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  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  A sigh slipped through my lips. “I know. I want to take care of you. I want you to move out to California so we can be closer, but I know you’re happy here,” I told him. “Which means I want you to be able to stay here safely.”

  “I’m not a fucking child!”

  I sat back, the force of the loud outburst shocking after the quiet argument of the previous minutes.

  The same old pattern.

  Why was I surprised?

  Push, push, explode.

  A deep, deep breath. Old pain shoved down. Calm words grasped onto by the tips of my fingernails.

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  His chest rose and fell in rapid gusts, the beep-beep, beep-beep of his pulse pinging through the speakers of the monitors.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Yes.”

  No hesitation. No delay. Just one sharp syllable, and I was again wondering why I kept doing this. Why I continued trying to make something full and rich and . . . warm with my father when it wouldn’t be.

  Oh, I thought he loved me in his own way.

  But that was rough with barbed edges and wholly dependent on me following the rules he set out and believed made for a full life.

  I didn’t want that.

  Never had. Never would.

  Thus, the crux of our dissent—one that would never be fixed.

  Two stubborn Allens, each a separate planet in their own orbit who would never collide. Never connect.

  I pushed to my feet. “Goodnight, Dad.” I headed for the door.

  “Good riddance.” A soft utterance, but one that still reached my ears.

  One that sliced and stabbed, even though I wanted to be impervious. I reached for the handle, tugged the door open.

  “I love you.”

  I didn’t wait for a reply.

  Because I knew one wouldn’t come anyway.

  Five

  Aaron

  I heard the gravel before I saw the lights.

  Much later than I expected, given that visiting hours had been over more than four hours earlier, and also based on the knowledge that Warren and Maggie together were oil and water.

  Five minutes. Ten tops until they were at each other’s throats.

  Until Maggie stormed off, hurt masked by anger.

  Predictable as a summer heat wave, as my body’s attraction to hers.

  A flash of light shining through the thin panel of curtains that adorned the windows in the bunkhouse. They weren’t designed to keep out illumination, the ranch hands needing to rise with the sun.

  But the bunkhouse wasn’t used for temporary workers—here for the summer and helping with the cattle—any longer.

  Hills empty of cows, no hay bales to disperse in the winter or troughs to check and ensure the water inside wasn’t frozen through. The ranch was quiet, a soft and peaceful expanse of peaks and valleys that had been earned by a man’s hard work.

  To the detriment of many other things.

  I got that now.

  Still liked the tough old bastard, but I knew he hadn’t made things easy on Maggie, just as I knew it had factored into her decision to leave and to stay away.

  It wasn’t fair to put the blame solely on her. Or Warren, for that matter.

  Not when I’d had my own part in motivating Maggie’s flight.

  The understanding that came with adulthood was a heavy thing. But it still didn’t erase the past. Didn’t make what she’d done okay. Maybe I got why she’d felt it necessary to go, but—

  She’d left without me.

  Of course, she’d also asked me to go with her before school had gotten out for the summer—

  “Fuck,” I said.

  I couldn’t have gone. Just uproot my life and—

  “Fuck,” I said again, the swirling of thoughts that had kept me up for the last hours quieting with the realization that the lights hadn’t moved. They shone through my window, illuminating the nearly empty space as her car idled outside.

  I sat up, pushed out of bed, and went to the door. Mags was parked in front of the bunkhouse, the engine running in her rental, headlights shining bright, her profile silhouetted through the car’s passenger side window. Or part of her profile anyway. She had her forehead resting against the steering wheel, hands fisted around it.

  And she wasn’t moving.

  Fuck.

  This time I only said it in my head.

  I still stepped back into the bunkhouse, shoved my feet into my boots, and walked toward her car anyway. Gravel crunched, the engine growled, the quiet of the night fully broken. But the disturbance of peace wasn’t why I kept walking.

  Moth to a flame.

  That was me.

  I rounded the hood, heading toward her door, and paused, waiting to see if she’d feel me standing there.

  If the invisible thread tying us together was still in place for her, too.

  I found it was.

  The moment I stopped walking, she lifted her head, neck swiveling until her eyes met mine.

  Heat.

  Desire.

  Fury.

  All flooded my gut, my heart, my mind, even as I stared into her eyes and saw . . . nothing.

  She was blank.

  I knew that look, and it had me reaching for the door handle, hauling it open, knowing exactly what caused it.

  She didn’t move or turn away as I reached for the keys, as I rotated them and turned off the engine. Hot breath on my cheek, peaches and spice in my nose. I inhaled, pulling her scent deep into my lungs then clenching my jaw against the furious need to shift closer, to press my nose to her throat, to nuzzle in, and let her smell wash over me.

  Her fingers would come to my hair, nails biting at my scalp, encouraging me closer, until her mouth found mine.

  I snaked a hand out, pressed the latch on her seat belt, and retreated.

  She was leaving. She might be luscious and prettier as an almost thirty-year-old woman, but . . . she couldn’t be trusted.

  Maggie released a shuddering breath that told me enough.

  The tie was absolutely still there.

