Page 79 of Wanting Wentworth

Remind me that the punishment will never end—not even after I leave this place.

To my surprise, it’s neither.

“It’s your birth certificate.” She slides it across the table toward me. “Your social security card is tucked inside, so be careful.”

For a second, all I can do is stare at her. “I don’t…” Reaching for it, I unfold it. Sure enough, it’s my birth certificate and social security card Scanning them quickly, I realize that I’ve never seen either before. I never knew I was born at 10:37AM.

That’s the time on your mother’s death certificate.

Time of Death: 10:37AM

Cause of death: Her daughter

Swallowing hard again, I refold the paper carefully. “What do I need this for?”

Her brow crumples slightly at my question. “To get your marriage license.”

Oh.

That.

“But it’s not Friday yet.” I still have time.

I still have hope.

“I know.” She gives me a gentle smile before lifting her cup to take a long sip. “But I want you to be prepared for when the time comes.” She gives me another long look. “Now, I meant what I said—you don’t worry about your chores. I have it handled. Just go on up to Northpoint and spend as much time studying as the young man will let you.”

Nodding, I slide my folded birth certificate into the notebook in front of me before looking up at her. “How do you know he’s young?” When all my mother does is stare at me, I repeat the question. “How do you know the man who rented Northpoint is young? You’ve said it twice now.”

“I just figured he must be.” Standing, she turns away from me to walk her mug to the sink. “He’s a friend of Damien’s, isn’t he?” Leaving her cup in the sink, she turns again. Walking toward me, she stops long enough to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. “I’m going back to bed. I better not see you until later on tonight. Don’t you even think about sneaking home early to do your chores,” she says before giving me a pat on the shoulder on her way out.

Skipping the coffee, I take my notebook and the ingredients I picked up last night for more brown butter blondies, out to the barn.

Setting the notebook carefully on bench, I make quick work of loading my supplies into a saddle bag before feeding Two-tone and co. Taking myself back outside, I sit, lifting the notebook from the seat beside me, hugging it to my chest for several minutes before I finally find the nerve to open it.

The first several pages are filled with the notes we wrote back-and-forth to each other. Rereading them, I feel my cheeks grow warm because even though I failed to recognize it at the time, every letter he wrote to me ended same way.

Come back.

Stay.

Cheeks still warm, I flip past those first pages to find the rest of them filled with his long, lazy scrawl. Scanning them, I realize that they’re letters, written to me. Words and phrases jump out at me.

Married?

Fucking married?

You could have shut me down and told me that you were engaged but instead you rolled with it. Made me think that maybe you felt the same way I did—

Brock is a stupid fucking name.

Despite my parents best efforts, I know love is real and I know what it looks like—and it doesn’t look like that.

You can deny it all you want but there’s something between us. My grandfather would’ve called it a spark and I’d bet every dollar I have that you’ve never felt it with the son of a rancher you’re about to make the mistake of marrying.

I remember the day he confronted me about Brock. How angry he was—almost too angry. So angry that it didn’t make sense. It makes sense now.

Went wasn’t angry.

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