Page 25 of Beckon

She gasped when one of those hands drifted to the nape of her neck, tangling in her ponytail as it went. Chandler’s tongue stroked hers and explored her mouth with a ferocity that was unexpected. Tami matched his enthusiasm and heat pooled low in her belly.

The moment was magical. The passion, the tension, the smell that was all Chandler. Clean and fresh with a spice of danger as an afternote. As weird as it seemed, it reminded her of soap and gun oil.

Soap and gun oil.

Soap and gun oil.

Not cedar or woodsy at all.

She’d never been kissed like that before, and that’s when her bravery wore off. It wasn’t guilt exactly that had her ending the kiss. It was more of a need to process and think.

When she dropped back into her saddle, it was the look on Chandler’s face that struck her most. She at least had a sliver of a reason to feel guilty, not him.

Not wanting the moment tarnished with the apology she knew sat on his wicked tongue just waiting to be uttered, she effectively stopped those words from seeing the light of day.

“Green’s not a bad color, in any of its variations. But I am more partial to burgundy. I cannot and will not argue Boyz II Men. I had my own Stephanie Walters; his name was Dennis Howell. He licked his shirt, but I found it cool, however he didn’t think my talking to myself was quite as cool as shirt licking. Luckily, he didn’t kick me in the hallway, he just made faces.”

She clicked her tongue and got Butterscotch moving. “And after my husband was killed, I used to lie awake at night and imagine and plot in vivid detail ways to kill the man who took his life. So, you see,” she called back over her shoulder. “No one’s heart is a perfect place, we just do regular housekeeping to keep it as tidy as possible, but sometimes, it’s just messy.”

The sound of Betty’s hooves against the packed earth trail got louder as Chandler caught up with her.

Even with the heaviness of some of their conversation, she felt lighter for having shared and been shared with. Chancing a glance over at Chandler, she saw his eyes devouring her. Even when she turned her attention back to the trail, she felt the weight of his stare.

“How?”

One word, one syllable, yet it spoke volumes. Tami knew in general what he meant by it, but not specifically, but she thought the answer would be the same even with specifics.

Because she’d asked the same question.How do I move on? How do I accept it? What’s the first step?

“There’s not a one size fits all answer, but it all starts with you. You must make the decision to do something about it. Once you do, you have to want it too. And no, you can’t just want it and boom, wish all the bad away, but you do have to want it to accept help when it comes.”

“You make it sound so simple.” His voice was low with a note of disappointment.

The laugh that left her was a shock. “Simple my butt. No, Chandler, it isn’t easy, and anyone who tells you that is wrong. Losing someone, going through whatever you went through, it may be part of life, but it is the hardest part. You can’t snap out of it or just move on or whatever other sentiments well-meaning people say. You go through it. The path you take through it, that is different for everyone, but you can’t stop. That’s the key. Keep moving. Eventually, you’ll find what gets you through to the other side.”

She had so much more to say, but she knew he would shut down. At least that is what she would do. Instead, she left it at that. Chandler would bring it back up if and when he was ready. Her biggest fear was giving bad advice to someone who so obviously needed insight. Tami suspected Chandler was grappling with something far worse than just depression and loss.

Good thing was every mental journey did need to start with self, so at least she had that part correct.

They had trotted all the way back in comfortable silence. Chandler had quit staring at his hands and was looking out across the land and she was struck again by how handsome he was. How much younger he looked when he wasn’t in his head.

“Do you want to take a few circles around that area?” Chandler pointed to what looked like a training area for horses surrounded by a circle path.

“Sure. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Butterscotch yet.” She patted her neck as they cut across to the track area.

“So, tell me about seven?”

“Excuse me?” Tami wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.

“Seven. The other night you mumbled seven before you told me about the receipt, and then again today before the water story. I’m assuming there are five more stories like those.”

She turned to him in amazement, how had he put all that together from so few clues. “Very observant. Yes, there are.” Not that she didn’t want to share them all with him, she did. What scared the tar out of her was that she not only wanted to share those stories with him, but so much more.

“Will you tell me another one?”

He reached over and touched her forearm. “Please?”

Most people hated her weird stories and the way she rambled about them. They didn’t get the importance they held for her. To most people, they were just stupid stories about stupid receipts and a stupid widow.

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