Softhearted (Deep in the Heart Book 2) Read online

  She’d prepared as best she could, though. She’d attended workshops over the summer, visited top-rated outdoor venues in person, and taken several online courses in landscape design. If that wasn’t enough, then . . .

  She dropped her forehead to the windowpane. Then she’d be no worse off than she was now.

  Turning, she paced to the sink, now feeling more like a caged animal than someone who’d had to get away. She wasn’t quite ready to return to the party yet, though. Not until she had her emotions under control. She didn’t think about her parents as often these days. She didn’t allow herself to. But taking on this project had brought them to the forefront. That was their backyard she would be building for Jill. Their plans for a wedding. They’d loved each other so much, so purely, that they’d planned to renew their vows on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. And they’d been letting Heather be a part of it.

  But then they’d died. Just like that. One fire, one night, both dead.

  And nothing in Heather’s world had ever been the same.

  She stared at her reflection. The blue of her eyes had come from her mother, and before that, from her mother’s mother. Heather had known all four grandparents as a child, but within eight years, each of them had been gone. Two years after that, her parents had joined them.

  Heather had been fourteen when it happened, and she’d been alone. And destroyed.

  Aunt Blu had been great. Aunt Blu had been her salvation. Not to mention Jill and Trenton. The three of them had shown up at Bluebonnet Farms within the same week. They’d been Blu’s first girls as a foster mom, and the bond between the four of them was—and remained—tight.

  But she still missed her mom and dad.

  And she still wanted what they’d had.

  Being granted the kind of love they’d shared wasn’t how it worked for her, though. She was attracted only to guys who ended up hurting her. She’d accepted that. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do everything in her power to help make Jill’s wedding spectacular.

  She’d give this project her all, and whether landscape design turned out to be her thing or not, along with giving Jill a beautiful wedding, her work would honor the love her parents once shared.

  He’d been living there for only a handful of weeks, but Waylon had yet to tire of the sight that greeted him Monday evening as he crested the rise in the long driveway of the Blue Hills Cattle Ranch. With the one-story log house sitting a quarter mile off the road, it made a tranquil picture nestled among the trees and rolling hills of the three-hundred-acre spread.

  He sent up his usual “thanks” as he took in the view and headed down the hill. Cal could have easily turned him away when he’d shown up seeking a job. Waylon had never fooled himself about that. A ranch manager who wasn’t 100 percent physically—and who requested every weekend off—wouldn’t be first choice for everybody.

  Nor would someone with Waylon’s reputation.

  He’d never lived in Red Oak Falls, but as a senior in high school, he’d become quite familiar with a handful of the residents. And granted, that lingering reputation had seemed to slow Cal’s decision-making. But in the end, he’d looked Waylon up and down, as if deciding for himself if a person could change in seven years, then he’d given a nod and offered a hearty handshake. Waylon didn’t know what Cal had seen that settled the decision for him, nor had he asked. He’d simply accepted the job with the same confidence it had been offered.

  He drove toward the house now, unable to bypass it on the way to the barn, and caught sight of Cal’s truck heading his way. Straddling the edge of the gravel road, Waylon waited for his boss to pass, but Cal slowed to a stop alongside him. The other truck’s window rolled down, and Waylon could see Cal’s grandmother sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow,” Cal noted.

  Waylon had originally planned to tack an extra day onto the long weekend. “Plans changed,” he replied. “No sense not coming back and getting to work.”

  “Well, don’t start working tonight.” Cal jerked a thumb back toward the house. “Join the party instead. I’m taking Granny home, but stop in and have a bite. There’s plenty of food left over, and likely several people you’ve yet to meet.”

  Cal’s grandmother leaned toward the window, her eyes turned to him, even though he knew they saw nothing. “Good to see you again, Sir Waylon.”

  He tipped the brim of his hat out of habit. “And it’s good to see you, Ms. Irene. You’re looking quite lovely tonight. Too bad you’re leaving just as I’m getting home. I would’ve had to entice you into a dance or two.”

