he’d tried to cover up, but she saw through it. Maybe because she’d recognized the gesture—she’d been known to conceal her own pain at times.
She was sorry she’d asked about his parents, but before she could apologize for her curiosity, Carter gave her this much. “My mom died when I was eight. I remember her fighting with my dad almost every night. She’d be crying in her bed, and I would cry, too. Riley’s selfish and weak and drove my mother to an early grave.” Carter scrubbed his jaw, thinking and staring out the window. “He’s a drunk. Has always been a drunk.”
Those words hit home. She’d heard them spoken too often when her father was alive. The sick feeling she’d had as a kid invaded Macy’s stomach now. She wondered if Carter had had those very same feelings as a boy. She’d gathered he and his dad weren’t close. But she’d never guessed that she and Carter would have so much in common. “I get it.”
Carter shook his head hard. “Doubtful, Hollywood.”
“No, I mean I really get it. My father drove his car into a tree ten years ago. He was drunk out of his mind. He’d won big at the off-track betting venue and was celebrating hard. He was a drinker and a gambler. Back then, Clyde Tarlington’s death was big news. Surely, you’ve heard about it.”
Carter shrugged and shook his head. “I was overseas at the time. Was it hard on you?”
She nodded. “The worst. My mother went into a deep depression and couldn’t really deal with me. I was sixteen at the time.”
“That’s a tough age.”
“Tell me about it.”
Carter’s chair scraped stone as he pushed back and rose from his seat. Clearly, he was done with this conversation. “Hey, Duke and Honey are waiting for us. And they need the exercise as much as we need to clear our heads. You ready?”
“I’ve got my boots on, don’t I?” She kicked up one foot to show it off.
Carter glanced at the boots she’d bought in town the other day. Then he skimmed his eyes over blue jeans and the plain white shirt she wore and gave a nod of approval. “Let’s ride.”
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