Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (36 page)

“I don’t know,” he growled, huffing out a breath and feeling like shit.

He missed her.

That was his fucking reality.

He missed her, and he thought about her nonstop, all the time.

Klaus had visited his family in Austria while Cain spent Christmas Eve and Day with his mother, thanking the Lord that his aunt and uncle had opted for Barbados instead. He’d been to his pop’s a time or two over the past week since he’d been home, and saw her white SUV going up and down the driveway from time to time, so at least she wasn’t staying holed up in her house again, which was good. And if she hadn’t backed out of the job, she’d be returning to work on Wednesday, which was also good. But none of that helped with him missing her.

He’d tried going out in Versailles, and even met a woman who seemed pretty nice. Cain didn’t have a whole lot of experience with dating—fucking was far more his style—but he was enough of a man to admit that he was lonely and needed some friends. Cassidy was a waitress at Kennedy’s, and last week he’d taken her out for dinner, but when she invited him into her apartment at the end of the night, he did something he’d never done before—not ever in his entire life. He said no. He thanked her for the date without even kissing her. And he left.

Since then, he didn’t have the balls to show his face at Kennedy’s.

Why had he turned down a perfect opportunity to fuck a good-looking woman?

Because Ginger’s face had appeared front and center in his mind. Blonde hair. Deep brown, sad eyes. The feeling of her arms around him. The soft skin of her fingers clasped in his. She hadn’t even come to terms with Woodman’s death, let alone gotten over it enough to be with someone else . . . but her availability didn’t seem to matter. Cain
wanted
Ginger. And though wanting Ginger in the past hadn’t prevented him from being with someone else, now it did. He wanted her, and only her.

To try to make friends outside Kennedy’s, he’d stopped by the Apple Valley Fire Department a couple of times to see the guys, and went out for a beer with Scott Hayes. Scott had come down to Versailles to help Cain attach an especially sweet antique bike to bolted cables and extend it from the showroom ceiling. It made him shake his head to imagine that he’d end up friends with Mary-Louise Walker’s husband, but he guessed that weirder things than that happened in real life.

As he readied Wolfram’s Motorcycles for his grand opening next week and furnished his townhouse little by little, his thoughts always returned to Ginger, and lately his mind had concentrated greatly on the fateful day he’d found her in bed with Woodman, three years ago.

But instead of letting his anger blind him, he tried to really examine what had happened that day. The way she’d poured her heart out to him. How he’d rejected her, not because he didn’t want her—
he had wanted her desperately
—but because he couldn’t take her away from Woodman when he felt she was integral to his cousin’s wellness. Nor could he betray his cousin by sneaking around with Ginger behind his back after Woodman had made his feelings so clear. But Cain recalled the devastated look on her face when she said,
I know you love me, Cain. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it’s true.
And it made him ache.

It
was
true. She was right. He had loved her so much at the time, it was killing him, and yet he’d let her walk away from him. No. Not just
let
her walk away. He’d called her disgusting names and insulted her. He’d
pushed
her away with all his might. And not just away. Into Woodman’s arms.

Finding her with Woodman had hurt Cain, but for the first time in years, he questioned whether he had a right to that hurt. He’d taken her tender, beautiful feelings and smashed them to smithereens. It didn’t really matter that hours later he’d had a change of heart and decided to apologize to her. The damage had already been done. There was every chance he had broken her heart that day, which was the very thing that had made her run to Woodman for comfort. Seen in a certain light, Cain was responsible for the fact that Woodman and Ginger had ended up together.

He sighed, crossing the concrete floor to retrieve the wrench he’d thrown, when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Swiping the screen, he looked at the incoming number but didn’t recognize it.

“Hello?”

“C-Cain?”

“Ginger?” he said. She was crying, and the hairs on his arm stood up as a shot of adrenaline made him freeze where he stood. “Princess, are you okay?”

“He’s g-gone.”

Cain’s eyes closed slowly as his heart ached for her. It had finally happened. She’d finally broken.

