Nixon brought some soup to my room when I didn’t come out for dinner. I ate a few bites and then turned in for the night. I slept, but very fitfully, and unfortunately, the dawn that’s breaking behind the curtain isn’t bringing the renewal I’d hoped to feel.

I’m not very interested in facing the day yet, so I roll onto my back to face the ceiling instead. My eyes land on the water spot above my head.

It’s been there for as long as I can remember. It saw some of the best and some of the worst times of my life. It watched over me dozens of times when Jason would sneak into the cottage through the back window, creep into my room, and pin me down to make me his. Afterward, I would lie under him, safe beneath his weight, and dream as I stared up at the ceiling. I’d dream of the life we’d have, the love, the laughter, the children. I’d dream of a perfect little family and a perfect little life. And that water spot held it all, kept my secrets. But it also watched over me when the world I’d built here came crashing down around me.

It seems to darken the longer I stare at it, taunting me, and I begin to seethe. I think for a second about screaming at it, but I suspect that’s not something a normal person would do, so I glare up at it instead, daring it. It’s during this imaginary face-off that I realize what I want to do with my day, what I need to do with my day. I’m going to paint. Daddy is fixing up the main house. It’s time the cottage gets a freshening up, too. It will do the structure some good, but even more, it will do my soul some good.

I spring out of bed, determined to rid my life of this anchor to the past. It will feel good to paint over the stain of Jason, to replace it with something cheerful and happy and present.

I sail through a quick morning wash, throw on my oldest pair of jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, and practically run through the living room toward the front door. Nixon’s voice sounds from the kitchen, startling a little yip out of me.

“Where you going in such a rush?”

I lay a hand to my racing heart and turn toward him. He’s lounging, shirtless and tousled, in the V of the cabinets. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and the other is propped on the counter. The thick bulge of his muscles strain against his satiny skin, and for a few seconds, I get caught in the vision. Like a fly in flypaper.

“Hello?” he prompts when I just stare at him like some sort of mental patient.

“Oh, sorry. Uh, I’m going into town for some supplies.”

“Supplies? What kind of supplies?”

I smile broadly. I’m proud. He has no idea why, but that doesn’t matter. I do. “Paint.”

“Paint? What for?”

“I’m freshening up the cottage.”

“Freshening up the cottage?”

I laugh softly. “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, we’ll have to continue letting you repeat things later. I’ve got places to be.”

I’m pivoting back toward the door when I’m stopped by his voice for a second time. “Wait. Come here.”

A quiver works its way through my stomach when I turn to fully face Nixon. “Why?”

“Just come here.”

I do as he asks, my heart beating a little faster with every step I take toward him. He watches me in silence with those amazing eyes of his. It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s like he’s using them to take off my clothes as I walk. It’s as disconcerting as it is hot. Damn the man!

When I stop in front of him and he just stares down at me, my nipples pucker, and I’m very glad for the thick material of my top. Finally, he lifts his free hand from the counter and rubs his thumb over the corner of my mouth. I watch him raise it to his mouth and lick the pad.

“You had toothpaste, but don’t worry. I got it off,” he tells me. He doesn’t have to emphasize the words. He knows I heard them. Loud and clear.

He sends me a knowing wink. I stand and gawk at him.

When his lips curl into a grin, I turn and walk, wordlessly, to the door and straight out into the brisk morning. His laughter follows me into the light.

Nixon sends me on my way with one thought circling my brain—that man is dangerous.

I nearly bowl Hope over when I walk through the back door and into the kitchen of the main house.

“Holy crap, you scared the bejeesus out of me, Haley!” I can’t help laughing, because I really did. Unintentional, but I still did. And it was funny.

“Sorry. Totally worth it, though.”

“Why is it totally worth it to scare me?”

“I forgot how easy it is. And how much fun.”

“I hope this doesn’t mean you plan to do it on purpose while you’re here.”

