Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (2 page)

“You got me somethin’?” she asked, the heaviness in her heart relaxing as she fell into step beside him.

“Course! You’re twelve. Hell, next year you’ll be a teenager, Gin, and then . . .”

“And then?”

He stopped halfway up the gravel road that led to the main house, the sound of glasses clinking and a fiddle playing bluegrass floating down to them on the breeze.

“And then you’ll be . . . well . . .” He swallowed, dropping his eyes to his shoes.

“Woodman?” she prompted.

He looked up, his cheeks pinker than they’d been before. “Nothin’.”

“You’re actin’ weird.” She smacked his arm lightly and grinned up at him. “Now, ’bout this present . . .”

He smiled, his features relaxing as he dropped her hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pink velvet pouch and offering it to her.

“What is it?” she demanded, reaching for it with an excited giggle.

“Open it and see.”

She pulled the drawstring and opened her hand to catch whatever was inside, sighing “Ohhh!” as a silver charm bracelet caught the setting sun behind them and made the shiny metal sparkle in her palm. “It’s just darlin’!”

“You like it, Gin?”

“I love it!” she said, throwing her arms around Woodman, the bracelet clutched carefully in her fisted hand around his neck.

His arms came around her, his chest pushing into hers like he was holding his breath. After a moment, he exhaled against her neck, and his warm, sweet breath kissed her skin like a promise. She felt her heart kick into a gallop, suddenly aware—all
too
aware—of Woodman’s maleness. His body, pressed into hers, didn’t have the flashy definition of his cousin’s, but it was solid and strong pushed flush against her small breasts.

“I wanted you to have somethin’ special,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear as the picker on top of the hill switched from a bluegrass lullaby to “Sweet Virginia.”

Her skin flushed with heat just as goose bumps popped up along her bare arms. She was cold and hot, and for the first time in her lifelong friendship with Woodman, she felt embarrassed, like a secret that he’d kept from her for years and years was suddenly out in the open. Confused and a little shaken, she stepped away from him, careful not to seek out his eyes and opening her fist to distract herself.

“What all’s on it?” she asked, her voice trembling a little, her body aching for more of something she couldn’t name.

His eyes, which seemed a darker green than ever before, glanced down at the bracelet, as he cleared his throat. “Uh, um, well, a little barn there . . . to remind you of the annual jump. And, uh, an apple. For Apple Valley. That there’s a little banjo, ’cause your pickin’ sure is gettin’ good. I thought that little silver horse looked like Heath. And then there’s . . . a, um . . .”

She looked more closely and noticed a small silver heart behind the horse. “A heart.”

Looking up at Woodman, she felt her own heart flutter with some indescribable emotion caught somewhere between hope and unease as she asked, “Yours or mine?”

He stared at her, his eyes as true and earnest as always, though his cheeks sported a deep pink now. Just this summer she’d noticed the blond hair on his face—the light mustache when he didn’t shave, the stubbly beard along his square jaw at the end of the day, when he was covered in dust from working with Klaus. He was growing up just as fast as Cain, but it hadn’t registered—she hadn’t really
seen
it—until right now.

“Mine,” he whispered, taking the bracelet from her palm and hooking it carefully around her wrist.

***

Two hours later, the party was winding down, and Ginger, who’d blown out her candles with Woodman beside her, stood alone at one of the many white-painted split rail fences on McHuid Farm, looking out over the bright green paddocks as she toyed with the bracelet around her wrist and remembered Woodman’s declaration.

Mine.

She screwed up her face and sighed. She didn’t like it that Woodman, who was her friend—her most beloved friend in all the world—had made her feel such confusing things this afternoon. She didn’t like it that her cheeks had gotten so hot while they’d hugged. She didn’t like it that she was suddenly so aware of the fact that he was growing into a man. Their mothers had practically planned a union between them since Ginger was born, but Ginger didn’t see Woodman like that. He was the big brother she’d never had, her most treasured friend, a safe place when her feelings about Cain felt so confusing.

Turning away from the fence, she ambled slowly back up to the main house, relieved to see her grandmother sitting alone on the front porch swing of her tiny cottage, located a stone’s throw from McHuid Manor.

