Page 37 of All for You

Travis watches me, his blue eyes unreadable.

“It’s my mom. She wants to apologize. Again.”

He nods slowly. “Family’s important.”

I know he’s right, but coming from him, it stings a little. He has a big, sprawling ranch, siblings, even if they don’t live here, and a community that knows him better than I do. I only have Mom, and our relationship is more like a series of negotiations than a partnership.

I type out a quick response:

It’s okay. I forgive you for telling Matt where I lived.

Then decide to add:

I’ll call you later.

“Everything okay?” Travis asks.

“Yeah.” I slip the phone back into my bag. “She means well. I think.”

We start walking toward where Travis hobbled the horses. This field is probably the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since I came to Cupid’s Creek. A sea of blue and green all around me, like a scene from someone else’s life, where things are simple and beautiful.

“I’m glad you can forgive her,” Travis says after a long pause. “Holding on to stuff like that eats you up over time.”

I probably owe her a thank you, considering. I wouldn’t have invited Travis to act as my fake boyfriend if she hadn’t called to let me know about her surprise visit. And if she hadn’t told Matt where I landed, he wouldn’t have shown up, and we wouldn’t have had that showdown, and Travis and I wouldn’t have ended up in bed or had today. In some twisted way, I’m grateful.

Instead, I just say, “Yeah. I know.”

We mount up, and the ride back is quiet, the silence that sits comfortably between two people who don’t need to fill everymoment with chatter. My mind wanders, thinking about the last few days—how quickly things have changed—how I’ve gone from feeling more or less alone to… being in love.

When we get to the barn, the afternoon sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the pastures. Travis dismounts and walks over to me, his hand gentle on my thigh as he helps me down. He passes the horses off to one his men, and then hand in hand, we stroll to the house.

“I’m gonna get changed,” he says, nodding toward the front porch. “Make yourself at home.” At the door, he turns, and his eyes linger on me. “I’ll be quick.”

For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Except he doesn’t. He opens the door and walks inside, leaving me alone in the warm evening air. I select a comfortable chair and settle in the thick cushion and close my eyes, letting the sounds of Travis’s ranch wash over me—the low murmur of cattle, the distant clank of metal coming from the barn, even sounds of movement inside the house.

My phone buzzes with another text message, that I read, but don’t answer.

MOM:

Thank you. I just want you to be happy.

I want to believe her. She can be overbearing and critical, but she’s all I have, and deep down, I know she wants what’s best for me—even if her idea of best differs from mine.

I put the phone away and look out over the ranch. I’d done my share of Googling, so I knew Travis’s marriage and slit had been splashed across the local newspaper pages. There’s a rumor she cheated on him. Knowing this makes me understand him better—his walls, his reluctance to dive into any relationship headfirst.

Our relationship was supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. But every time we’re together, I fall deeper. I know he cares for me, but I’m not sure if he can ever love me the way I think I love him. Everything has happened so fast.

I push the thought away and rise, walking to the edge of the porch. I watch the stable hands work, my mind drifting. I think about the night Travis kissed me at the festival to fool my mother, how tentative we’d both been, like two teenagers unsure of each other’s intentions. His touch is comforting and special, like a loving home.

The screen door bangs, and I spin around to find Travis’s mother.

She sits on one of the rockers, her lips tight, her eyes cold.

This woman hates me.

Laura Kincaid is every bit the matriarch, a woman who wears her age and status like a finely tailored suit. Today, it’s a cream-colored blouse tucked into high-waisted dark denim. She’s even wearing polished boots. What might look silly on some her age, on her it looks elegant. Her silver-streaked hair is styled in soft waves, and she has a string of pearls around her neck. She exudes a stern, almost mercenary poise.

“You’re here again, I see,” she says, not bothering to hide the disdain in her voice.

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