Curiosity too much to endure, she asked warily, “What kind of grudge?”
“According to him, the kind that spans a few decades.”
“Now, why would my father hold any resentment against you?” she questioned sweetly, the twang in her accent a bit thicker than normal.
“I purchased my property from your granddaddy, Mr. Walker Senior, thirty-five years ago. Ranchers in these parts had a rough few years, plagued with the worst drought on record. I caught him at a weak moment.”
“Didn’t that rough patch include you too?” she asked, openly intrigued.
He added a bold smile alongside another husky chuckle filling his broad barrel chest. “Ranching’s a hobby for me. I made my fortune in sustainable architecture…before it was the popular thing to do.”
His crowing coaxed a sigh of irritation from his son. “Dad, I hate to interrupt, but like I told you earlier, I’ve got plans this afternoon, so I don’t have all day. Why don’t we let Ember finish her shopping?”
Plans? All the questions whirling through her mind about her father and Mr. Harris vanished, leaving her with thoughts of Nash, wondering what kind of plans he had for the day.
Business or pleasure?
Mr. Harris scowled, grumbling under his breath, rattling off a list of complaints as he forced himself to the standing position. “First, he agrees to bring me here, then he tells me to hurry because he’s busy today.”
“Maybe you caught him at a weak moment,” Ember mused softly.
His scowl lifted into an amiable smile, eyes gleaming with endorsement.
She wasn’t sure who appreciated her humorous comment more, Nash or his father. Judging by the full-blown grin warming Nash’s handsome features, she’d say him.
Leaning on his crutch, Mr. Harris forced himself upright, glancing at her boots. He hobbled down the aisle, spouting, “Those boots won’t last two months in the saddle. What size you got there?”
“I’m an eight. What would you suggest?”
He scanned over the boots, pulling out a box of the most expensive pair on the entire row. “Nice, soft leather, low heel, these’ll do you just fine.”
Ember grimaced reading the sticker, putting the box back on the rack. “I’m sure they’re great, but they’re too expensive.”
Nash stood behind her. He leaned over her shoulder, the warmth of his breath made her flinch, saying in a low, sarcastic tone, “I’m pretty sure you can afford them.”
Her face stiffened. Twisting her neck, she shot him a dark glance, muttering, “I don’t think you have any idea what I can or can’t afford.”
The crescent shape of his dark lashes laid on his tan cheeks as he looked down at her, blue eyes full of surprise. He looked…baffled. Judging by the shock covering his face, it hadn’t occurred to Nash that she wasn’t diving headfirst into the ranch’s money.
Mr. Harris had left them behind, making it halfway to the door. Nash rested a hand on her shoulder sending her into an instant thaw.
He had the nerve to look apologetic.
She had the nerve to accept it.
Energy danced between them filling her gut with unfamiliar dips and spins and twirls.
“And here I thought I about had it whipped.” Remorse teased the far corners of his voice.
“What’s that?”
“I almost made it through the entire encounter without being a jerk.”
Ember pressed her lips together. She dipped her head hiding the embarrassment burning across her cheeks in a crimson flush. A slight bobble of the head. “You’re never going to forget that are you?”
“Nope.”
A few days later, the sun began its slow descent plunging toward the horizon in the distance, calling Ember to the front porch. Opening the door, she almost stumbled over a large package tucked inside a pink paisley gift bag.
Setting her mat on the floor, she collected the present and sank back into a rocking chair. The bulky package barely fit across her lap. There was no card inside the bag just a tag dangling from the handle made from silky pink ribbons.
Ember,
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Mr. H
Glancing from side to side, she looked around discreetly, wondering which Mr. H had left the gift on her doorstep. She assumed senior. Reaching into the bag, she took out a box and tore open the plain brown paper.
“Holy shit,” she murmured, pulling a pair of ultra-soft, cognac colored roper boots from the box. The vamp left unadorned showcased the hand-burnished calfskin leather.
Kicking out of her sneakers, she stepped into the comfy boots, making a few passes from one end of the porch to the other.
“Perfect fit.” She grinned, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear, glancing down at the gorgeous gift. “How sweet is he?”
Knowing how sensitive Mr. Montgomery was about receiving presents, she tiptoed inside and disposed of the bag in the trash, before tucking the boots into her closet.
Chapter 8
Ember
Dream big, set goals, take action and NEVER let them see you sweat.
A tear slid down her cheek as the tips of her fingers traced over the worn leather-bound journal. With the turn of each page, her father’s handwriting became more and more difficult to read. Letters and words began to stretch out with occasional long lazy loops and sketchy wobbles.
It pained her heart to know he suffered. She wished she could’ve known him, spent time with him, taken care of him. There was no doubt in her mind, she would’ve loved him.
The chime of the doorbell drew her out of her daze. Ember set the book on her bedside table, tossed the covers aside, and crawled out of bed. Plodding down the hallway in a vintage AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, she raked her fingers through her mane of dark hair, removing any tangles before opening the door.
Peering through the peephole, all she could see was a black velvet hat.
“Hello.” She opened the door, finding a man wearing boots, jeans, and stern look of purpose.
“Ember Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been served.” He handed off a manila envelope, tipping his hat politely acting as if using proper manners would make up for the delivery. “Have a nice day.”
Trepidation drained the pleasantries from each tiny muscle on her face. Early morning sun warmed her bare feet as she stood on the porch, paralyzed, unable to react. Her fingers worked clumsily, attempting to open the envelope which was apparently tamperproof because it wasn’t budging.
She trudged inside and threw open a kitchen drawer searching for a pair of scissors.
“Good morning,” Bee chimed, reaching for the coffee pot to fill Mr. Montgomery’s thermos. “Did I hear the doorbell ring?”
Ember held up the packet of papers, grumbling, “Yeah, I’ve been served.”
“Let me see that.” Mr. Montgomery was at her side in three strides. He took the envelope from her unsteady fingers, making haste with the scissors, yanking the thin packet of papers from its confines.
Pressure started to build turning his face cherry red, steam practically pouring from his ears.
Her fingers wrung together in tight circles. “What does it say?”