“Gran!” she shouted, quickening her pace. She’d barely seen her grandmother—her father’s mother—all day, and, after Woodman, Gran was her very closest friend.

Kelleyanne McHuid had moved into the in-law cottage after Ginger’s parents were married, way before Ginger was born, which meant that she’d been a permanent fixture at McHuid’s throughout Ginger’s childhood. Though—she wrinkled her nose with worry—she didn’t know for how much longer. Recently, Ginger had heard her mother and father discussing Gran in hushed tones behind closed doors. Gran suffered from Parkinson’s, and Ginger’s mother seemed to feel that she needed “more care” than they could provide at home, while Ginger’s father refused to discuss putting his mother into a “damned home” yet. It worried Ginger near constantly to think of losing her Gran to the nursing home in town.

“Here’s the birthday girl!” said Gran, patting the seat cushion beside her with a trembling hand. Gran’s whole body trembled lately. More and more every day. Her eyes lowered to the bracelet around Ginger’s wrist, and she grinned. “Whatcha got there, doll baby?”

“Gift from Woodman,” said Ginger, feeling her cheeks flush.

“Awful pretty,” said Gran, reaching for the bracelet, her shaking fingers making it jingle as she looked at each one of the charms. “And awful thoughtful. Josiah’s a good boy.”

Just about everyone called Woodman Woodman except Gran and sometimes Cain. Gran insisted on calling him by his Christian name. Cain used Josiah and Woodman interchangeably, with no real rhyme or reason that Ginger could follow.

“Rumor is you’re gonna marry him someday,” said Kelleyanne to her granddaughter, her sixty-something blue eyes merry. “But what do
you
say?”

Ginger giggled self-consciously, thinking about her grandmother’s question, something clenching in her twelve-year-old heart as she thought about marrying sensible Woodman and abandoning her wild feelings for Cain.

“I don’t know,” she said, feeling her forehead crease in confusion.

“Or maybe you’re thinkin’ you want to marry . . . Cain,” said Gran softly.

Cain, with his jet-black hair and ice-blue eyes, appeared like a vision before her, and Ginger’s heart thumped faster. The way he’d run off to see Mary-Louise Walker this afternoon made her brown eyes spitting green with jealousy. The way he swaggered made her breath catch. Woodman was so predictable, so safe in comparison.

Then again, Woodman hadn’t exactly been predictable this afternoon, had he? He’d surprised her with the gift and even more with his words. His body had been hard and warm when he’d held her, the embrace awakening something new and foreign within her. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted. Something that didn’t feel safe and even scared her a little bit. She pulled her fingers away from the charm bracelet and faced her Gran.

“What do I do if I love them both?”

Her grandmother’s eyes, which had been mostly teasing, flinched, and her mouth tilted down in a sympathetic frown, which made her face seem so serious and sober.

“
Choose
, doll baby,” said Gran. “Someday you’ll have to choose.”

The same feeling that she’d had in the barn, when Cain yelled, “Jump to the one you love the most, darlin’!” flared up within her—a fierce refusal to love one cousin more than the other, to give up one in lieu of the other.

Choose?
Her memories skated back through a dozen years on McHuid Farm that had always included Cain and Woodman. When they were little children, they played together, swimming buck naked in the creek and racing over the green hills and pastures in impromptu games of tag. As the boys grew up, they started working with Cain’s daddy, Klaus, who was her father’s right-hand man, mucking out the stables and grooming the horses. She’d run down to the barn every day after her lessons to see them, working right along beside them until they were all covered in hay, dust, and barn grime.

Though the Wolframs weren’t generally included in the McHuids’ active social life, the Woodmans were, which meant that, in addition to seeing Cain and Woodman on the farm, she also saw Woodman at every holiday and birthday party . . . and they always managed to slip out unseen with some smuggled sweets for Cain.

They were the Three Musketeers of McHuid Farm, and Ginger knew both boys as well as she knew herself—Cain’s smirking, hotheaded, impulsive ways, and Woodman’s levelheaded patience, caution, and kindness. Regardless of their differences, she also knew that as the only children of twin sisters, Cain and Woodman were much closer than most cousins. Genetically speaking, they were half brothers, and while they surely liked to tease and torture each other, each boy wouldn’t hesitate to jump in front of a train to save the other’s skin either.

