up. But then his grandfather stepped into the doorway from his study, his face implacable. Without saying a word, the man inflamed Rafe’s rage, making him stiffen his spine and square his shoulders. Turning his back on his family, he strode toward the kitchen door.
“If you leave, boy, don’t ever come back,” his grandfather yelled after him.
Rafe shrugged and kept on going, through the kitchen, out the door, and into the warm night air of summer. He threw his duffle into his truck.
Bear, their burly mutt, trotted out of the barn and nudged Rafe’s leg.
He crouched and hugged the dog. “I have to go, boy.” Grief threatened to surface. Swallowing the emotion, he resolutely stood and then got to work.
Rafe hitched his truck to the horse trailer, a graduation present from his grandfather, then stomped into the barn. He loaded his gelding, two pregnant Paint mares and three miniature horses, also in foal, into the trailer, along with their gear and some feed.
In five minutes, he was idling the engine at the corner of the Flanigan land, the boundary separating their spread from the McCurdy’s ranch. He scribbled a note to Angel on a piece of paper telling her where he was headed, got out of the truck, and shoved it into the hollow of the oak—their own personal mailbox. He hoped that when she read it, she’d understand.
Lucinda McCurdy sped by in her Mustang convertible, her long blonde hair flying. She flipped him off.
Rafe scowled and waited until her car passed before pulling the truck and trailer onto the road.
He drove through Sweetwater Springs, the town where his roots grew deep into the land, a place where everyone knew everybody, and stories about someone’s great-grandparents could be dropped into gossip as easily as what had happened that afternoon. Rafe could almost hear the ripping sound as he tore those roots out of the beloved ground.
He’d vowed to shake off the town’s dust, drive as far from Montana as he could and never look back .
Rafe shook his head, trying, but not entirely succeeding, in bringing himself back to the present. While he hadn’t ended up in hell like he’d threatened, he’d landed in Seeker’s Island, Florida—the legendary place where his parents had met and fallen in love.
And ever since, he’d ruthlessly squelched any thought of homesickness for the sight of the purple mountains and grassy valleys, the crisp air and the luminous light of the prairie, the howl of a wolf or screech of an owl, the scent of pine, or the sweet taste of Angel Howard’s lips when he kissed her.
With a quick, dismissive glance at the unopened letters, Rafe thumped his bare feet to the ground and stood, determined to forget the past. After all, he had fifteen years of practice. He pulled on socks and work boots and strode out the back door of the office and down a path made of crushed shells until he reached the stables. From experience, he knew hard labor might help take his mind off things he didn’t want to remember.
He opened a stall door, took in the familiar scents of horse and hay, and rubbed the nose of Abigail, a Paint mare. He slipped on the horse’s halter, led her outside, and tied her up in the shade. Then he pushed the wheelbarrow next to the door and grabbed a shovel. But as Rafe mucked out the stall, he realized he’d chosen the wrong occupation to help him forget all he’d loved and left behind in Sweetwater Springs.
Some things didn’t change. Horse shit smelled like horse shit no matter where you were in the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Angelina Howard walked down the hallway of Elland & Kirkus, trying to remain stoic, to hold back the tears and contain the ball of shame and anger burning in her stomach. In the outer office area she shared with another attorney, she managed a smile for her legal assistant. At least Angelina hoped the turn of her lips resembled a smile more than a grimace.
Crossing the threshold of her office, Angelina ever so carefully shut the
“If you leave, boy, don’t ever come back,” his grandfather yelled after him.
Rafe shrugged and kept on going, through the kitchen, out the door, and into the warm night air of summer. He threw his duffle into his truck.
Bear, their burly mutt, trotted out of the barn and nudged Rafe’s leg.
He crouched and hugged the dog. “I have to go, boy.” Grief threatened to surface. Swallowing the emotion, he resolutely stood and then got to work.
Rafe hitched his truck to the horse trailer, a graduation present from his grandfather, then stomped into the barn. He loaded his gelding, two pregnant Paint mares and three miniature horses, also in foal, into the trailer, along with their gear and some feed.
In five minutes, he was idling the engine at the corner of the Flanigan land, the boundary separating their spread from the McCurdy’s ranch. He scribbled a note to Angel on a piece of paper telling her where he was headed, got out of the truck, and shoved it into the hollow of the oak—their own personal mailbox. He hoped that when she read it, she’d understand.
Lucinda McCurdy sped by in her Mustang convertible, her long blonde hair flying. She flipped him off.
Rafe scowled and waited until her car passed before pulling the truck and trailer onto the road.
He drove through Sweetwater Springs, the town where his roots grew deep into the land, a place where everyone knew everybody, and stories about someone’s great-grandparents could be dropped into gossip as easily as what had happened that afternoon. Rafe could almost hear the ripping sound as he tore those roots out of the beloved ground.
He’d vowed to shake off the town’s dust, drive as far from Montana as he could and never look back .
Rafe shook his head, trying, but not entirely succeeding, in bringing himself back to the present. While he hadn’t ended up in hell like he’d threatened, he’d landed in Seeker’s Island, Florida—the legendary place where his parents had met and fallen in love.
And ever since, he’d ruthlessly squelched any thought of homesickness for the sight of the purple mountains and grassy valleys, the crisp air and the luminous light of the prairie, the howl of a wolf or screech of an owl, the scent of pine, or the sweet taste of Angel Howard’s lips when he kissed her.
With a quick, dismissive glance at the unopened letters, Rafe thumped his bare feet to the ground and stood, determined to forget the past. After all, he had fifteen years of practice. He pulled on socks and work boots and strode out the back door of the office and down a path made of crushed shells until he reached the stables. From experience, he knew hard labor might help take his mind off things he didn’t want to remember.
He opened a stall door, took in the familiar scents of horse and hay, and rubbed the nose of Abigail, a Paint mare. He slipped on the horse’s halter, led her outside, and tied her up in the shade. Then he pushed the wheelbarrow next to the door and grabbed a shovel. But as Rafe mucked out the stall, he realized he’d chosen the wrong occupation to help him forget all he’d loved and left behind in Sweetwater Springs.
Some things didn’t change. Horse shit smelled like horse shit no matter where you were in the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Angelina Howard walked down the hallway of Elland & Kirkus, trying to remain stoic, to hold back the tears and contain the ball of shame and anger burning in her stomach. In the outer office area she shared with another attorney, she managed a smile for her legal assistant. At least Angelina hoped the turn of her lips resembled a smile more than a grimace.
Crossing the threshold of her office, Angelina ever so carefully shut the