  The troubled glance those brown eyes sent my way said she knew it was, too, and that she understood, just like me, the link that was still present was dangerous for us both.

  She shifted, turning in her seat to retrieve a small duffle bag from behind the passenger seat. “Aaron,” she said, tone empty, even as those eyes remained troubled.

  “Mags.”

  She pushed out of the car, slammed the door. “Why are you here?”

  I studied her face, the way her gaze never quite met mine. “I’m living in the bunkhouse.” Had been living there on and off for years, staying any time I was in town. In the beginning because I’d felt some obligation to watch out for whatever fragile connections I had left with Maggie’s dad, and I’d pitched in as necessary on the ranch. Later, as my wine business grew, as I became more restless to figure out my place in the world. France? California? Italy? None had quite fit, and inevitably I always came home looking for . . . connection. Or maybe it was shared experience. Warren had nearly been my father-in-law, he’d experienced the same loss. He understood the hole Maggie left.

  He knew how furious it could make a man.

  We could commiserate together.

  We could turn into ornery bastards together.

  Or maybe that was just me.

  “I—” A shake of her head. “You’re living in the bunkhouse?”

  I shrugged.

  “For how long?”

  Another shrug. “A while.”

  Her eyes flitted to mine, away. “And when I come to visit?”

  “It’s twice a year, Mags,” I told her. “Not that hard to make sure we’re not here at the same time. Not that hard to get out of town.”

  “Get out of—” She shouldered her bag, hurt drifting across her expression before it was carefully tucked away. “Never mind. I-I’m going
to bed. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, so don’t worry about getting out of town to get away from me. I’ll save you the trouble.”

  “You’re good at leaving.”

  Chin lifting, shoulders straightening . . . numb was back.

  Only this time it was from me, not her dad.

  I tried to ignore how that made me feel, opened my mouth to tell her—

  “You’re right,” she said quietly. “Good night.” She bleeped the locks on the car, a habit she must have picked up in California because no one locked their doors in Campbell, Utah—car, tractor, house or otherwise.

  “Mags,” I said when she’d reached the bottom step.

  She stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “It’s because he missed you.”

  Not the words I’d intended to say, the ones reminding her that the power in the kitchen could be finicky and to reset the breaker if there was an issue with the toaster in the morning.

  Instead, I’d said that.

  Instead, I’d said something where I didn’t know if the he I was referring to was me or her dad.

  I held my breath, watching as she stood statue still for several long seconds. Then she unstuck, walked up the three steps leading to the front door, and pushed inside. The wooden panel closed behind her, another snick telling me her locking habits had extended to front doors as well.

  A light in the hall flicked on.

  Then off.

  Another turned on in her old bedroom. Stayed on.

  I should have gone to bed, crunched my way over to the bunkhouse and gone to bed.

  Instead, I waited until the light finally went off.

  Only then did I head back inside and try to go to sleep.

  Try being the operative word.

  Because every time I closed my eyes, I could see the blank expression that had slid into place at my admission.

  Numb. From me.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  It did . . . and I hated myself because of it.

  I stumbled across the gravel toward the main house, eyes blurry, bare feet in my boots, mind desperately needing a cup of coffee.

  The sun was way too bright, even though I’d missed my normal wakeup time by several hours because of my inability to sleep the night before. I had a shit-ton of emails to hit, then the hospital to get to. Warren would be anxious to get home, and the doctor who’d seen him had said he could come home early afternoon.

  I needed to make sure he had food, that his bed was clean, and nothing was around that he’d trip over, especially in his more fragile state.

  Reaching for the doorknob and smiling because I knew exactly what he would think of being described as fragile, even if it was just a temporary state, I stopped and stared dumbly at the hunk of metal when it didn’t shift in my hand.

  I twisted it again.

  It didn’t move.

  More staring. More foggy brain trying to process why the knob wasn’t turning before I remembered Maggie and her newfound habit of locking things.

  Stifling a groan, I shuffled my way over to the pot of dying flowers in one corner, the arrangement having been bright and colorful six months before when Maggie had planted it but was now a collection of crispy and dry leaves and broken petals because Warren hadn’t bothered to water it.

  I sighed, knowing there was way too much to unpack there for my uncaffeinated brain, and kicked the pot to the side, revealing the spare key underneath.

  Into the lock, hearing and feeling the click as it disengaged.

  Pushing into the entry, stumbling to the kitchen, opening a cabinet to grab the coffee grounds, and—

  Finding it empty.

  What in the actual fuck?

  I blinked, frowned at the perfectly-coffee-bag-sized hole in the line of food. Pancake mix, sugar, greasing spray, salt and pepper, missing coffee bag, a tidy row of spices that I knew for a fact Warren didn’t use.

  But no coffee.

  “Looking for this?”

  I swiveled to the side, saw Mags leaning against the counter, the bag of coffee in her hand. I watched as she filled the pot to brew, replaced the carafe, and started the machine.

  A hiss.

  A bubble.

  The rich smell of caffeine hitting my nose.

  One inhale, and I was well on my way to being alert. Or, at least more human and less zombie.

  “You’re still the same in the morning,” she said softly.