In Ginger’s mind, she envisioned them like two halves of the same coin that she held carefully in the palm of her hand.

She loved them both desperately.

Choose?

No
, her heart protested.
Impossible.

“What if I can’t?” she whispered, leaning back and resting her head on her grandmother’s comforting shoulder.

“Then you’ll lose them both,” said her grandmother softly.

Ginger’s shoulders fell, relaxing in surrender as she closed her eyes against the burn of tears.

“But don’t let’s think about that now, doll baby,” said Gran, leaning her head upon her granddaughter’s, the constant tremble of her unpredictable body almost soothing to Ginger as they rocked side by side in the twilight. “You’re just twelve today. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

~ Cain ~

“Ginger, jump to me!” yelled Woodman from beside him.

Cain glanced up at little Ginger, twelve years old today, standing two stories above him in the hayloft. Though his feet twitched to hightail it to the old abandoned Glenn River Distillery, he forced himself not to look at his watch. Whatever time it was, Mary-Louise would still be waiting for him when he got there. He was sure of it.

Last time they were together, she’d guided his fingers down to the slick nub of flesh between her legs, and he’d rubbed it until she’d screamed his name. To reward him, she’d gotten on her knees and sucked his cock into her pretty mouth, making him come in about three minutes flat and backhanding her mouth after swallowing every last bit. And damn if he hadn’t gotten hard again right away because it was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

And tonight? Well, if Cain had his way, tonight they were finally going to do the deed. Have sex. Fuck. Hell, he’d even
make love
if that’s what Mary-Louise required of him. He’d been watching the breeding horses on McHuid Farm for as long as he could walk. Tonight, it was his turn, and he was about as jazzed up as a fifteen-year-old kid could be. It was
on
. It was fucking
happening
.

Cain shoved thoughts of Mary-Louise from his mind and grinned up at Princess Ginger in her tower. “Now, Miss Virginia, you ignore ole Woodman here and you jump to me, baby.”

He and Woodman had engaged in this princess-in-the-tower tradition every year since they’d found the boss’s daughter perched in the hayloft door on her sixth birthday. Cain willingly admitted that it was sort of a stupid ritual, but something had made him come here and hang out by the old barn all afternoon, waiting for Ginger and Woodman to break away from the party, even if it made him late for Mary-Louise. And damn if he hadn’t had to work to keep his face from splitting into a grin when he saw them running down the hill toward the barn hand in hand. It wasn’t like loafing around the McHuids’ barn on a Sunday afternoon was a barrel of laughs so he’d kept his expression lazy, but inside he’d been rubbing his hands together with glee because the truth was, he loved this tradition just as much as he loved Woodman and Ginger. It made him happy, when not much else did.

Why should he be happy? His parents sure as shit weren’t happy—they’d alternated between yelling at each other and giving each other the silent treatment for fifteen long, unhappy years. By the age of six, Cain knew that theirs hadn’t been a love match—fuck, they barely tolerated each other. His father, Klaus, had come over from Austria in 1989 after working on the state stud farm of the Lipizzan stallions. He’d accompanied one of the studs to Kentucky to be bred at McHuid’s, seen Cain’s pretty momma at the Apple Valley Diner, gotten her pregnant, unenthusiastically—if the wedding pictures buried in his mother’s sweater drawer were any indication—married her, and stayed in Apple Valley to raise their son.

Meanwhile, Cain’s Aunt Sophie, his mother’s twin, had married the fucking president of the Apple Valley Savings and Loan a month before his parents, and the entire town acted like
their
wedding was the second coming. (How did he know this? Well, for one thing,
those
wedding pictures weren’t hidden in a sweater drawer. About three hundred and eighty six gazillion of them were in ornate silver frames, jammed together on the grand piano at his aunt’s house.) And actually, no, the wedding
wasn’t
the second coming.
That
blessed event had come nine months later, when Josiah—fair-fucking-haired Josiah—was born. Josiah, who loved horses so much, he had slowly but surely become the son that Klaus had never had in Cain. While Cain was always running off to smoke cigarettes behind the Five and Dime Mart or meet girls at the abandoned distillery, goody-two-shoes Josiah—or Woodman, as everyone called him—was at McHuid’s, becoming Klaus’s right-hand man. And while Cain had no actual proof that his father loved Josiah more than him, he was pretty sure it was true. And while he didn’t hate Josiah for it (his father was owed that honor), he couldn’t deny that it hurt.

