes .

"I generally dislike cherry pie already, so no loss there," I respond with a grunt, but I'm smiling too. It is pretty funny.

She waves the form under my nose. "Are you medically capable of this, Holden?"

I push the paper away and purse my lips. "I'm the most fit person at this table."

Which isn't true. Leni – that exercise-obsessed wonder – is more fit than I am, probably. But the other eight contestants look like they could actually vacuum a pie into their bodies every night, and I doubt we have much chance of winning. The thought is depressing. I do love to win.

"What's the prize for winning?" Leni asks.

I shrug. "I have no idea."

"You can't be serious. What's my motivation here?" she responds.

I point out into the crowd where our kids are standing, practically bouncing on their toes in excitement, although Mason is trying to play it cool.

My parents and brothers are all there, along with Leni's sister, Steph, and Landry's friend Beau and his girlfriend, Kit.

Walker is surrounded by five or six of his regular crew, which only ramps up the pressure.

"That group of people who will shame us," I state.

She looks at our people and nods. "The kids are so happy we're doing this. That's my motivation."

It suddenly occurs to me that half the town is standing there looking up at us.

They all have bemused expressions and it hits me that they're shocked to see Holden Crawford on the stage.

It makes me square my shoulders even as I shrink inside.

I don't have any need to be the center of attention at all.

I'm not known to be playful or participate much away from the sidelines.

My stomach dips and I'm worried that there's no way I'll get that pie down with this bout of anxious nerves that's suddenly arrived.

What kind of young idiot thought pie eating would be a good idea when writing that list?