“I’ll let you know when I decide,” I tell her with a smile as I grab an apple from a basket on the counter and take a big bite.

“What are you doing up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Gonna paint,” I say around my bite. “I need a vehicle. And keys.”

“You can take my car if you take me with you.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I don’t care. Just take me with you.”

That stops me. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Just take me with you. I’ll tell you on the way.”

I nod, glancing down at her yellow, cap-sleeved nightgown. “You’ll need to change or every man in the area will follow us home.”

At that, she smiles. It’s a touch weak, but at least it’s a smile. And it’s only a partial exaggeration, too. Hope is the youngest and also the prettiest. Her hair is strawberry blonde, her eyes are pale green, and she’s built like a brick house. If I didn’t love her so much, I might hate her a little.

Twenty minutes later, my baby sister and I are on the road to town.

“So what’s going on?” I ask when we’re a respectable distance from the house, and she still hasn’t spoken.

“So what are you painting?” Hope asks at the same time. We look at each other and grin.

“You first.”

“No, you.”

“I’m painting the cottage. I figured with the main house getting a facelift, the cottage could use one, too.”

“Does this have anything to do with Jason being here yesterday?”

I send her the side eye. “Stop reading my mind.”

“It’s not that hard. Especially when it comes to him. Trust me.”

“Fair enough.” I never was able to hide my feelings about him very well. “Your turn. What’s up, buttercup?”

She sighs heavily and turns to stare out her window. “Daddy won’t let me grow up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m twenty one, and he still treats me like I’m twelve.”

“You’re the baby of the family. I’m sure all fathers do this with their youngest.”

“I’m not a baby!” she spits irrationally then apologizes. “Sorry. It just bothers me.”

“I’m sure it does, but cut him some slack. You’ve always been his favorite. Watching you grow up is probably a sore spot for him.”

“I’m not his favorite. Stop saying that.”

I back off. “Okay. Sorry.”

She falls quiet for a few minutes, and I let her have her space. I figure she’ll talk when she’s ready.

And she does. “I don’t know who I am, Haley. I’m not a baby anymore. And I’m more than just Dad’s favorite. But what? Who?”

Hope has always required a special touch. Or maybe she didn’t require it as much as we just gave it. She was only five when Mom died. She still needed a lot of nurturing. It seemed logical that Dad would give it, so they took up with each other like two lost puppies. Unfortunately, that just created a bond between them that was much harder to break free of later in life.

As the eldest, being the maternal head of the house fell to me, but it was Hannah who slipped into the role. She’s naturally more of a caregiver. She mothered us all even before Mom passed away. That’s a good thing, too, because I was too busy trying to grow into a woman to fool with it. Harper was too busy being the middle child. And Hope…well, she was the baby. The only role she was expected to play was that of a child. To grow up the best she could with one less parent. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she never fully developed an identity of her own. She was just the baby. Daddy’s little girl. I can see how that’s hurting her now, now that she wants to be her own woman.

“That’s for you to decide. Who do you want to be?”

“I want to be a photographer.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing. No?”

“I’m trying, but how much of a career can I really make for myself taking pictures on a ranch in Texas? Who the hell wants those kinds of pictures?”

“What do you want to take pictures of?”

“I don’t know. People. Buildings. Places not in Texas. Maybe somewhere exotic, like Paris.”

“So go do that.”

“How? I have no money, no job, no way to do anything. I’m stuck here.”

“You’re only stuck here if you want to be.”

“Only people who got out say things like that.”

“That’s right. Because we know it’s true.”

“Well, I’m not marrying to get out of this place if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

That stings, but I remind myself that she’s young and she’s hurting. She’s just lashing out. “I would never suggest that, Hope. It didn’t end well for me. I want better for your life.”

“I know.” She starts to sniffle. “I’m sorry, Hay. I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s all good. But look, Hope, you have to decide how bad you want this. You can do anything you set your mind to, even take pictures in Paris if that’s what you decide. Will it be easy? Probably not. But I have no doubt you could do it.”