“He is, baby,” he said tenderly. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

“C-Cain,” she sobbed. “C-can you . . . can you c-come? C-come to me?”

“Where are you?”

He threw the wrench into his toolbox, locked the showroom door, and grabbed his helmet from the back of his bike. Shrugging into his leather jacket, he straddled the motorcycle and twisted the key in the ignition.

“W-Woodman’s place.”

Woodman’s place?
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Be strong, lionhearted l’il gal. Be strong for me.

“I’m leavin’ right now,” he said, his voice raspy and urgent. “You stay put, darlin’. I’m on my way.”

All the sadness.

It was like all the sadness in the world had suddenly engulfed her, swept her out to sea, and marooned her in a place of utter despair. Everywhere she turned in the sweet little house, Woodman was there: laughing as he showed her around for the first time, sitting across from her on the empty living room floor as they ate pizza on a moving box, pulling her hand up the stairs to his bedroom, exercising his leg in front of the TV, waiting for her with dinner when she’d had a bad day at work, kneeling before her—backlit by their first Christmas tree—when he asked her to be his wife.

Finally she lowered herself to the stairs and hunched over, weeping. She could barely catch her breath and couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever felt such intense and debilitating sorrow. And yet, through the bleak darkness, there was one unlikely point of light: Cain. Cain would come. Cain would come now. He would hold her and help her and remember with her. He would mourn with her—just as hard and just as deep as she. Because Cain, above all others, had known and loved Woodman as Ginger had.

As she recalled the poignancy of Woodman’s proposal, a year ago today, she pulled the engagement ring from her finger for the first time. She clutched it in her palm until the prongs drew blood as a slide show of Woodman—of the Woodman she’d loved deeply her whole life—played through her mind:

At six years old, holding her chubby three-year-old hand and leading her around a paddock to “say hey to the horsies.”

At eight years old, screaming for her mother when Ginger’s heart seized. He’d saved her life that day and was waiting on the front porch of the manor house when she came home, two weeks later.

At ten years old, sneaking her into the barn to see Cain on her seventh birthday. She didn’t know it until they’d gotten down there, but he’d hidden a big piece of cake and three forks under his sweater, and the pale skin of his belly was covered in frosting.

At twelve years old, taking her to the tack room for a Band-Aid when she’d fallen off her bike and scraped her knees. He cleaned them and blew on them and covered them up as Cain stood off to the side making her giggle.

At fifteen years old, on her twelfth birthday, giving her the prettiest bracelet she’d ever seen—with a horse and an apple and a banjo and his heart.

At eighteen years old, saving the day when he came to take her to the homecoming dance, bearing a fistful of forbidden flowers. He’d kissed her for the first time that night, and though she knew they’d never have the chemistry she shared with Cain, he’d proved his love for her in a way that Cain never had and—seemingly, at the time—never could.

At nineteen years old, coming home for his first extended visit after a long year apart. He’d swung her into his strong arms, holding her close and whirling her around before dropping a sweet, quick kiss to her lips. “Ginger!” he cried. “You grew up, and you’re so beautiful!”

At twenty-one years old, with every right to self-pity and anger, he’d come home ready to love her. And she let him. She gave herself to him, and he called it the best night of his entire life, holding her body next to his.

It was true that her feelings for him had never truly evolved from a place of profoundly loving friendship to romance, but memories of being held in Woodman’s arms would always twist the bindings of her heart. Until the day she died, she would remember how tenderly he’d held her, how safe she’d felt leaning into him, and how much he’d loved her. Truly, deeply, forever loved her . . . in a way she’d never been able to love him in return.

“Oh God, Woodman,” she sobbed. “We were never supposed to happen like we did. We were never supposed to end like we did. I’m so so-o-o-orry. So f-fuckin’ sorry.”