  I’d been contemplating making myself a piece of toast. The company that Mags had hired to look out for the place included a Larry.

  Larry could shovel snow—when he didn’t throw out his back and rely on his teenage son to complete the task. A fact that I’d discovered the previous day when Larry had heard the news of what had happened to Warren and had hobbled his way into the waiting room, beyond guilty and pissed at his son.

  Who was bound for some serious grounding, I figured.

  But I’d been a teenager many moons before. I got it. Sometimes teenagers were idiots and didn’t think stuff through. Larry’s son clearly hadn’t expected Warren, post four heart attacks and on increasingly shaky feet, to undertake a huge shoveling job.

  The concrete was new.

  That was what Warren had told me anyway, a dip into his savings with a concrete driveway planned for the spring.

  I thought it was smart. Easier for Warren to get in and out, better for any deliveries or visitors to not have to navigate the gravel, and inevitably as time went on, the mud.

  I had not anticipated that Warren would think it necessary to not have his concrete “ruined” by the snowfall, whatever that meant. So, instead of shoveling the walk liked I’d considered before dismissing the idea because the grounds team always came on Friday afternoons, I’d gone to town to meet with a new client. And Larry hadn’t come.

  Larry’s son hadn’t come.

  And Warren had decided to shovel the walk.

  A freak fucking snowstorm that week had led to me coming back to the ranch to find him sprawled on the “new” concrete, leg twisted in a direction it shouldn’t be, and his lips a scary shade of purple.

  Now Maggie was back.

  Mags who was interrupting my contemplation of Larry and all his skills, which also included bread making and canning.

  Delicious sourdough. Peach preserves.

  I was fantasizing about that almost as much as the coffee. Or maybe, the lack of caffeine was making my mind malfunction.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t think the malfunction was stimulant-related . . . hell, it was most definitely stimulant-related, just of the heart and cock variety rather than the caffeinated version.

  “Drink.” A mug appeared in front of my nose.

  My fingers had grasped it, bringing it to my lips before I even processed the movement. Then delicious black coffee was hitting my tongue. Like the scent wafting up to my nose, the taste alone helped me shake off the remnants of sleep.

  I wasn’t totally awake, but I was pretty damned close.

  Finishing the rest of my mug in a few big gulps, I finally took in the sight of the kitchen.

  Maggie was wearing a pair of sweats and a baggy T-shirt, her feet in socks, her long black hair pulled into a ponytail that was less about containment and more about loosely holding back her locks from her face as they scattered this way and that over her nape. But it was the countertops that had thrown me for a loop, perhaps even more than my brain before coffee.

  Okay, not that bad.

  But I definitely wasn’t prepared for there to be multiple foil-wrapped packages lined up on the counters.

  “Is that—?” I shook myself, forgot about sourdough and peach preserves. “Is that cinnamon apple bread?”

  The barest ghost of a smile on the counter. “For you? Yes.” She began loading the loaves into a bag. “But you have to promise to stow them in the bunkhouse, since Dad can’t eat them on his diet.”

  I set my mug down in a h
urry when she extended the bag toward me. “I promise,” I said, mouth already salivating in memory of the deliciousness that awaited. This was, hands down, my favorite thing she’d ever cooked. And considering she’d grown up with a father who could sear the deliciousness out of anything from vegetables to meat to pancakes, she’d started practicing early. She’d gotten good, but the best thing she’d created was cinnamon apple bread. “But you know he’ll sniff it out.”

  A chuckle, but reserved, unlike her laughter from before she’d left home. “I made a low-fat variety.” She nodded at the loaves on the opposite counter. “Yours will be safe,” she added when I must have made the skepticism in my mind clear on my face. “You can’t taste the difference, I swear.”

  My Spidey senses tingled. “Why not just make them all that way?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t have enough ingredients to make two batches.”

  Hmm.

  Plausible, but something was telling me that wasn’t the whole story. I turned, refilled my mug as I pondered that. Something in her tone was off, but Mags was stubborn, and direct contact never served to get me the answers I wanted.

  She began gathering the other loaves, stowing some in the freezer, putting a couple in a different bag, leaving one on the counter before wiping down the tiles and starting in on the dishes. “I’m going to get dressed, drop these off with Tammy at the station. Then I’ll get Dad home, check in with Larry and make sure this doesn’t happen again—”

  “Larry threw his back out.”

  Mag’s lips parted. “Oh no.”

  “His son was supposed to clear the walk, but he didn’t come.”

  A nod. “Right. Well, I’ll talk to Larry and make sure he knows to contact the agency to cover any gaps rather than relying on the minimal sense that a teenage boy possesses.”

  I grinned, in complete agreement with her on that. “Okay.”

  Another nod. “Right. So, I’ll make sure Dad is settled and take off, get out of his and your hair.” She went to the cabinet, grabbed a mug out, and I frowned.

  “You drink coffee now?”

  Mags made a face. “Still can’t stand the stuff.” She nodded at a kettle I knew was only used when she was in town because Warren sure as hell didn’t have any desire for a drink that wasn’t coffee or beer. “Tea for me.”