Brenne MacAllen had been in love with Alex Parsons since she was in sixth grade. She remembered the exact moment she’d lost her heart to him. School had let out for summer, and she’d been working with the pony she’d convinced her parents to buy her for Christmas. She’d been riding since she could walk, at first in the saddle with her father, and later on her own, and she’d finally convinced Mama May to let her train this pony herself. She’d spent weeks training the pony to respond to her commands before ever getting into the saddle, then more weeks teaching it how to accept a rider. She’d gotten it to walk. To trot. To canter. Now all it needed to learn to do was gallop.
But Peanut Butter, her Welsh pony, would never transition from canter to gallop. That day, Brenne had been pushing Peanut Butter to do just that, but he’d balked, perhaps spooked by the shout of her brothers raising hell in the field nearby, and she’d bucked, sending Brenne flying off her back. She’d hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of herself, but her helmet had kept her protected, and when she stood and brushed herself off, her pride was what ached worst of all.
Footsteps had pounded in her direction, signaling the arrival of her brothers, Jameson and Johnnie, with Alex between them. When her brothers had seen her standing with all her limbs, they’d launched into teasing, but Alex had rushed to grab Peanut Butter’s lead and bring him back. Then he’d spent the next hour working with Brenne and her pony on galloping, until she’d finally made the transition from canter to full-on gallop, her golden hair streaming in the wind.
In hindsight, it would have been virtually impossible for little Brenne MacAllen not to crush hard on the handsome twenty-two-year-old with a crooked smile and light brown eyes. That day, his tan skin was on display, clad only in a white undershirt and cutoff shorts. He’d been helping her brothers drive in fence posts, and his skin glistened with sweat. When he ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair to push it out of his eyes, Brenne felt her first flush of desire, an acute and innocent longing she hadn’t fully understood.
That desire had remained, had flourished even, as she practically stalked Alex whenever he appeared on the ranch. She’d been happy to risk her brothers’ annoyance if it meant stealing glances of the object of her affection. Alex, for his part, was always polite but had remained oblivious. He’d treated her like he treated his own younger sister. Until that night at the bonfire.
Her eyes had locked onto his and refused to let go. Brenne let her body sway to the music pouring from a speaker lodged between the branches of a tree. Her limbs felt heavy, slow, filled with a languidness that gave her movements a seductive quality she’d seldom harnessed before. Alex did something to her, made her behave in unexpected ways. That night, she’d used that to her advantage. She’d willed him to come to her.
Still, she’d been shocked when he’d walked around the fire to pause at her side. He’d opened his mouth to speak, but Brenne knew that if they started making conversation, she’d lose her chance. So she’d swayed forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close.
His eyes had widened in surprise, but he hadn’t backed away. And that’s when I knew I had him.
Except I didn’t have him. And now I never will.
Scowling, she pressed her heels into the horse’s flank to push it faster. They sped down the trail that led past the cow pasture until it opened up into a wide meadow. That was when she spotted a familiar figure standing before an easel.
Brenne pulled on the reins, slowing her mount. She reached her brother’s vicinity and climbed down, letting Comet graze. Coming up behind Jack, she peered over his shoulder to look at the painting he was laboring over.
“Sister,” he said archly, not bothering to turn around.
“It’s good,” she said, meaning it. He’d managed to capture the starkness of the winter field, rich in dark browns with remnants of green against the bright white sky. It wasn’t hyper-realistic, the soft brushstrokes giving the landscape a somewhat dreamy quality. There was a sense of seeing the scene through the eyes of someone intimately acquainted with every twig and stone.
Jack let out a heavy sigh. “Good enough, I suppose.” He released his brush into a glass half-filled with murky water next to his paint palette on the small table that folded out of his easel. He picked up a rag and wiped at his paint-spattered fingers.
“It really is good,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “They all are.”
He shrugged off the hand and took a step back. “They keep my hands busy when they should be doing other things. Like helping out around here.”
“It’s winter, and with Ryan’s extra pair of hands and Evan’s newfound motivation, things are running smoother than they ever have.” It was true. The farm had never been better. “And with Dad doing so much better, it’s not like you’re stealing time.”
Their father had battled cancer and won. His recovery had been slow, but Bill MacAllen was starting to seem like his normal self again. “I saw him come up behind Mama in the kitchen when he thought no one was looking and nibble on her neck. If that doesn’t indicate a clean bill of health, what does?”
Jack shook his head, but she could see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Now you can see how they ended up with eight kids.” He ran a hand through his hair, the winter sun setting sparks to the hints of auburn in the sea of darker brown. “But you’re right. The farm is in tip-top shape and the old guy has got his vim and vigor back. Which means I’m basically freeloading.”
“You’ve always pulled your weight,” Brenne said. “And no one resents you. You had the toughest job of any of us during Dad’s cancer scare. So many appointments and treatments, late nights, early mornings, by his side through every bout of vomiting and sleeplessness. Dad can be an absolute bear when he’s sick, and you were always patient with him.”
“But like you said, he’s better now. It’s time for me to find something else to do besides wasting my afternoons.” He started to pack up his things into a small backpack.
“For someone known for his easygoing nature, you certainly are hard on yourself.” Brenne frowned. She’d noticed her brother lacking some of his characteristic buffoonery lately. Out of all her brothers, he was the most likely to tell a joke or plan a prank. Now she realized he was going through some sort of crisis. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is I’m getting old,” he said. “Too old not to have a purpose in my life. A career. Maybe even a relationship.”
“You were studying art and teaching painting courses at the community center before Dad’s diagnosis. Why not go back to that?”
“Because that was almost five years ago now. I don’t want to go take classes in something that’s never going to lead to a real career and waste more time.” Jack folded up the easel next, making sure the canvas was secure before tucking it under his arm. He started across the meadow in the direction of the path she’d ridden in on.
Brenne grabbed Comet’s reins and started to lead her horse after him. “You know,” she said, once she’d caught up with him, “you should show your paintings off. Hang them up somewhere, like the saloon or even Rosalyn’s bakery.”