Woodman was such a good man—such a kind, loving, protective person, such a good friend—surely there was a woman in the world who would have been lit on fire by the way his eyes could turn dark green with want, by the careful touch of his lips on her breasts, by the way his voice would get raspy when he told her he loved her. It just wasn’t
her
. And she’d lost him before she could let him go, before she could set him free to find a woman who could have loved him the way he deserved.

Resting her forehead on her bent knees, she cried—for Woodman’s loss and for not being able to give him what he wanted; for his sweetness, which she would miss forever; for his friendship, which she would die grieving. She cried all the tears that hadn’t fallen for three long months, and then she cried some more—tears of guilt, of regret, of loss, and of sorrow, all the while wondering how she would ever feel whole again now that he was gone.

She heard the front door open and felt Cain’s boots vibrate across the hardwood floor before she heard his voice bark, “Ginger?” with so much growly urgency, it made her gasp.

Cain.
Her shoulder slumped with relief to hear his voice.

“Here,” she said, raising her head and swiping the back of her hand across her weeping eyes and runny nose. “I’m over here on the stairs.”

In a second he was standing before her, his helmet clutched in his fist, his coveralls covered in grease, with matching smudges on his face. He squatted down and placed his helmet on the floor by her feet.

“How you doin’, princess?”

She tried to take a deep breath, but it was ragged and sobby. “Not good.”

“Let me take you home,” he said, offering her his hand.

She took it without thinking, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the rough, warm skin closed around her cold fingers.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

She wasn’t looking at his face, so she couldn’t see his expression, only hear the coarse gravel of his voice when he said, “I won’t leave till you’re feelin’ stronger.”

“I hope you have nowhere to be for a while,” she said, opening her burning eyes.

“You underestimate yourself, Gin. Worst step of all was facin’ it. You did that tonight.”

Her face crumpled, and she threaded her fingers through his, clasping them. “You were right. He deserved so much b-better than me, Cain. So much better. So much more.”

With his free hand, Cain cupped her cheek, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I had no right to make that comment. Only you and Woodman know what you had together. All I know is that you made him happy. Really, really happy, Gin. You, well, dreamin’ of you made Woodman who he was—made him strong and good. He wanted to be the best-possible version of himself for you. I know that. You should know it too.”

His words only made her shoulders shake harder as more tears poured from her eyes, and she felt Cain’s hands slip under her arms and pull her up. For a moment he seemed to debate what to do, holding her limp body against his chest before sweeping her into his arms. He walked over the threshold of the little house that had held her future with Woodman, and into a dark and lonely world that felt bearable only with Cain’s arms around her.

“Where’s your car?” he asked close to her ear.

“At Gran’s,” she said, burrowing her forehead into Cain’s neck.

He jerked in a quick breath, as she would if she’d burned herself. “I’ve only got my bike. Can you hold on to me for the ride home?”

I’m so tired. So very tired.

“Yes,” she managed as he set her down on her feet beside the bike, a gentle hand on her shoulder to be sure she was steady.

“I’ll be right back.”

She watched as he ran back inside and returned a second later with his helmet, turning off the light in Woodman’s living room and closing the front door. He strode down the walkway to her, carefully to shut the white gate behind him. Then he placed the helmet on her head, buckled it under her chin, and helped her straddle the bike before swinging his leg over the saddle and turning the key.

“Hold on to me, Gin. Don’t fuckin’ let go.”

As if he didn’t quite trust her, he covered her small, cold hands with his, then zoomed off into the night toward McHuid’s.

***

When they got to her cottage, he didn’t bother helping her off the bike. He pulled her back into his arms and carried her inside the unlocked house, through the kitchen, down a dark hallway, and up the stairs to the bedroom he’d visited only once, the night he’d found her with Woodman. Once there, he placed her gently on the bed, where she sat listlessly as he pulled her coat off one arm at a time. Underneath she was wearing jeans and a soft fleece top, which seemed as comfortable as anything.

“Lie down, baby.”

As though on autopilot, she twisted her body and leaned back against the pillows, with her feet still on the floor. Cain leaned down, untied and unlaced her boots, pulled them from her feet, and lifted her legs onto the bed.

