Page 6 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

“Uh, hi.” Angie pushed back her chair and straightened up from the slump she’d fallen into in front of her computer. “Everything okay?”

“Not sure.” Morgan came around the desk and perched on the edge, looking down at Angie.

Morgan Donovan: tall, dark, and handsome with her black-Irish looks and tousled curls, and all stern gentleness.

Angie’s heart swelled with the surety of safety she usually felt in Morgan’s presence.

She already missed living with her more than she could verbalize.

“What’s up?”

Quietly, Morgan asked, “What the fuck, Ange?”

Safe, and also blunt. Angie considered pretending she had no idea what Morgan was talking about. That, however, would only drag the conversation out, and she had no desire to dwell on this topic. Guilt already coated her insides like an oil spill.

“It’s my house.” She had a right to be defensive if Morgan was going to come after her without preamble.

“And she pays you rent.”

“Yeah. To live there. Not to dictate who I . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. The word “fuck” sounded too vulgar in her head, not that Lana deserved something less uncouth.

Morgan raised her eyebrows. “Then you’re in luck. She told me this morning she wants to move out.”

Fear speared her through her breastbone.

She stared at Morgan, unable to breathe at the thought.

Stevie wouldn’t. Would she? The memory of how close she’d come to kissing Stevie swirled around her stomach.

This was Angie’s fault. She’d shown her cards, and then she’d panicked and slapped Stevie in the face with Lana.

Anyone sane would want to get away. But if Stevie left, Angie would come apart at her already badly patched seams.

Morgan’s eyes searched her face and softened.

“I . . .” Angie tried, but words required breath, and she might never breathe again.

“Just think about what you’re doing, okay?”

Morgan might as well have said don’t be the world’s biggest asshole .

Angie deserved it. She deserved worse. Yesterday’s logic—the void inside her, the need for release, for obliteration—looked less sound in the light of her office with its bright paintings of dogs.

She’d done those paintings herself: one of each of the house’s canine residents.

Marvin’s portrait smiled at her with his lolling tongue.

Stevie had lounged behind her while she worked, she remembered, occasionally leaning in to ask a question about paint.

Lana never asked her anything personal because Lana didn’t give a shit. The two could not be compared, which was the point. Stevie was the one thing in her life she was determined not to fuck up, and she didn’t need to read the judgment in Morgan’s eyes to know she’d done so.

She was such an idiot. No, not an idiot—a bitch. A manipulative, fucked-up bitch, who had put her best friend through hell because she, Angie, couldn’t get her shit together enough to deserve her.

“Hey.” Morgan pulled her into a hug, aided by Angie’s treasonous rolling chair.

She tucked her head against Morgan’s arm and breathed in the smell of horse.

Why had Morgan moved out? She knew why, obviously, but Emilia could have moved in with them instead, and rented her father’s cabin out to strangers.

Privacy was overrated. Much better to keep your friends around you so that you were never truly alone with your thoughts.

Stevie couldn’t move out. Angie needed her. She needed her more than she needed anything, which was, of course, the problem.

“She can’t move out,” she mumbled into Morgan.

“Then don’t drive her away.”

“I’m not—” She stopped herself. They both knew that was exactly what she was doing. Extracting herself from the comfort of the embrace, she asked, “What do I do then?”

“I’m a hypocrite here, but have you thought about therapy?”

“Of course I have.”

Morgan waited.

“I don’t have time for therapy.” This was true. She worked long hours, and she had zero interest in spending her day off discussing her baggage. More relevantly, however, she couldn’t afford therapy.

“But you have time for Lana.”

That was different, and Morgan knew it.

“I’ll go to therapy if you go,” Morgan continued.

She met and held Morgan’s eyes to ascertain if she was serious. “Wait, really?”

Morgan shrugged. “Why not? Can’t hurt.”

“It can, actually.”

In a violation of their unspoken agreement, Morgan reached out slowly and tugged the collar of Angie’s work T-shirt aside.

With a touch so gentle Angie thought it should be illegal, because who could suffer such a touch without weeping, Morgan brushed the scab Lana’s teeth had left on her collarbone.

“You should put a Band-Aid on that. You’re spotting through your shirt.”

She flinched away and looked down at her front. Two rusty spots darkened the purple cotton.

“It’s consensual.” The words felt old, uttered too many times to too many people.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” Morgan stood. “Love you, bud. I gotta run. Text me if you need me, and please think about what I said.” Morgan’s eyes dropped to Angie’s front again.