So his parents’ marriage was doomed from the start, he was just short of a bastard, his aunt and uncle were local celebrities, and Woodman was worshipped almost as much as the baby Jesus.

Fuckin’ fantastic.

Last but not least,
ring-a-ding-fuckin’-ding
, while Klaus’s marriage was a bust, his partnership with Ranger McHuid was a horse-breeding match made in heaven. In fact, as the years passed, the McHuid horses had become such a passion for Cain’s father that his wife and son became little more than an afterthought in his life. And it made Cain hate his father and hate horses. Add Ranger McHuid’s ambivalence toward him and Miz Magnolia’s refusal to include him and his family in her stupid parties since the year Ginger broke her arm, he pretty much hated everything about McHuid’s.

Well, everything . . . except Ginger.

“Be smart, Gin,” said Woodman.

Cain snorted, looking at his cousin in his fancy-pants party shirt. “You think your scrawny arms gonna catch her?”

Woodman frowned, his brows creasing, and Cain had it in him to feel bad. Even though Klaus appeared to prefer his nephew over his son, which had set up a natural rivalry between them, Cain couldn’t bring himself to hate Josiah. Without the benefit of a brother or sister, Woodman was all he had, and deep down Cain loved his cousin as much as he could love anyone in the world. Woe to the fucker who messed with Josiah ’cause Cain would end him, but that didn’t mean that he himself didn’t love getting under Woodman’s skin a little.

Cain pulled off his denim jacket and flexed his muscles, winking at Ginger. “Jump to me, sweet thing.”

Woodman scowled at him before turning his eyes back to Ginger. “Come on, now.”

Something in Woodman’s voice—something
sappy
—distracted Cain, and he turned to his cousin, narrowing his eyes as he noted the earnest look in Woodman’s eyes and the rigidity of his open palms as he stared up with devotion at the little girl in the hayloft door. Ginger had always been like a little sister to them, but something in Woodman’s voice felt different. And it definitely
didn’t
feel very brotherly.

Cain glanced up at Ginger, then back at his cousin’s devoted expression.

Nah
, he thought quickly.
She’s just a kid. Woodman doesn’t like her like that. He couldn’t. She’s just a kid. Just Princess Ginger.

But he looked at his cousin’s face yet again, and as the unavoidable truth sank in, he kept himself from rolling his eyes. How had Cain missed this? All those times Woodman had Heath saddled and ready for Ginger with an eager smile . . . or spent an extra hour combing the chocolate-colored mare . . . or hell, the way he always insisted on mucking out Heath’s stall before Ginger came down to the barn . . . Well, Cain had just assumed that he was being his usual eager-beaver self. But, oh Lord, there was more to it. It was for Ginger. Woodman
liked
her. Liked a kid. Liked the little princess.

Smirking with amusement, Cain decided to test his theory, winking at Ginger before training his eyes on Woodman to gauge his cousin’s reaction.

“Jump to the one you love the most, darlin’,” he called.

Sure enough, Woodman’s jaw clenched, and his cheek ticked anxiously, flinching as he waited for Ginger to choose between them.

Bingo.

“Dang it, Cain! Now you went’n wrecked it!”

Cain watched his cousin’s shoulders relax, then turned to look up at Ginger, grinning at her frowny face.

“What’d I do?”

Aside from discovering that my cousin has a ginormous crush on you, little girl.

“You know I can’t choose between y’all. Not like that. That’s not how it works!” she yelled, then disappeared from sight, no doubt coming downstairs to give him what-for.

Woodman turned to face him. “Nice goin’, jackass.”

Cain grinned at Woodman, wondering how far he could take his teasing before getting decked. “Someone has a little crush.”

“Shut up, Cain.”

“She’s practically still in nursery school.”

“I said shut up.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“About her? You bet your ass. And in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not such a little kid anymore,” said Woodman, thoroughly annoyed.

“And you’re thinkin’ . . . what? You want to be her boyfriend?”

His face was entirely serious as he answered, “Someday, yes.”