And as he worked, she stared up at the ceiling, sniffling and weeping, almost in her own world of pain and sorrow, and it just about killed him that he couldn’t take the anguish away and carry it for her.

He’d felt the dead weight of her body when he picked her up off the stairs at Woodman’s house, and the only comparison he could think of was the way a marathon runner feels when she reaches the finish line and falls into the arms of someone waiting for her. Her body was exhausted in that same way—completely spent, boneless, and limp—as though she’d run and run and run for weeks on end, only to fall into his arms in exhaustion tonight, when she had reached the end of her own emotional marathon.

Cain grieved her pain. He wished he could take the ache away from her, take it
for
her, but he couldn’t. The very stark difference between them was that Cain had gotten a chance to say good-bye to his cousin and a mission by which to serve him after his death. Further, Cain had not only been given permission to love Ginger but encouragement. Cain loved his cousin, and he would mourn him for the rest of his life, but Cain had peace.

Ginger, on the other hand, didn’t. Cain had no idea of the state of their relationship when Woodman died, but among Woodman’s last words were
She loves you
. And he’d only stayed alive to hear Cain promise to love her back. She had to be living with the weight of guilt and regret on her shoulders, and as much as Cain wanted to take that pain away for her, he couldn’t. Not without telling her that Woodman had placed her in his care before dying, which was something he wasn’t prepared to do.

The reality was that he needed to keep the secret until she believed, beyond any doubt, that Cain loved her. If he told her too soon, she’d always question whether or not he loved her only because Woodman had told him to, when the truth was that he owned the love he felt for her in the same way he owned his heart or his lungs or the blood in his veins or the thoughts in his head. Loving Ginger was as effortless as breathing, and no less fundamental. Had been since he was a kid, would be until he died.

A lump rose in his throat, and he tried to clear it away.

“Gin,” he said softly, running the backs of his fingers across her damp cheek. “You want some tea or somethin’?”

She opened her eyes, which were glassy and tired.

“Just h-hold me awhile?” she whispered, her soft, sad voice shredding his heart.

Cain gulped. He’d fucked hundreds. He’d willingly held almost none.

“I’m . . . I’m filthy, Gin. I didn’t change before I left the garage. I’ll get your bed all dirty. I could just sit on the floor beside—”

“I don’t care,” she murmured. “P-please, Cain.”

He wasn’t sure how good he would be at emotional intimacy—he hadn’t had a very good example in his parents—and he’d never allowed himself to become attached to any of the girls he’d been with, purposely wandering, never making a connection. But, fuck, if there was one girl he was willing to figure it out for, it was Ginger.

He sat down in the curve of her body and leaned over to untie the laces of his boots, his heart racing like that of a teenager about to touch a tit for the first time. His fingers trembled lightly, which made the job harder, but he finally managed to shuck them off. His hands were rough, smudged with grease, and for just a moment he considered going into her bathroom and washing them before he lay down beside her, but he sensed that his presence was what she needed more than clean hands, and he promised himself if he ruined her clothes or comforter, he would buy her something new.

He stood up, walked around the bed, then paused a moment as he stared down at her small body. She was a perfect S, with her head bent forward and her legs tucked back. As he sat down on the other side of the bed, the mattress depressed and his breathing quickened. Swinging his legs up, he lay down, rolled onto his side, and scooted closer to her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and, inhaling the warm woman scent of her body, pulled her against his chest. He slipped his other arm under her head like a pillow and bent his knees into hers. She reached for his hand, covering it with hers and backing up against him until they were so close, he could feel her lungs expand and release with every breath she took and gave. Instead of concentrating on the feeling of her body in his arms, he closed his eyes and synchronized his breathing to hers. Little by little, his heart stopped racing, and his body, which had been so wired a few minutes before, calmed down.

Soon he heard her softly snoring and realized she was asleep. He leaned forward to press his lips to her hair.