Chapter Thirteen
“He hasn’t talked to me in three days.”
“Is that the reason you’ve been reading me that damn book?” Lincoln demanded.
Heather waved the copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in front of his face. “This is literature.”
“It’s boring. I don’t understand a word of it.”
“Look past the words, Old Man,” she said. “It’s about a man who doesn’t want to grow old. It’s my favorite novel.”
“Bah. Gimme Zane Grey.”
“I’m going to read you this damn book, so shut the hell up!”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows at her. “I thought you wanted to talk about Tristan.”
She huffed and crumpled a bit as the steam exited her sails. The book thumped back on her lap. “He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” she repeated.
“Were you a bitch to him?”
“Why is that the first thing you ask?”
“Why aren’t you answering?”
“I may have said some un-nice words, but he should know I always say un-nice words!”
His brow arched as he gave her an exasperated look that spoke volumes. She wilted. Her shoulders hunched as she slumped back in the chair.
“I don’t know why I have to fight all the time,” she admitted quietly. “A haze seems to cover my brain, and before I realize what I’m saying, all the bad things just pour out.”
“If you do enough of the bad, then people won’t be let down when you fail.”
Her head snapped up. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For once, her snappy comeback died in mid-thought.
“You aren’t the only person who’s done some stupid stuff,” he admitted, coughing a bit at the end.
Heather jumped from her chair to bring his glass of water to his lips, helping him drink before wiping his mouth with a tissue.
“I know all about it, girl,” he whispered through bloodless lips. He looked washed-out, as pale as the ghost he was turning into.
“Know about what?”
He opened tired, dull eyes. “I wanted you to come live with me, but your mother refused. Said all you needed was time to heal. But I knew better. I knew that place was a constant reminder of the pain you went through. Nothing good would come from there, but your mother didn’t want to listen to me. By then your father had left you both, and she didn’t trust me.”
Words eluded her. Her grandfather’s admission opened a floodgate of emotion that swarmed her mind and condensed all her thoughts down to one mantra: He knew! He knew!
“Why did you come here, Heather?”
His gruff, scratchy voice broke through her scattered introspection. Her focus snapped back, and she quickly jumped to her feet.
“Don’t,” she ordered. “I don’t want to go there.”
“Ain’t no use running, girl. What’s done is done. Time to let it go. I think you came here, to this ranch, for that reason. Didn’t you?”
Heather shook her head. “I came here because I ran out of money and needed a place to stay.”
“Is that what you want the ranch for? Money?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she turned around and headed for the door.
“Don’t go,” Lincoln Hart said with a wheeze. “If you don’t want to talk about this, then read me the damn book.”
Heather dropped it in the trash can before opening the door and leaving.