Reclaimed (9 page)

“It wasn’t the out I was looking for. I didn’t want to come back to Rock Creek. I thought, man, give me some money and let me go find a life. But Boys Town wasn’t exactly Park Place, and it didn’t look like I’d be passing
GO
anytime soon, so I agreed.

“I must have thought it would be like visiting my grandparents when I was a kid. You know, farm breakfast at nine every morning, Grandma always ready with a cookie, and I’d collect eggs or do some trivial chore as a token of work.”

Paul chuckled and rubbed his neck. “Nope. My grandpa meant some w-o-r-k. I stayed in the bunkhouse, which was nothing more than a tin can trailer. If I wanted breakfast, I had to get up at six to eat with them because Grandma had things to do. They paid me what they would have paid a hand, and out of my earnings came the cost of rent, electricity, and food. When I slacked off that winter, my bunkhouse got awful cold because Grandpa didn’t pay me enough to cover both heat and food.”

Suzanna’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? Your grandpa put you out in the cold?”

He laughed. “Tough love, Suz. I found out later they’d set a threshold on the thermostat of around fifty degrees so the pipes wouldn’t freeze, so it wasn’t as bad as I thought. But it felt awful cold. I hated it. And then… I didn’t.”

He stopped, and Suzanna puckered her eyebrows. His attention wandered toward his place south of hers, and she wondered if the scenes unfolded in his mind as he recounted them.

“It came time for calving, and Grandpa said it was my responsibility.” He rubbed a hand against his jeans, and the apples of his cheeks lifted. That look said it all—he loved his work. “I was so tired, but I knew he’d hold me responsible if something went sour. I wound up with a couple of bucket calves, and somewhere in between the late nights and early mornings while checking heifers and feeding orphans, I found myself. I found who God had made me to be, where I needed and wanted to be. It was right here the whole time.”

Bronco shifted under her, and Suzanna slipped a hand around the saddle horn. Fierce rebellion melted away while Paul fed a few cows?

“As simple as that?”

Paul’s gaze fell on her, his relaxed countenance contradicting his story. He looked toward the spring, then the trees, and finally to the hill rising before them.

“Not simple.” He returned his attention to her. “That’s the short version, but it wasn’t simple. I wrestled everyone, including God, for things I thought I wanted. There was a whole lot of humbling that had to happen before I made peace with life. Pride made me useless; selfishness made me difficult.”

His explanation created more questions than it offered answers. Suzanna longed for answers. His story, his life, looked nothing like hers, sounded nothing like hers, but he had peace.

Peace eluded her. She hadn’t found it in church, not the lasting kind. She hadn’t secured it in sacrifice. It wasn’t in love. Love had made her ache all over again.

Where had Paul found this peace?

“Shall we take the hill, Pickle?” Paul gathered his reins and nodded toward the rise.

The mare perked her head, and Bronco followed. Opportunity slipped away, like the waters that rose from the depths of the earth and tumbled down the creek. Suzanna swallowed, pushing a smile across her lips. At her nod, Paul took the lead.

Peace remained hidden with the secret of Rock Creek.

CHAPTER NINE

Suzanna settled into the hot water, her hips and backside aching. Riding in a ring for twenty minutes was definitely not anything like riding over range for more than half a day.

Scooping up a mass of white foam, she inhaled the fragrance of the bubbles. Fresh-picked apples. She dropped back against the tub, sliding deeper into the water. Her eyes closed, and she let the fragrance stir her imagination.

She used to dream of picking them. Masses of apples, from her own orchard. Fruits of her labor. She would cultivate them in rows: Jonathans, Winesaps, Golden Delicious, and Lodis.

Their blossoms would hold promise in the spring. When the flowers dropped, tiny pommes would emerge and grow. She would check them weekly, tend them, thin them, and finally, when the temperatures cooled and fall ushered in the glorious culmination of spring’s promise, she would harvest them.

Visions of her orchard faded, and the rows of trees dwindled to only two specimens in her mind. Daddy had worked faithfully with them, using the space he’d been allotted by the church. He loved anything green, but he’d been especially fond of the apple trees.

She’d worked beside him, and together they schemed of someday planning a mixed orchard. Cherries and peaches for late July and all through August. And apples. Fall harvest would bring the highlight of their hopes.

A fanciful dream. Someday never happened—would never happen. Daddy was gone. In truth, she’d smothered their vision long before he’d left the earth. Everything came unraveled after her mother had come clean, and dreams only fueled Suzanna’s resentment.

There was a whole lot of humbling that had to happen before I made peace with life
.

Peace. Oh, how she longed for it.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick
.

The proverb rang true. Almost. Was anger a sickness?