“You stakin’ a claim here, Josiah?” he drawled, trying not to laugh.

“Yes.” His cousin’s eyes were grave and serious, and his voice carried the tone of a man taking a vow. “I am.” He paused for a moment, staring at Cain, then asked, “You got a problem with that?”

“Nope.”

“Sure? Because I’m serious about this. About her.”

“Serious about a little kid?” said Cain, a snicker escaping as he slapped Woodman on the back. “Hell, cuz, you ain’t gonna get any honey from that little hive for a long, long time while I got a real woman waitin’ for me. Frankly, I just feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t mind the wait,” said Woodman softly. “I’m . . . well, I’m goin’ to marry her someday. I’ll wait for her forever if I have to.” He shrugged Cain’s hand away before snapping, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Cain nodded, still chuckling at Woodman’s ridiculous crush. “Yup.”

“Were you even
invited
here today?”

“Nope.”

They both knew he wasn’t.

“Surprised
you
made the cut,” said Cain, unable to keep a slight bite out of his tone, “with the amount of time you spend muckin’ horse shit with my dad.”

Woodman crossed his arms over his chest, looking imperious. “I’m here with my folks today, not as a stablehand.”

“Of course you are,” said Cain, feeling sour. He flicked a glance at the sparkling gold high school ring on Josiah’s finger. Cain’s parents hadn’t been able to afford one for him, and since Cain was saving up for a pair of wheels, he’d gone without. “With the pretty hands to prove it.”

“Hey, now.” Woodman held up one callused palm. “My hands are just as--”

Princess Ginger suddenly appeared in the doorway of the barn with her hands on her hips and her face heaps of mad.

“Ain’t jumpin’ today?” asked Cain smoothly, cutting off his cousin.

He didn’t want to hear about how Woodman worked just as hard as he did. Whereas working at McHuid’s was bread and butter for Cain and Cain’s family, Josiah saw his work at McHuid’s more along the lines of a hobby. Cain and his father were there out of necessity. Woodman was there because he enjoyed it. There was a world of difference in their calluses, and Cain didn’t feel like comparing them.

“Y’all are supposed to catch me together!” Ginger pouted, folding her arms over her chest.

Her chest.

Wait a minute now.

Her . . .
chest.

Little Ginger had a chest: two small mounds tented the front of her yellow and white sundress. When the hell had
that
happened?

Lifting his eyes quickly, he fixed a grin on his face. “Well, darlin’, at least your momma won’t come after us with a danged fryin’ pan this year.”

His cousin stepped toward her and wrested her arms apart, sliding his hand down Ginger’s tan arm to clasp her fingers. But Ginger didn’t seem to notice—her eyes were locked with Cain’s.

Again, Cain felt a small, but certain, jolt of surprise as he looked deeply into her deep brown eyes, framed with long lashes, curled at the ends. Was that eyeliner she was wearing? And mascara? When had Princess Ginger started wearing makeup anyway? And when had her eyes gotten so mature lookin’?

“Shouldn’t be jumpin’ out of barn doors anymore anyway,” said Woodman, his voice as tender as his gaze was cow-eyed. “You’re twelve now. A young lady.”

Ginger looked up at Woodman, her pretty eyes resting on his face for a moment, and something totally unexpected, incredibly ridiculous, and a lot like jealousy flared within Cain.

“A young lady!” he exclaimed, leaning down to grab his jean jacket and shrug it over his broad shoulders, uncomfortable with the way he was feeling. “Whoo-ee! What a joke! Woodman, you only see what you want to see, cuz!”

“She’s
twelve
,” said Woodman through grated teeth, a murderous glint in his eyes.

“’Zactly!
Twelve.
She’s a kid.” Whether he needed to prove the point to her or himself, he wasn’t sure, but Cain chucked her under the chin as he would a baby. “And if you ain’t jumpin’, missy, I’ve got places to be.”

Her brown eyes flashed. “But there’s cake!”

“Got somethin’ sweeter’n cake waitin’ for me,” said Cain, forcing his eyes not to drop to her small breasts again.
Mary-Louise. Mary-Louise and her big available titties are waitin’. The princess is just a slip of a kid. Just a kid.
“Not to mention, we all know I ain’t invited to Miz Magnolia’s festivities.”