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Chapter Sixteen
It was Waylon Fitzgerald’s firm belief that most people were the same when it came to their wants. People were driven to desire four major things: good-enough sex, at least a comfortable amount of money, to be happy most of the time and to find someone to love them. Lucky for him, he’d never been like most people. His dreams were so much bigger—he wanted it all, and more. He wanted to travel the world, to help those in need, to live the dream and have a life driven by passion—not by good enough.
The helicopter’s headset crackled to life. “Where do you want me to put her down?” The pilot motioned out the window of the Black Hawk as they passed over the stock pond in the pasture where his mother normally put the horses out this time of year.
His family wasn’t going to like that he was bringing the helicopter to the ranch, but thanks to the disappearance of his ex-wife, Waylon had had to catch the next available flight. As luck would have it, his friend was relocating bases from Fort Bragg to Fort Lewis and he got to come along for the ride.
He’d always loved the feel of the chopper, its blades cutting through the air and the thump they made, just like the thump of a heart. Maybe that was what the chopper and the army were—his heart. He glanced down at Dunrovin Ranch and the guesthouses speckled throughout its expanse.
As much as he had loved the place where he spent most of his childhood, the lifestyle it symbolized was exactly what he feared the most—boredom. A life spent in habitual motion. Feed the horses, take care of the guests, take care of the ranch’s maintenance, take care of the animals and go to bed, ready to repeat it every day until one morning he just didn’t wake up. It wasn’t that he judged his adoptive mother and father, Eloise and Merle Fitzgerald, for their need for complete stability. It was because of their stability and values he had even made it out of childhood alive. He owed them everything.
“Waylon?” the pilot asked again. “You got a place?”
“Put her down just there.” He motioned toward the gravel parking lot that stood empty in the midmorning sun.
That was strange. This time of year, Dunrovin was normally hopping with life—winter-themed weddings, riding classes and parties to celebrate the coming of Christmas.
As the pilot lowered the bird toward the ground, people started spilling out of the main house. His adoptive mother waved at the helicopter, and even from a distance, he could see the smile on her face. In just the few years since he’d left the ranch, she’d grown gray and her back had started to take on the slight curve that came with age and osteoporosis. His father, the quiet and stoic man who was always working, stood beside her, holding her hand.
Next to them was a blonde. She was tall and lean, the body of a rider, but he didn’t recognize her. She turned slightly, and he could make out the perfect round curve of her ass in her tight blue jeans. Perhaps she was one of their trainers. Either way, he’d have to watch out for her. She looked like the kind of woman who would end up in one of two positions with him—either toe to toe in a shouting match, or between the sheets. As it was, he just needed to get in and out of the ranch and back to work. The last thing he needed was any more drama than necessary.
The blonde shaded her eyes as she frowned up at him, but after a moment her gaze moved to the apple tree in the corner of the lot. Standing high in its branches was a little girl who looked to be about three years old. Her brunette curls blowing in the rotor wash as she gawked at him.
What in the hell was a girl that little doing standing in a tree?
The blonde jogged toward her as if she’d had the same thought.
“Be careful,” Waylon said to the pilot, pointing to the toddler.
The pilot pulled back on the stick, and the powerful draft at such a low altitude kicked up a thick cloud of dust.
The little girl in the tree started to sway, and Waylon called out a warning into the deafening roar of the chopper’s wash.
The girl trembled as she struggled to keep hold of the bark. She looked up at him as a gust of wind set her off balance, and her left shoe slid from the branch. The girl’s blue dress moved against her like an unwieldy sail and propelled her out of the tree. She careened toward the ground.
From where he sat, it looked as though she landed face-first at the bottom of the tree.
“Bring this bird down, dammit!” he shouted.
Hopefully the little girl was still alive.
What kind of man thought it was okay to fly into a quiet ranch like he was some kind of freaking hero? Who did Waylon Fitzgerald think he was? All that man ever did was leave destruction in his wake, and as far as Christina Bell was concerned, this was just another example of how little he cared when it came to how his actions affected others.
She rushed to her niece as the girl tumbled out of the apple tree and landed on the ground. The girl let out a shrill cry, but it was nearly drowned out by the chopping of the blades of the bull-in-a-china-shop helicopter.
“Winnie, are you okay?” Christina called above the sound.
Tears streamed down Winnie’s dusty face, cutting through the dirt and exposing her unmarred skin below. “It hurts.”
“It’s okay, Win. You’ll be okay.” Christina ran her hand over the girl’s head, smoothing her curls and trying to comfort her. “Where does it hurt, sweetie?”
Winnie cried, and her sobs stole her voice, but she motioned to her right arm and wrist. Of course it would be the girl’s arm. She’d probably put her hand down during her fall in an attempt to catch herself.
As soon as the helicopter touched down, Waylon ran over, dropping his bag on the ground at Winnie’s feet. “Are you okay, kid?”
Christina turned toward him, and she could feel a snarl take over her face. “You leave her alone.”
He took two steps back, like he was afraid a bite would follow the growl. It might have been the smartest thing he’d done so far. All she wanted to do was come at him. He was the reason Winnie was hurt—in many ways, he was responsible for the bad things in her life.
She stared at him