Paul rubbed the oil from his hand with a smudged rag. His Deere had been due for service. So had the four-wheeler. And the mower. He usually did them all in one shot, but he’d only had about two hours of daylight left by the time he rode home from Suzanna’s. Not that his shop wasn’t lit, but the rest would keep.

It’d been a day. A good day, but a day. He hadn’t planned on being so open with Suzanna, but her eyes begged for connection. Had she many friends back home? She seemed so isolated.

There’s something tragic in her eyes
.

Dre was dead on. A wound of great depth lurked beneath her pretty smile.

Replacing the oil plug, Paul rolled out from beneath his tractor and sat up. He wrung his hands in the old rag while his thoughts drifted to earlier in the afternoon.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’d resaddled Bronco and was ready to mount up and head home.

Suzanna’s brow furrowed.

“Church?” he prompted. “Are you going?”

Uncertainty crossed her expression before she brushed the hair from her eyes. “Yes.”

Her answer had been less than enthusiastic. If he asked about it, would she open up?

“Good.” He opted for the safe side. It’d been a good day. It should end on a good note. “I’ll see you then.”

Sitting between farm equipment with work surrounding him, he rummaged through their day together. Suzanna’s hesitation still weighed on his mind. She’d started as a lighthearted, attractive woman. Funny, even. What had happened when she’d stepped into the tack room?

She was mystifying. Horse lessons, but she’d never ridden outside a ring. Her father rode, but never with them. And her mother… There. Right there. Suzanna had ducked after mentioning her mother, and she’d retreated from that moment on.

Suzanna was like a kaleidoscope—she seemed to change as the light and angles shifted. Rude, kind. Timid, fierce. Happy, heartbroken. Who was this neighbor of his? And why did he feel compelled to know her?

“Will you join us this afternoon?” Andrea’s hand rested on Suzanna’s elbow.

Suzanna glanced at Paul, who was engaged in another conversation across the church’s entryway. Had he asked Andrea to invite her? She felt a little bit like a charity case, but he didn’t treat her like one. Neither did Andrea. She seemed to accept her on a whim, embracing her almost as a sister.

Strange. Suzanna’s own sister wasn’t much more than a relative. Their relationship was bound by blood, but that was all. Could be because there was such an age difference between them. With seven years between them, they hardly shared a common interest growing up.

Sasha had an aversion to dirt and an affinity for glitz. Suzanna hated dressing up, never wore jewelry, and preferred digging in the earth to wandering through a mall. Their riding lessons with Mother were a forced and volatile topic. Suzanna would have rather been with her father. Mother fussed about her appearance nonstop.

Suzanna Korine, sit up straight in the saddle. When you slouch, your gut pokes out. An issue you must work on, young lady. Are you doing your sit-ups daily? Smooth your blouse. It shouldn’t rumple at your neck. Why didn’t you brush your hair before we left the house? Mr. Prembroke must think you are a gypsy.

Wednesdays, the dreaded days assigned for riding, were eternally miserable. She’d complained to her father once about it. He squeezed her shoulders with sympathy, but his advice left her alienated.

You’re simply going to have to find a way to get along. She’s your mother. She’ll always be your mother. Make the best of it.

It didn’t sound jaded to her fifteen-year-old ears. Maybe it had been though. She didn’t know then all that she knew now.

Sasha fought Mother for different reasons. She hated horses. They were smelly, dusty creatures, and she had no interest in riding. Many a Wednesday she’d arrive with swollen eyes and splotchy cheeks. She never did accept that sobbing a tantrum would not give her an out. Of course, that ended when Suzanna was only twelve. Sasha graduated and never lived at home again.

“Please come.” Andrea pulled her back into the present. “I planned for you, you know. Kelsey set an extra place at the table before we left this morning.”

How could she turn that down? Suzanna forced a grin and nodded as Paul approached.

“Are you joining us for Sunday dinner, Pickle?”

Her face warmed, but her smile didn’t feel forced anymore. “I am. Did you make your sister invite me?”

“’Course not.” Paul slung an arm over Andrea’s shoulders. “She does whatever she wants anyway. There’s no point in attempting to persuade her.”

Andrea eyed her brother with mock irritation, and then her expression turned to intrigue. She glanced from him to Suzanna and back again, a question certainly rolling through her head. She kept it to herself though.

Suzanna’s ears warmed. Would Andrea approve of her emerging friendship with Paul? Or did it look suspect and flirtatious to her?

Flirtatious—definitely not. Suzanna had no interest in riding emotional roller coasters anymore. The sacrifice of marriage had been too demanding; she had nothing left to offer another man. Not even one as kind and gentlemanly as Paul Rustin.