  Irene’s smile was as bright as a woman’s decades younger. “Such a flirt, you are.”

  “Only with those worth flirting with, Ms. Irene.”

  He turned his smile back to Cal as Irene straightened in her seat and gave his boss a conspiratorial wink. He’d met Cal’s grandmother about a week after taking the job and had hit it off with the older woman immediately. Cal had brought her out and spent the day showing her around the ranch, talking nonstop as he painted pictures for her of the work going on to get the place functional, and Waylon had found himself making excuses to be around the older woman. She’d lost her sight years before, but she had a liveliness about her that pulled people in. Waylon had sensed from her that she was a woman who’d not only lived a full life, but one who’d also loved deeply. There was a calmness about her that he could use more of.

  Before she’d left that day, she’d gripped his hands with both of hers and tilted her face toward his. Then she’d reached up and patted his chest with a delicate touch. She’d nodded, a look of certainty on her face, and told him he had a good heart.

  The sentiment had struck hard, the words touching him as few had before.

  He glanced toward the barn. “Been a long weekend. I might just head on home.”

  He was mentally drained as well—as he too often was from the ending of every weekend.

  “Do what you need to do,” Cal told him. “But you should at least grab a plate of food. No need letting good brisket go to waste.”

  Waylon chuckled humorlessly. There was no chance anyone at the house would actually let leftover brisket go to waste, but the idea of having hand-smoked beef for dinner instead of pulling together a sandwich in his microkitchen had merit. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” He could stop in long enough to say hello.

  They spoke for a couple more minutes about the work planned for the week and the camera crews that would be invading the space in the coming days, then Cal pulled away and Waylon headed on up the narrow driveway. Waylon stopped at the house briefly and let Blu Johnson pile up a couple of plates for him. He greeted all in sight, climbed back into his truck, then pointed the nose of the vehicle toward the barn.

  The structure had been completed before Waylon had arrived, and it housed seven horse stalls, a tack room, a feed room, an office, additional storage space, and the small one-bedroom apartment. The apartment was on the second floor, with a view overlooking both the ranch, as well as the interior of the barn.

  As he pulled to a stop, his attention settled on the sky to the west. The sun had dropped below the horizon while he’d been at the house, but the remaining colors were the real show. The long streaks of light made him glad he’d ultimately settled into ranching as a career. It sure beat the years he’d spent in Vegas.

  Stepping from the truck, he grabbed the food, needing both hands to balance it all, and kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. He winced at the streak of pain that shot through his right thigh, but he didn’t let the physical barrier slow him. He rarely did. Instead, he elbowed the barn’s sliding doors open just enough to wedge himself through, his taste buds already salivating at the thought of the brisket, but made it barely ten feet inside before he stopped. Murmurs came from one of the back stalls, and a light was on in the tack room.

  The hair on the back of his neck immediately rose before common sense took hold. T
he sounds were feminine in nature. Definitely nonthreatening. And if someone were there to do harm, they’d likely not announce it by turning on a light.

  Releasing a breath, he forced his muscles to relax and eased closer, more curious now than concerned. He had his ears attuned to the sounds, but even fifteen feet away, he couldn’t make out the words. He took two more steps. And then he stopped again.

  It wasn’t talking but singing coming from behind the stall door.

  And the tune was agonizingly sad.

  He stood frozen, listening, as the feel of his own heartbeat vibrated against his ribcage. The song drifted toward the rafters, seeming to hover above him, and he closed his eyes and listened. Soft words of both heartbreak and hope held him spellbound for another thirty seconds, before he couldn’t take it any longer. He had to know who was in the stall.

  And why she was singing to his gelding.

  As if walking through a dense morning fog, he made it the remaining distance and peered through the welded bars that made up the top half of the stall . . . to discover a woman sitting atop an overturned bucket. She was positioned directly in front of Ollie—her back to Waylon—and in the small pool of light coming from the open tack room door, he could see that the horse stared down at her as intently as Waylon was now doing himself. She had both of them entranced.

