her shoulders again then sent the wagon lurching forward. “Your father sees to Sh-Shakespeare’s feeding.”
Her father had never shown Shakespeare one bit of interest in the past. That he had obviously spoiled her kitty tugged at her heartstrings.
The cat’s loud purr and the way he stretched to touch the tip of his pink nose to hers was almost her undoing.
But she couldn’t afford to weaken. Not now. She was already over half unraveled and she hadn’t even set foot inside the house.
Sitting a little straighter in her seat, she drew her focus toward the house as she gently raked her fingers through Shakespeare’s soft fur. Although this place had been home for the first seventeen years of her life, it could never be home again.
There’d been too many changes in her life. And likely too many changes in her father’s life, as well.
Like Zach being her father’s foreman …
When Zach slowed the wagon to a halt at the edge of the yard, she snagged a look at him from the corner of her vision. The sure way he handled the reins, his hands, large and work worn and yet so very gentle, had caught her attention off and on throughout the trip. The noticeable way his arm muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he swung down from the wagon captured her focus all the more. She didn’t know if she’d ever forget the warm feel of his comforting touch.
A million questions had streamed through Ivy’s mind during the silence-saturated wagon ride home. The foremost being, when had Zach changed into the solid and confident man he was now?
While he crossed in front of the horses, her focus flitted to his manly jawline. How was it that a feature so strong and sure looking could fumble so with the English language? She recalled the agonizing way he’d struggled through school, the relentless way the teacher had chastised him for refusing to stand and recite his lessons, the harsh way he’d been laughed at by some of the schoolchildren. And, to her shame, the cowardly way she’d giggled right along with them—at times.
Diverting her focus from his steadfast gaze as he approached her side of the wagon, she struggled to tug her composure back into place. But when he carefully lifted the cat down then circled her waist with his large and calloused hands, she couldn’t seem to maintain a coherent thought. His touch, the lingering feel of his hands around her waist, gave her a heady feeling, even after he set her feet on the ground. A very real and unwanted quiver worked its way straight up her spine.
She’d seen what sickness and death had done to her parents, and had decided that loving just wasn’t worth the pain. She’d been so careful to guard her heart when it came to men, but felt that resolve already slipping from her unrelenting grip. She didn’t need anything or anyone tying her down here in Boulder. Certainly not Zach Drake.
“Here we are,” he voiced, his words coming slow. His throat visibly convulsed as though he’d just swallowed one gigantic bug.
“Home….” Gathering in a steadying breath, she took in her surroundings.
“Has it ch-changed much?” He reached over the wagon bed and grabbed two of her four valises.
She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to keep from trembling as she slid her gaze around the homestead. “It looks better than I remember.”
When he set the back of his hand featherlight to her cheek, she nearly startled.
“You’re cold,” he said, his voice low, his gaze direct.
“I’m quite comfortable.” She turned her head from his debilitating touch. In truth, the weighted chill of mud drying on her garments had seeped clear though to her bones and she didn’t know if she’d ever warm up, but she wasn’t about to let this man direct her steps like she had no fortitude about her.
He gently pressed a hand to the middle of her back, guiding her to the front steps as he cleared his throat. “We need to get you inside so you c-can change into something warm and d-d-dry.”
Drawing her mouth into a grim line, she forced one foot in front of the other when all she really wanted to do was to dig her heels in deep, delaying going inside until she was good and ready. And not a minute before.
Being home after so long was far more difficult than she’d ever imagined, and the control she’d embraced as her nearest and dearest friend for the past six years had exacted an outright betrayal, leaving her stranded back at the mercantile.
Regardless of Zach’s tender show of good manners, she shrugged out of his reach, hurrying across the grass-sprinkled ground. She came to an abrupt stop, glancing at the second-story windows, suspended half-open, the same delicate white curtains she remembered her mama stitching years ago, hanging inside, whispering about in the breeze as though to welcome her home.
“Is something the matter?”
For a brief second, she almost wished that Zach would pull her into his arms and ease away her fears and uncertainties.
What was she thinking?
“No. Of course there’s nothing wrong.” Ivy hugged her arms to her chest, fracturing small chunks of dried mud from her garment, just like the crusty shell that had started breaking from her heart the moment she’d arrived in Boulder. “I’m just struggling to understand what, exactly, Violet meant by her desperate language regarding my father. Quite honestly, I was under the impression that he was very ill.”
“He’s not a mmmman to show weakness, but I have caught him feeling poorly a couple of t-t-times.” His jaw visibly tensed. “Maybe Violet has been witness to more.”
Stepping up to the yawning porch that stretched in a lazy fashion at the front of the house, she tentatively padded over to the corner where the old porch swing hung.
“Your father sits there sometimes, after a long hard d-d-day.” His voice was low and laden with certain respect. “It’s a p-perfect place to see the sunset.”
Reaching from beneath the blanket, she ran her fingers over the weathered wood. Gave the swing a soft push. The familiar, faint creaking beckoned memories. She couldn’t even begin to count the times when her father would sit here and snuggle her close on crisp fall days. Like today.
“I’m surprised it’s still here, after all of these years,” she whispered, picturing her father sitting there reading to her from many a book or telling her a fascinating tale of honor, love, bravery. She’d developed a deep appreciation for literature because of him.
Zach cleared his throat, easing her from the memory. And for some very tangible reason, having him standing there, right beside her, gave her a solid sense of comfort.
“I d-d-did a little repair work on it a few months ago,” he forced out, the strained and determined way he worked to speak piercing her heart. “It’s as good as new.”
She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat.
She’d wept a spring-flooded river of tears right on this swing when her father had announced that he was sending her to school in New York. Despite her protests and her insistence on staying, he’d stubbornly, almost angrily, ignored her request, saying that he knew what was best for her. The startling sting of that on the heels of her mama passing, and the blame he had cast Ivy’s way, had been indelibly