The scab still tingled from the unexpected gentleness.

Therapy might hurt, she could almost hear Morgan thinking, but how is that any different than what you’re already doing?

That pain is different , she wanted to shout, and you know it .

Except . . . Morgan did know, which meant she knew exactly what she was asking of Angie.

The door shut. Angie touched the sore spot on her chest and pressed hard. The sting grounded her. Well-intentioned as the suggestion was, therapy was not an option. Not yet. A therapist might ask her questions she didn’t have answers to or, worse, ones she did.

The last thing Stevie needed that evening was unexpected company.

Ivy was one thing, seeing as she stabled her horse, Freddie, at the farm, and had just finished up a quick workout, looking impeccable in breeches and a white T-shirt.

Whenever Stevie tried wearing a white shirt to the barn, Olive immediately smeared it with grass stains or dirt.

Stevie didn’t mind. White shirts weren’t meant for barns.

But while Ivy was an expected presence, the teenager standing in the drive was not.

Ivy, who was scratching Freddie’s mane as she led him out of the orchard where she’d been putting him through his paces, hadn’t seen the kid yet.

Stevie couldn’t feign the same ignorance.

The kid in her drive looked up. Stevie suppressed a groan.

She wanted to go inside and burrow into her bed with her door latched for a good old-fashioned sulk.

Her heart ached, as did her head, and her eyes burned with lack of sleep.

Whatever this situation was—and she had a sinking feeling she knew—it wasn’t in her plans. She fixed a smile on her face anyway.

The girl wore a loose graphic T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, as had her shoes.

Bracelets, most of which looked handmade, adorned her wrists halfway up her forearm, and she’d pulled her light brown hair into a ponytail Stevie recognized as it was her own style.

The girl’s hunched posture, hands in pockets and head tilted slightly down, however, radiated insecurity.

Stevie winced at a sudden flash of memory of herself at that age. She’d looked a bit like this, awkward in her own body, embarrassed by everything, quick to joke around to distract people from noticing her inadequacies.

“Hi.” Stevie hoped her smile didn’t show the strain it took to keep it pinned to her cheeks. It wasn’t this kid’s fault Angie had taken a sledgehammer to Stevie’s heart the night before. “I’m Stevie.”

“Um, hi.” The girl looked up with the saddest pair of doe eyes Stevie had ever seen.

Fuck .

“I was wondering if you could maybe use some help in the barn,” said the adorable intruder, each word spoken softly and uncertainly. “I don’t need to be paid if you don’t want to.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck . She didn’t want a kid underfoot in her safe place, especially with the added liability that would put on their insurance, but how would anyone with a heart, damaged or otherwise, be capable of saying no to the request?

Ivy and Freddie reached them at that moment. Ivy unbuckled her helmet and shook out her blond hair, smiling gently. Stevie noted the kid’s sudden blush and didn’t blame her. Ivy was that gorgeous.

“Friend of yours?” Ivy asked Stevie.

“This is . . .”

“Jaq,” the girl supplied.

“Jaq. She wanted to know if we needed any help.”

Ivy’s eyes took in Jaq as she brought Freddie closer.

Stevie wondered if they saw the same thing.

The girl’s attention shifted away from Ivy, and her posture changed completely as she held out a hand for Freddie to sniff.

He lipped her palm, and she smiled shyly with a radiant joy that sealed her fate. Stevie couldn’t turn the kid away now.

“Do you have any horse experience?” Ivy asked.

“A little. My aunt has horses, but she lives in Dexter.”

“That’s a hike,” said Stevie. She remembered what horse fever felt like.

It wasn’t until Morgan’s mother allowed her to help out at the Donovan farm that she’d been able to be near them consistently.

Her family couldn’t afford riding lessons or horse camp or 4-H or any of the other equine activities other kids in her class participated in.

Mrs. Donovan had taught Stevie how to ride and care for horses—and sheep, goats, and chickens.

Without Mrs. Donovan’s kindness, Stevie’s life would look very different.

Fuuuuuuuck . She drew out the curse in her head.

This was one of those horrible “pay it forward” moments that tested a person’s character.

Here was her chance to offer someone else the opportunity that had changed her own life.

Was she really going to pass it up? She rubbed her forehead to soothe the throbbing headache.

“I mean, I suppose we could use a little help.” She looked to Ivy for assistance.