  The song ended, and he managed to refill his lungs. Then he watched as the woman reached up and stroked Ollie’s muzzle. The horse hadn’t taken note of him yet, but Waylon couldn’t blame him. If he had a redheaded siren singing a song to him, he’d tune out the rest of the world, too.

  The woman pressed her forehead to Ollie’s, and Waylon found himself jealous of a horse.

  And he still had no idea who she was.

  Finally, he forced himself to break the spell she’d woven. He cleared his throat as subtly as he could manage, but the noise had her jumping to her feet. The bucket tumbled over and skittered toward him, and Ollie sidestepped, tossing his head back with a soft whinny. The woman stretched one hand out to calm Ollie, but didn’t take her eyes off him.

  “I’m . . .” she began. She lowered her eyes for a quick second before lifting them again, and suddenly she looked as skittish as his horse—but also a tad embarrassed. “Uh . . .”

  “Heather.” Waylon filled in. He had yet to meet her, but he’d recognized her the instant she’d turned around. Her name had been mentioned a few times over the last couple of weeks, and he knew what she looked like from a picture he’d seen at the house. “You’re Jill’s friend,” he added, when she didn’t so much as blink at her name.

  Her throat worked as she swallowed.

  “Right?” he asked. “The one doing the backyard?” Had he gotten it wrong?

  And if he had, then who was she?

  Heather finally nodded. Then she looked at Ollie.

  She stared at the horse with a hard intensity, and Waylon suspected she was trying to get her embarrassment under control before speaking.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. He nodded toward the animal when she finally turned back. “I often sing to Ollie, too. The poor guy had his balls cut off one day, and suddenly he’s a softy who wants to be cuddled and crooned to before bedding down every night.”

  That seemed to snap her out of it, and a hint of laughter made it to his ears.

  Her smile was gorgeous.

  “I’m Waylon, by the way. The—”

  “Ranch manager,” she filled in, and he gave her a smile of his own. It wouldn’t beat hers, but he knew that women tended to like it.

  “Right,” he said. He glanced at her hand, which had lowered and was now feeding Ollie a chunk of apple. “So you’re out here instead of up at the house because . . . you prefer feeding my gelding an apple over attending a party?”

  Her dimples deepened. “Something like that.”

  She pulled another hunk of apple from a paper bag he hadn’t noticed before and fed the treat to Ollie, and once again, Waylon found himself wishing he were the horse. Only, with his balls intact.

  He also found himself far too interested in a woman he’d just met.

  “I’m sure Ollie appreciates it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off hers. “The poor boy rarely gets the attention of such a beautiful woman, much less one who brings him apples and sings to him.”

  A touch of embarrassment returned to her features, twisting up the corners of her lips the cutest amount. But she also produced an exaggerated eye roll. “Well, that certainly didn’t take long.”

  Confusion had him pulling back. “What didn’t take long?”

  “Your flirting.” A spark flashed in her eyes. “I’ve heard all about it, you know? In fact”—she gave Ollie one final pat before grabbing the overturned bucket and heading Waylon’s way—“I’ve heard several things about you, Mr. Peterson. And let me just go on the record right now and tell you”—she looked straight into his eyes as she stopped, her on one side of the stable door, and him on the other—“your charm won’t work on me.”

  Had that been a challenge?

  Because if it had been . . .

  “Is that so?” He took a step back so she could join him outside the stall, and he let his eyes drift down over her jean-clad backside as she turned to refasten the latch. “Then I should give you fair warning. My record is quite stellar once I decide I want something.”

  She cut her eyes up at him. “Then I’d suggest you don’t decide you want something.”

  He wanted to laugh at the quick words. At the easy flirting. But he had yet to decide if she really was flirting. In one instant, her eyes burned hot, and he read in them what was so often clear in the opposite sex’s gaze. But in the next moment . . .

