Page 68 of Long Hard Fall

His brows lifted. “Really? But he didn’t come down.”

“I never answered. I was so furious, but…”

“But you’re not now.”

She shook her head, tears threatening to well. “It’s been over a month since he last tried. It’s over.”

“You two didn’t know each other long.” He said it like that explained it all, as if what she felt had just been a fluke.

“No, we didn’t.” She turned back to unload her meager stash of books.

“But he made you happy?”

“Yes, because he made me feel like myself.”

“Is he really a good guy?”

She whirled around. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. And like you and Mom—” and freaking Ellis, “—pointed out, we didn’t know each other long.” But while she had known him, he’d been the biggest, most genuine gentleman she’d ever met.

Dad didn’t reply, but he helped her with the rest of her boxes.

He threw her a concerned look before he left. She forced herself to smile and wave, then sighed when the door shut and went back to sort her items.

She found the sketch pad she’d used to draw Alfalfa. Opening it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway. Scribbled over the page were the fine lines that outlined the cat and the harsher lines of the porch slats. She turned the page and her hand dropped away. Cash’s stick-figure drawing of the cat made her giggle. She choked back a sob.

Questions flooded her. The same ones she’d been asking herself for six weeks. Had she done the right thing? Would things with him have worked out? Or would he have eventually started picking and choosing what he shared with her.

She folded herself onto the floor, her legs crossed, the sketch pad on her lap. How long she stared at the drawing, she didn’t know, but finally she rummaged around her items until she found a pencil. She turned the page and began a new sketch, letting the pencil flow, not consciously controlling what she drew.

Not surprisingly, the outline of a man’s face formed. She spent the most time on the eyes, perfecting the intensity with a touch of his ever-constant good humor.

When she was done, a decent rendition of Cash stared back at her. Even as an amateur, she’d been able to capture his personality, the classic handsomeness of his features.

No, they hadn’t known each other for long, but it sure seemed like she’d known him better than she’d known anyone in her life.

With a disgusted snarl, she popped up and tossed the pad and pencil in a bottom drawer in her kitchen and kicked it shut.

Chapter 19

Cash was man enough to admit he was hiding in the kitchen. They’d gathered for Christmas at Dillon’s house and the rest of his family was oohing and aahing over Elle’s shiny new engagement ring.

He was ecstatic for his cousin, and he loved Elle like a sister, but the sappy, happy mess made him want to vomit. He couldn’t even nurse a beer because Dillon’s house was dry. Their relatives never brought wine or alcoholic beverages to his cousin’s place no matter how many times he assured him it’d be all right.

He searched for something to do, but food lined the counters and flatware was laid out. Everything was ready for them to eat, after everyone got over the love-fest. Could he eat and rush home, where he could watch football without fielding any questions? Every time one of his cousins broached the topic of Abbi, or worse, how he should move on, Cash cut them off. He couldn’t even sneak away on Patsy Cline and just ride horse all day because there was two feet of snow on the ground.

The only time he allowed himself to think about Abbi was when he left his phone in a drawer when he went to work for the day. She’d been good at ignoring calls, and he’d taken notes. His sister was shipping out for navy boot camp soon and his parents were constantly bitching to him—about her, about each other, about the divorce.

Who knew as an adult he’d have to referee who spent Christmas where?

Hannah’s squeal of delight reached him. The sound trampled his last nerve. Sure, she could enjoy herself because she didn’t have to deal with the fallout of what she did.

He couldn’t take it. He slipped through the door to the garage, stomped into his boots, and marched out into the snow. He hopped into his truck. As soon as his engine fired, everyone would know he’d left.

Merry fucking Christmas. He drove across the gravel road to his driveway and scowled at Mom’s car in the drive.

She’d done what she’d promised. I’m spending Christmas with my children. Dad had stayed last night and planned to leave town as soon as the shindig at Dillon’s was done. Or hell, stay in town with an old flame of his.

Mom must’ve timed her arrival so they’d all be away. Less confrontation that way.

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