“But how? I have no money.”

“Ask for money for Christmas and your birthday, and start saving it. You could get enough for the flight over. Once you’re there, you could find a cheap place to rent and a job waiting tables. You could make ends meet while you worked on your photography and tried to find maybe an art gallery or something to work at. It’s doable if you really want it to be.”

She stares at me with a kind of bewildered expression on her face. “I guess you’re right.”

Then I see where this is going. “But is that really what you want?”

Again, she sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”

“Does this have anything to do with a guy per chance?”

“No,” she jumps to say. “Why do you even ask?”

“One word. Waylan.”

“How do you know about him?”

“Nixon mentioned it.”

“Nixon, huh?”

“Yeah, Nixon.”

“Hmmmm.”

I glance over at my sister. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I’ve been hearing things.”

“Like what kinds of things?”

“Like…hot things.”

“From who?”

“Harper.”

“Harper’s delusional. To begin with, there are no hot things, but how would Harper know if there were?”

“You know how she can read people.”

“Harper thinks she can read people.”

“Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that she’s got the eye.”

“She doesn’t have the eye. There’s no such thing as the eye.”

“Harpy sense.”

“Harpy sense is in her Harpy imagination.”

I’m lying through my teeth. Harper does have the eye. She has this sense. She can read people like their lives are in black and white right in front of her. It’s eerie and ridiculous and right now I want to slap her. We agreed as kids that if we ever got superpowers we would never use them against each other. Family rule. Her uncanny ability to read people and Hannah’s mad cooking skills were the closest any of us got to powers, but still… And now she’s breaking the rules.

Hope isn’t saying anything, just staring at me. She starts shaking her head. “Nope. She’s right. She’s got the eye, and you’ve got the hots.”

“I do not have the hots. You know how I feel about dating ranch employees.”

“Looks like that’s going right out the window.”

I have to turn this conversation around. “Glad you never had a rule like that. You’d have shattered it all over the walls of some shady hotel room.”

She turns in her seat toward me. “I really like him, Hay.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Daddy would have a fit. Like I said, he still thinks I’m twelve.”

“Have you tried reasoning with him? Just talking to him?”

“I’m afraid he’d fire Waylan.”

“Hope, you know he’s not like that.”

“Maybe he wasn’t, but you don’t know how on edge he’s been lately.”

“On edge? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. He’s been so secretive, I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on with him.”

My stomach balls up into a tight knot. “You don’t…you don’t think he’s sick or something, do you?”

Hope raises big, glassy eyes to mine. “I don’t know, but I’m afraid that’s what it is.” I watch her face crumble. I watch her gulp as she tries to maintain control. I watch her struggle. And I watch her lose. “What if... I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him, Haley. He’s all I’ve got.”

I reach for her hand. “That’s not true at all. You have three sisters who adore you and who will always be here for you.”

Her expression turns wry, but there’s hurt underneath it. “You haven’t set foot on the ranch since I was eleven.”

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t around for you emotionally, though.”

“It’s not the same and you know it. You left me. You left us all.”

Guilt slices through me like a hot, sharp knife. “Hope, I…I didn’t leave you. I just left town.”

“No, you left us, Haley. Whatever pretty face you want to put on it, you left us. I guess that’s why I can’t leave and go to Paris. I could never do that to Daddy.”

And her words, a twist of that knife.

“I’m sorry, Hope. I don’t know what else to say. I was young. I was stupid. I was selfish. I was hurt. But I never stopped loving y’all. And I’m here now. Surely that counts for something.”

“Maybe it will if you stay.”

I don’t think she means stay for a few weeks or a few months. I think she means stay permanently. When I left Colorado, I’d never have even considered moving back, but now…

I expect the faces of my family to flit through my mind as incentive to stay, but there are five faces instead of four. The fifth isn’t a relative, but it affects me almost as profoundly.

Nixon Holt.

What the hell is he doing to me?