  He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something completely contrasting seemed to lurk in there as well. Something that had him taking another step back.

  “Are you okay?” he asked casually. He adjusted his tone to match his question. “I mean . . . you are hiding out here in the barn when a party is going on up at the house.”

  The light from the other room barely reached where they now stood, and he was aware he could be totally off in his thinking. But at his question, he suddenly found himself being studied in the same manner that a science student might investigate her first animal dissection. Her eyes bored into his, leaving him feeling as exposed as the poor frog might feel if still alive, and he involuntarily clenched his fingers around the plates of food in his hands.

  “I’m fine,” she finally answered. Her gaze lowered to the scruff of beard running the length of his jawline. “And I’m not hiding out in here.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  She tossed the empty paper bag into a garbage can, and moved to the only other occupied stall in the building. “I’m feeding apples to your horses.” She reached out to the larger of the two animals and rubbed the stallion on the nose. “And don’t worry, I didn’t overlook Beau, here. I gave the big guy a couple of treats as well.”

  Now he was jealous of Beau. “But did you sing for him?”

  She glanced back, no doubt noting the added huskiness to his voice. But dang, there was some crazy electricity pinging between them, and he wasn’t in full control of his reactions.

  “I’m afraid I only give one performance a night.”

  She was short, the top of her head not coming anywhere near Beau’s snout, and Waylon suddenly sensed sadness in her.

  That’s what he’d zeroed in on before. And that made him want to know even more.

  “Too bad,” he murmured. He took a couple of steps in her direction, unaware he’d moved until her gaze dropped to his bum leg.

  He froze.

  “So how do you know my horses?” He picked a new topic before she could ask about his limp. “I haven’t seen you at the ranch before today, but clearly, the three of you have met.”

  She nodded and eased a step toward the main doors. “Dill introduced us.”

  Dill was the eighteen-year-old Waylon had hired
to work part time. He came in on weekends, as well as Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, while spending the rest of his time either in school or studying.

  “I’ve stopped by on a couple of Saturdays,” Heather explained. She didn’t take her eyes from his, while her body language screamed “poised for flight.” “Work on the backyard starts next week,” she continued. “I needed to map out the space before ordering supplies.”

  “And what?” The barn now held an intoxicating aroma that was a mix of hay, horses . . . and oranges. “You can only map out the space on weekends?”

  Her head cocked at his words, her eyes narrowing as if searching for the intent behind them, but he kept his features impassive. No way would he acknowledge the lunacy of his thoughts. Of course she hadn’t come to the ranch only when she knew he wouldn’t be there. They’d never even met. His schedule would have nothing to do with hers.

  Yet the way she watched him . . .

  “Are you asking if I only stop by when I . . . suspect you’re not around?”

  “Do you suspect I’m not around on weekends?”

  A hint of dimples reappeared. “I might have heard a rumor or two along those lines.”

  The words had him grinning along with her. Yep. She knew his schedule. But what did that mean, exactly? “And what if I said the rumors weren’t true?” He watched her carefully. “Would you want to know what I do with my weekends instead?”

  His question seemed to surprise her, as her look once again shifted as if he were that same dissected frog.

  After an endless few seconds, she angled her chin higher. “Would you actually tell me the truth if I did want to know?”

  He had a feeling he’d tell her too many things. “If you asked nicely, I might.”

  But she didn’t ask, nicely or otherwise. She simply continued to study him, as if unsure how to make up her mind about him. Or maybe unsure if she wanted to make up her mind.

  He’d spent many evenings in town since moving there, and he’d had more than his share of women offering to welcome him to the area. It had been like that since he’d first started growing facial hair. And though he rarely encouraged the women to find someone else to share a meal with—mostly because he preferred the company of others to being alone—he had higher priorities these days than bedding every woman he met. Priorities that took him out of town every weekend.