Page 8 of Sleigh My Name
Charley’s eyes widen. “Oh, I hadn’t decided?—”
“Yes, well, while you’re deciding, the girl should be in school,” Linda continues, “and this is easy. I can pick up Penny with my grandson every day, so she won’t have to ride the bus, and she can have her riding lesson every day after class.”
I’ve never been so damn grateful for Linda’s meddling.
“Thank you.” Charley smiles. “Thank you so much. You’ve been so kind.”
Linda’s eyes light with mischief. She catches Travis’s eye and hauls him out of the room, leaving me alone with Charley.
I link my fingers with hers and drag her alongside me before she can protest. “Let’s take a morning walk. We’ll circle around to the paddock where Penny is having her lesson.”
“Thank you. No matter how much I say it, it doesn’t feel like enough.”
“You’ve got to stop saying it,” I order, my arm around her waist as we walk. “Seriously, this place wouldn’t be here without you. Didn’t you notice the name Charley?”
I pause as we reach a bend in the softly sloped path. A stand of giant snow-tipped evergreens towers over our heads. It’s the perfect spot for a bit of privacy while overlooking the paddock.
I point across the property to the wooden sign on top of the barn. “Whiskey Heart Distillery is named after you.” Cupping her face, I search her eyes. “Charley Heart, this business exists because you inspired me to chase my dreams.”
She looks shocked at my admission. “I-I thought it was a pretty name, but?—”
“Why else would I put Heart in the name? I’m not known for being romantic, but it seems I’m sentimental. If you hadn’t put all this in my head at seventeen, I’d probably be a lawyer or politician by now.”
Charley beams at me, and my mind returns to another time. A time when things seemed so much simpler…
“Law school. That’s all my dad thinks about. Fuckin’ law school. I don’teven like law or politics, and he’s salivating for me to be the goddamnPresident of the United States or some shit like that.” I stared at myself inthe dresser mirror—eyebrow ring, blue eyes framed with eyeliner, and messy, jet-black dyed hair.My lips tilted as I took a hit off the joint.“I’m gonna be like a politician and just say, ‘Oh, I’ve done marijuana.’” I inhaled thesmoke, letting it sting my lungs, before coughing and exhaling.“Didn’t inhale, though.”
“Have you tried talking to him?” Charley asked.
“You’ve met my dad. What do you think? That man doesn’t listen to shit.He’d tell me I’m being childish and need tocontemplate my future.” I cleared my throat and imitated my dad.“Beinga bleeding-heart baboon is fine and dandy when you’re a teenager, buteventually, you’ll grow up and realize that the world doesn’t work like that.The only things that get you anywhere in life are money and power.”
Ishook my head, trying to wipe my father’s pretentious face from mymind.“You’d think the man came from a silver-spoon backgroundinstead of a damn farm. He promised mygrandfather that he wouldn’t let the family farm die. I was there when he heldthat old man’s hand and gave his word. Now, that place is just vacant buildings with a few horses. That’s what I want—to make a goof it. To bring that place back to life. It’s the only fuckin’ place that everfelt like home, anyway.”
I waved my hand around.“This mausoleum isnothing more than a prison.”
“You should do it,” Charley whispered.“The distillery.”
“I know nothing about whiskey.”
Charley nodded toward my guitar.“You knew nothing about that until you taught yourself to play. If that’s what you want, Liam, doit.”
The bed creaked as she rose and walked toward me. Herhand found mine, and she entwined our fingers.“You can do anything,Liam. I believe in you.”
“Why did you leave me, Charley? Why did you go?” The questions fly from my lips before I can stop them. They linger in the air between us, but I don’t regret them. I want answers. Ideserveanswers.
I grip Charley’s shoulders as she turns away. “Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that. You don’t get to shut me out.”
Her eyes connect with mine, and she blows out a shaky breath. “When my dad got sick, your dad offered help.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad needed treatment. Expensive treatment,” she says, her voice devoid of emotion as the words tumble out in a rush. “At first, my parents thought it would be okay. They had savings and figured they could manage. Then, my mom lost her job, which meant she also lost her insurance. Without that, they had no way to pay for my dad’s treatment.”
Charley pulls away from me and wraps her arms around her waist, hugging herself tightly as if holding herself together. Then she sinks to the ground, her body crumpling as if all her strength has drained from her.
“Your dad... offered me the money.” The words are a broken sob.
“Then why did you leave?” My question is a raw wound, torn open by this new knowledge.
